synopsis . In which it takes a total of sixty nine days of living with Choso for the two of you to realize you’re both terribly down bad for one another. He’d been crushing on you hard (pun intended) from the day you moved in with him, and while living with you is easy, being around you almost all day every day like this is turning him into someone he can't recognize. So much so that you should be concerned. Except, you're not?
content . afab!reader, perv x perv, filth, dirty talk, virgin!choso, dub-con (considering all the perversion), switch dynamics, porn w no plot, choso’s down bad but so is reader, pet names, lots of dry humping/humping in general, he watches a lot of porn, loser!cho, awkwardness, embarrassment, premature ejec (he cums a lot), creampies, implied breeding kink, panty sniffing/stealing, getting caught, reader makes him suck a copy of his own dick, possessiveness, manhandling, scent kink(?), oral sex (f!receiving), he's literally disgusting, missionary, he calls reader mommy on “accident” a few times, eventual rough sex, etc.
word count . 11k || author's note: mostly based on this drabble & the many requests i got for this!! banner art from “Lady K and the Sick Man”
Day Two: The Phone Incident.
Choso should’ve known how severely fucked he was from the moment he got hard after handing you your phone.
And yes, that is as crazy as it sounds.
You didn’t even notice it—as you were much too busy trying to get to some phone call—but this was the first time in a whopping forty-eight hours of living with you that Choso had experienced this kinda thing.
Something about holding a device of which your fingers spent the majority of the day wrapped around drove him crazy. Perhaps it was the indirect touch, or the fact that his hand faintly smelled like yours afterwards, but either way—he felt a sudden twitch in his pants that he just couldn’t ignore.
He’d accepted the fact that he was attracted to you when you moved in, but this?
This was absurd. Surely his body wouldn’t continue to react like this around you… right?
After handing you your device, Choso turned away all awkwardly and calmly excused himself into his room for the night. This left you to watch him walk away with slightly confused eyes as you carried on with your call, shrugging off his sudden stiffness and figuring it was nothing too serious.
Which, in a way, it wasn't. The man nearly needed a moment away from you.
A moment long enough to take care of the leaking problem in his pants, that is.
As soon as he enters his room, he lightly shuts the door and lets his head push against it with a soft thump. One hand remains on the doorknob whilst the other is just barely keeping his body standing upright. It was like a switch had gone off in his head or something.
It hasn't even been a week with you yet and there's already one thing running rampant in his mind—sex.
Choso's known you for quite some time now, which is exactly why you moving in with him when he already had a spare bedroom only made sense. But to already be losing his head over something so small makes him feel shamed with the weight of guilt.
He shouldn't touch himself. He should ignore how hard he is right now. And should definitely not think about you if he does decide to act against those two things.
...Yeah, that goes straight out the window the moment he hears you laughing from the living room.
You're still on the phone and you'd have no reason to come into his room and check on him or anything so it should be okay, no? Getting off to you once won't hurt anyone.
Clasping his bottom lip neatly in between his teeth, Choso finally moves a hand down over the fully formed bulge poking out against his sweatpants. Maybe he won't even jerk off. Maybe he'll just rub at his cock until he cums.
That should be fine.
Right?
His hand carefully cups 'n grabs at the outline of his hard shaft, his bottom lip falling loose with a moderately noisy pant breaking free from his throat. "Fuck," Choso sears just under his breath as he squeezes his eyes shut.
He shouldn't be doing this. This is wrong. You just moved in!
His hand slides over slowly, letting the friction of fabric and his palm soothe his aching arousal just a bit.
What would you think if you saw him right now? You're only a few steps away from his door, sitting all pretty in his living room. Would you be disgusted by him if you knew how he rubbed his hand against his dick to the mere thought of you? Taking his other hand—the same one that held your phone and now carries the faintest bit of your scent—and slowly bringing it up to his nose to smell.
His palm reeks in your lotion. You must've used it recently, huh? Probably right before touching your phone for the last time, he thinks.
Choso's other hand squeezes around the head of his dick, feeling something nasty beginning to wet up his boxers. Fuck, he feels gross for doing this. He's all hunched up against his bedroom door, body flinching whenever he hears your voice a little clearer from beyond it, and cock jumping with each whiff he takes of his palm.
His mouth flails open a little and he nearly whines as his hand grips at his length a little tighter, slithering towards his shaft, and then letting his hips roll forward. The hand pressed up to his nose slips down to clasp over his mouth to conceal that pathetic sound, only worsening his situation as he realizes this means the smell of your lotion is practically smushed up to his lips now.
Choso feels his knees going weak all of a sudden and can't even help himself as he ditches the teasing rubbing and finally stuffs his hand down into his pants. His cock meets his hand raw with a throbbing heat he hadn't been expecting.
Quickly, before he starts letting out sounds too loud to conceal, he does his best to work himself up to an orgasm. Because of his hasty movements, it's not long before his hand is cramping up and he's jerkily thrusting his dick into his coiled fingers.
"A-Ah," Choso gasps, his lashes fluttering over something wet that'd unknowingly built up against his waterline.
Then there's a sudden knock at his door.
The poor guy nearly falls over, barely managing to grit his teeth and swallow the next array of sounds that threatened to leave him. His eyes stare down at the silhouette of your shadow under the door and he struggles to suppress a groan.
"Hey, I dunno if you're asleep already but," God, you sounded so sweet—how could he be doing this in thought of you? "I just wanted to let you know we're out of trash bags. Tried to text you but it wasn't going through."
Choso's standing here jerking off like some freak after touching something of yours and now you're standing on the other side of his door telling him you guys are out of trash bags?
How comedic.
Not that any of this stops his hand from moving. If anything, his cock feels wetter as he continues on to the sound of each word leaving your lips. Then he presses his face against his door and murmurs, "M-Mhm, thanks for... letting me know. I'll get more t-tomorrow," He grunts out.
Little did he know, his movements had only become smoother because he already came from the moment you knocked on the door. Now his briefs were filled with cum, his hand felt disgustingly sticky, and...
And you have absolutely no idea. You haven't the slightest clue that he just did something wildly perverted in your name.
Or so he thought.
——
Day Fifteen: Missing Hoodies.
A little over two weeks in and Choso's issue has only gotten worse. On the bright side of things, at least he's not the only one slowly losing his sanity in all this.
Because surely if you weren't losing your mind just as much as he was then you'd have moved out by now. Even though he's sure you're not aware of any of the things he's done so far like steal your panties just before laundry day, stuff his nose into your bath towel mere minutes after you've showered, and even use that same lotion of yours to jerk himself off.
But again, Choso is pretty sure that if you knew about any of those things he's done then you would've been out of here faster than you came in. Better yet, faster than he cums whenever you're in mind.
Which is pretty damn fast.
It's on this fifteenth day that Choso loses his first hoodie. It's a plain grey hoodie, but he noticed it's disappearance rather quickly because the last time he wore it was on the day he last spoke to Yuji—and everyone knows how attentive this man gets when it comes to his siblings.
So imagine his surprise when he's tearing his room up trying to find that hoodie to no avail. A small frown takes over his face and he lets out a long sigh before trudging out his room and towards yours.
Knocking thrice, "Are you busy?" Choso asks carefully, ears slightly quirking up at the distant sound of your bedsheets being shuffled about.
Part of him wonders what you were up to.
"If so, don't worry about it," He adds on shortly after. You hadn't even said anything yet and he was already nervous. "I didn't mean to interrupt—"
The door swings open and you're greeting him with your breath seeming as though it's lost it's way into your lungs properly. "You're not interrupting anything, Choso. What's up?" You hum rather sweetly.
"I was just wondering if you'd seen my uh-," He cuts himself short as his eyes helplessly fall downwards. Perhaps he was dreaming or something because surely you're not wearing the very thing he came looking for? Choso's hand draws up as he unintentionally points at your chest, "Is that my hoodie?"
You look down at yourself and then back up at him and shrug, "I dunno, is it?"
Maybe it was the dim hallway lighting but you swear Choso's face is getting redder by the second, a cute hue of pink flushing out over his cheek and noticeable around the dark ink stretching across the bridge of his nose.
Then his hand flies up to the back of his head, scratching beneath his dark, loose locks of hair, "Well, unless we have the same hoodie... m'pretty sure that's mine." He mumbles on.
"Oh." Is the only warning he receives before he watches your hands meet the bottom of that same hoodie, and then lift.
Oh fuck. Choso's eyes widen and all the hairs at the back of his neck seem to stand up as he watches the way you thoughtlessly pull his hoodie off of your body, revealing the very sheer tank-top you have on underneath and the lack of pants below that.
While living with you was easy, truly, there were times like this where Choso wondered if you even saw him as a man. Or if maybe you were just really comfortable around him. Because in what other world would you take off his hoodie right in front of him whilst clad in nothing more than a tank-top and a dark purple pair of panties that he's all too familiar with?
Not that you knew about the last part of that but, still. He's allowed what feels like a minute of staring and drooling before his face is met with that same hoodie of his!
"Was that all?" You ask smoothly, as if you hadn't nearly flashed him and then thrown his own clothes back at him like it was nothing.
His head nods rapidly from beneath his sweatshirt, refusing to move his body just yet in fear of where his hands may find themselves, and waiting until he hears your bedroom door shut again.
As he's left in the hallway to his own devices, Choso's slow to remove the jacket from his head. He holds it out to inspect for a moment and notices a wet patch near the ends of it. His mind immediately goes somewhere dirty.
Did you... use his hoodie how he wants to think you did?
Choso looks back up at your door and gulps. Then his mouth twitches and before he knows it, he’s smiling rather smug-like. If his thoughts are correct then that would mean you got off to how he smells and—he brings his hoodie up to his nose and inhales—luckily for him, the cologne this fabric in particular is doused in, just so happens to be his favorite.
Which is exactly why Choso goes on to make said cologne his only scent.
Following this little act of his is an abundance of his shirts and hoodies going missing. You only got caught wearing them just that one time but, he doesn’t need to see you in his clothes to know you’re the one stealing them.
It’s quite obvious, in his humble opinion. No matter how many times you come to tell him he must’ve lost it or misplaced it somewhere. As if. The man barely leaves the apartment!
And while that’s nothing to brag about, it is undoubtedly the truth.
——
Day Thirty-Four: Indirect Cumshots.
This is where things really start to go from bad, to worse.
The two of you now have a mutual habit of stealing one another’s clothes. You know for sure Choso gets off with your stuff since he mostly takes your panties, skirts, bras, shirts, shorts, and shoelaces?!—all in that order.
What other use for these items could he possibly have if not for sexual satisfaction?
The same questions travels throughout Choso’s mind whenever he wonders why his shirts, hoodies, and jackets go missing. Except, his only issue with it—outside of it being an inconvenience whenever he needs to dress himself—is that he’s still not fully sure whether or not he’s right about your use for them.
Especially since you’ve worn a few of his clothes around the apartment without a care in the world, blaming it on the mixed laundry whenever asked about it. Naturally he believes you, but he can’t deny the fact that he desperately hopes you’re lying to him.
Just the thought of you having your nose buried into his clothes while your fingers play with the neglected cunt in between your legs, your thighs clenching whenever you get close, and mouth breathing out moans of his name makes Choso’s mind go blank.
He’s never had sex before so he hopes that doesn’t turn you off—wanting nothing more than for it to be you that changes this some day.
Above all that, and back to this whole clothing fiasco, Choso has found another way to satisfy his doubts.
In the event that you really weren’t taking his clothes to fuck yourself in, he had a backup plan. By this point Choso had accepted the fact that he’d become nothing more than a dirty pervert since you moved in. So much so that he figured if he could jerk off to indirect kisses from you…
…He could indirectly cum on you too.
Now, now, he knows that sounds bad at first. But he swears it’s really not!
It technically started when he accidentally came on one of your blankets.
He’d been in the living room—doing what any perv would do—rubbing his bare cock against the last place in which you’d sat on the couch. You weren’t home so he wasn’t worried at all about getting caught, thrusting his dick all slanted against the cushions, and letting his precum smear sloppily all over where you were sitting.
“Nngh-,” Choso cared little about holding back his sounds whenever you weren’t home, this moment being the most prime example of this.
His hand loosely kept his cock from sliding all over the place, thumb lightly hovering over his base so that he could have some sort of rhythm in his movements.
He was bare naked, whole body flushed from how hot ‘n bothered he found himself. You looked especially pretty that day. He doesn’t even remember where you said you were going but he does remember the glimpse of your panties he got when you got up from the couch and walked over towards the door in that unfairly short skirt of yours.
It was the same black pair he fucked his cockhead against just three days ago and now you were wearing them and you didn’t have the slightest clue. That fabric would be hugging your pussy for hours and you were oblivious to the fact that his cum had been pooling against it not too long ago.
Fuck, the thought drives him straight over the edge, causing him to stumble against the couch as he fists at his dick. Choso tosses his head back and begins to fuck his hand imagining it was you—gushy spurts of cum spilling out from his plump head in varying directions before he even realizes it.
Heavy pants departed from his mouth as he stroked himself through his high and let whimpers exit his throat. By the time he calmed down, he looked below himself to see that he not only came all over your seat—the splatter of his cum mirroring the way it probably would if he ever came on your ass—but he also accidentally shot some of it onto your blanket.
The same blanket you bury your face under whenever you two watch a movie that’s a little too gruesome, the same blanket you cuddle yourself under, and the same blanket that sometimes get smothered in between your thighs whenever you have it hugging your body a certain way.
Choso tilts his head a little and that’s when it hits him. Just like the time you two had shared a water bottle and indirectly kissed… him cumming on your favorite blanket is no different than him cumming on you, right?
His brows meet. Is that bad to think? If he cums on more of your stuff, does that mean he’s always cumming on you?
Has he technically finished inside you since he’s done so inside your panties more times than he can count?
Shit.
It’s from then on that Choso begins to purposefully release a load on things you use all the time. And just as doing this to your blanket has been one of the most perverted things he'd done so far, so was doing the same to your favorite mug.
He just woke up with the fattest tent in his pants that morning, he had to do something about it! And you can’t blame him when he ignored the erection and joined you for breakfast anyway, watching your lips mold themself around the rim of the dish, gulping deeply until the liquid inside was all gone...
Choso barely felt like himself after you left. He rushed into the kitchen and searched the sink for the cup you used, pulling his cock out and letting it slap against the porcelain. He’s sure this is your favorite mug because of how expensive it is so he knew he had to be careful.
Even so, that didn’t stop him from dragging his dick around its edges—right where your lips and tongue had been. After which he spent the next few minutes emptying his balls into the mug until it was a quarter full with his seed.
This was by far the most depraved thing he’d done so far.
Only for that feeling to get worse in his chest when he watched you use the same cup the following morning, humming at a slightly different pitch as if a new flavor had been added to your beverage.
He couldn’t bear to meet your eyes afterwards. You basically just drank his cum and you didn’t know.
That’s horrible. You’d totally hate him if—
“Did you buy a new dish soap or something?” Your voice breaks him away from his thoughts of impending guilt.
Choso’s head flies up and his eyes, wide and dopey brown, set on you with that intensive warmth you always enjoy. “Huh?” He gapes.
You grin, “I asked if you bought a new dish soap.” Then you shrug all cheekily, “My mug smells really nice for some reason.”
Yeah, probably because he spent an hour cleaning it after he did something so sinful to it…
Your roommate shakes his head, “No, no, I didn’t buy anything new.” He tells you.
The conversation ends around there as you nod and then return to your breakfast, thinking nothing more of it.
Meanwhile Choso feels guilt in between his legs stirring up again and some weird sense of pride in his chest swelling.
Which is exactly why he doesn’t stop there. Although he always cleans up thoroughly after these indirect cumshots of his—it never fails to fill him with pride when he watches you use the same things he’s soiled.
Forks, spoons, straws—which were hell to clean—your phone while you were sleeping one time, pictures of you, etc. In more ways than one, Choso’s basically marked and claimed you as his own via spilling his seed all over you.
——
Day Forty-Eight: Shame? Never heard of her.
The cumshots were one thing, of course. Starting to see your face in every pornographic video he watches is another. So is lightly stroking himself while sitting right next to you and talking to you about his day.
But fucking your pillow when you’re not home, pretending that it’s you, while playing some random audio of yours in the background? Now that was the final straw.
Choso can't even begin to explain nor understand what exactly has gotten into him.
At least when he'd done all those other nasty things with you in mind, he felt bad directly after the fact—apologizing to you via being extra sweet and kind in ways that'd earn him lovely praises from you in return.
It seems like that's a lost art to him now, though.
The man had walked into your room in search of his headphones, the ones he let you borrow last night and now needs to properly enjoy his porn. He hadn't planned to do anything dirty in your room. No, never.
But when he got in there he was thrown off by you leaving a pair of panties on your bed. Not just any pair though, the red pair.
Now, these panties in particular had a bit of a story to them. Choso knows you only wear them when you go out to hook-up with somebody and if they’re sitting on your bed now, that means you saw someone recently or were planning to.
Either way, he doesn’t really want that to happen.
He hasn’t quite revealed any of his intentions nor feelings to you (or at least he doesn’t think he has), but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to feeling possessive over you. You were his roommate, after all.
Maybe this is why he ends up on your bed, grabbing the pillow you sleep on and hauling it up towards his face for a good sniff. The fumes flow through his nostrils and send a rush of blood straight down to his cock.
Partially because he can smell remnants of his cologne lingering in the cottony fabric, which could only mean one thing—you'd slept in his clothes before. Or something like that, anyway.
Halfway through his pillow sniffing, and with a half-hard cock forming in his pants, he hears his phone chime from within his pocket. The chime in question is one he specifically set for you so he wastes not even a second digging for his phone and pulling it out.
Your contact sits center on his screen as it unlocks, revealing to him a voice message you'd just sent.
Choso gulps.
You've sent him a few voice messages in the past, having felt too lazy to type stuff out, but it never fails to make him nervous before pressing play. And right now was absolutely no different.
"Hey Cho, when you get a chance—hahh, shit." Oh? Do his ears decieve him or was that a breathy pant from you? Rewinding the recording a few seconds, "Hey Cho, when you get a chance—hahh, shit. Sor-," He cuts the voice message off and then follows suit with his phone, turning it over and looking up to the ceiling for the moment.
Did you... have any idea of the things you did to this man?
Tossing the question, he tries again.
"Hey Cho, when you get a chance—hahh, shit." There's a short pause as he hears you taking a deep breath, "Sorry, when you get a chance, can you order takeout from the same place as last week before I get home?"
Takeout, of course. Of course. What else would you have sent him a voice message for?
...Certainly not for what he was about to do with it.
You were out at the gym so that little pant of yours should've been expected but he must've forgotten by the time he played the message. His thumb keeps finding itself repeating the same part of your recording, within the first few seconds when that pant, followed by a sweet curse of exhaustion dares to leave your lips.
It's stupid, really. You made one little noise and said one word he's heard from you a thousand times and yet he's already plopping down on your bed, your pillow still in hand, and his legs slowly spreading out so his poor, hardening cock has room to breathe.
Then Choso saves the message to his phone, not thinking twice as he goes on to edit it within his camera roll so that the few seconds of panting and cursing can replay over and over until he's had his fill of it.
After a good five times of replaying those gorgeous few seconds you'd given him, an idea Choso simply cannot ignore is born.
He doesn't recognize himself at all as he tosses your pillow over, snatches up those panties you had lying around and turns around to hover over the two items.
This is so fucked, and he knows it but it's hard to care. One moment he's starring at the assortment of material he has here and the next, he's got your pillow snug under the fabric of your panties. His thumb traces the edge of it just as it would if you were wearing them, swiping up heavily against the center where your pretty slit would be.
Fuck, he should stop.
His thumb glides back down and he shifts against the mattress, knees digging into the plush of it, and hot breaths tumbling out of his lungs. Then his fingers pinch at each side of your panties before he tugs, cleanly ripping the cloth just enough to create a small hole.
He winces upon doing so, knowing damn well he's getting worse by the second.
Choso pauses for a moment and grabs his phone to open his photos. His thumb swiftly swipes through his camera roll until he finds a picture of you, and along with it, he's managed to have your little panting curse combo playing on repeat.
And that's all he needed because now he's got a hole ripped into your pillow and although it was very cottony wrapping around the head of his dick, he couldn't be bothered to care. His imagination was running rampant and all he could picture was you splayed out beneath him, letting him use your body to strip him of his virginity.
He's so sure of how absolutely warm your pussy would be, despite never being inside one or even setting his eyes on one (in person) before. You'd squeeze him nice 'n tight, wouldn't you? Suck him in deeper even when he knows he can't handle that and tries to pull himself back?
God, he's getting dizzy in his own arousal and his precum is serving as lube inside this stupidly dry pillow of yours. It doesn't even feel good but every time he opens his eyes and sees your panties ripped open, his cock bulging in between where he'd torn them, he cares less and less.
Not to mention how you'll be sleeping on this same pillow soon, so the faster he cums inside of it, the faster he can say he's indirectly spilled his cum on your face.
Which is precisely why his hips are picking up their pace, even as he falls over and ends up having to hold his hunched body up with one very unsteady hand.
"Fuck," The curse falls from his lips in sync with the one that fell from yours in that recording—which is still playing in the background of his misdeeds, by the way. Then his visions suddenly become clearer while his movements grow more janky, eyes journeying to the back of his skull in pure bliss.
He swears he can see you under him right now, feel the pretty walls of your pussy clenching around his cock because it's too big for you to take with the way he's rutting forward right now. You'd tell him to slow down a little, no?
Choso steadies the pace of his pelvis just a faction as he catches his breath, "Gonna cum soon." He whispers to the imaginative version of you he's got underneath him.
How would your hands feel pushing or even pulling at his waist, trying to get him to reach deeper inside you despite his dick being much too big for you? Is it cocky of him to think that?
His bottom lip fwips out a little as he pouts, eyes growing teary from how stimulating this is for him. He's never wanted to fuck someone so badly. All these weeks of teasing and sneaking around to commit the most debauched of acts in your name... when would things come to a breaking point? When would you catch onto the hints he's not even throwing??
Ugh, all these questions leave Choso frustrated. So frustrated that now he's applied all his weight to your pillow, fulling humping his fat cock into the makeshift hole. You'd feel so much better than this stupid pillow but the realization of that does little to stop his fingertips from digging into your sheets as he grits his teeth and then spills his first load into it.
"Fuckfuckfuck-," Choso mutters under his breath as he tugs all his inches back a little before diving them right back in. His seed floods throughout the cottony insides of your cushion, making everything creamy.
He ends up having to bite down on your sheets just to hold back the sounds he begins to let out as he drives himself straight into overstimulation with a lack of halting his movements. You'd let him do this to you, right? Fuck multiple loads into you? Breed you?
Hell, what does Choso—who spends majority of his time thinking and fantasizing about you without ever feeling the sexual touch of a woman—know about breeding?
All these damn questions have had the man so distracted that he never realized how much his hand had bumped into his idle phone screen, having somehow managed to capture all of his past few events—which consisted of him moaning your name out and muttering filthy things he doesn't much understand—on camera.
But, that's not the worst part about all this.
The worst part about all this is that by the time Choso finishes up with properly breeding your pillow, he went to finally swipe his phone up, and in doing so he hit send on everything he just recorded.
Now, bear in mind that you never received any sort of response to your innocent takeout request. So really imagine your shock to hear nearly twenty minutes worth of audio porn from your roommate. Actually, scratch that, imagine how quickly you got wet from opening your text thread with Choso to see a video from him.
Because it wasn't just audio he'd accidentally captured, but an entire production of him fucking your pillow.
Shit.
——
Day Sixty-Nine: The Copy-Cock Incident.
Ever since that day, things have been weird between you and Choso.
You came home and didn't say a word to him, didn't even look at him or acknowledge him, and proceeded to hide away in your room for... the next few days or so.
By the time Choso saw you again, you pretended to be completely normal and made him feel like you'd forgotten all about the video he sent you. In fact, you even talk to him as if he'd never done anything wrong.
Weird.
The man was naturally uneasy around you for every day that followed, feeling his skin crawl with guilt every single time he was in front of you. There was nothing he could do about it either, anytime he tried to bring it up or apologize, you'd shut the conversation down or change the subject. It was almost like you didn't want him to apologize for it.
Does that mean you were silently thanking him for it? Did you perhaps like the video?
Choso's unsure. Like, severely unsure.
If you thought he was nervous and awkward around you before than he's gotten a million times worse after the whole video thing.
But today—the sixty ninth day in which you've been living with him—he's finally given the clearest answer to all his questions. All his awkwardness and shyness flies straight out the window the moment Choso comes home to see you sitting rather weirdly in his designated spot on the couch.
He made small talk with you while grabbing a bottle of water for himself from the kitchen, hearing this notable waver in your voice that he simply couldn't ignore.
What Choso didn't know quite yet was that he'd came home far earlier than you expected him to. So now you were left to maintain casual conversation with him as if there wasn't inches of thick silicone stuffed inside your cunt right now.
"—and they're dropping a sequel too, can you believe it?" Choso's voice reverberates throughout the fine walls of your apartment and your hips squirm slightly.
You don't think he ever noticed it but you always found his voice to be especially sexy. And after you got that video of him fucking your pillow—which you've replayed a concerning amount of times since—you think your attraction to his voice has only worsened.
You never knew someone with a tone that deep could whimper and whine so sweetly. The mere reminiscent thought of it has you lifting your body up an inch or two, before you sink back down onto the dildo you have beneath you.
Then your eyes threaten to close and you nibble on your bottom lip to stop yourself from making any sudden noises.
Clearing your throat instead, "Really? That sounds—"
"Are you okay?" Choso cuts off, having fully entered the living room with you now.
His eyes narrow at you as you make contact with them, watching how he's got a single brow cocked up and one hand at his hip—the other busy drawing his perspiring bottle of water up to his lips. Instead of answering him immediately, you sit there and watch the movement of his mouth for an unhealthy number of seconds.
Choso's lips press against the opening of his water oh-so-effortlessly, his tongue swiping out to capture any liquid that imperils to escape his mouth, and his throat shifting along with each unwavering gulp he takes.
When his mouth detaches from the bottle, your eyes are glued to the small breath he lets out before he tilts his head. Then his hand waves out your way, "Hello?"
You shake out of your little daze and cringe at yourself internally, "Huh? Oh-, yeah, mhm. I-I'm fine."
Choso nods his head slowly as if he definitely does not believe you. Then you see the way his eyes drop down to the blanket concealing your lower half, and his feet move against the floor to carry him over to the empty spot on the couch beside you. "Are you sure? You look a little..." His eyelid lower a fraction and he clears his throat, "Stiff?"
You wanted to move around and reposition yourself to show him that you're totally fine but it was a little difficult to do so when you had a sex toy poking up inside you. "I'm fine, Cho. Don't worry about it," You tell him.
He's entirely unconvinced. After living with you for a little over two months, he can confidently say he knows you and your body language like the back of his hand.
So, he leans back against the couch—eyes still trained on your ever little move—and then rests one of his arms against the backside of it, leaning closer to you. "It's kinda hard not to worry about it when you're looking at me like that."
You blink. "Like what?"
"Like you've been caught doing something wrong," He says with a breathless scoff following, "Did something happen?"
"N-No," You breathe out as quickly as you can.
Choso's gaze gets impossibly firmer on you, "You're lying."
Looking away for a split second, your arms move to fold beneath your chest, "Since when did you become so intuitive?"
"I've always been this intuitive," He tells you.
An uncomfortable beat of silence passes, and unfortunately for you, his talking is not helping your situation right now. Every word that vacates his mouth has you soaking both the item you're sitting on and the couch below it.
"So," His fingers idly drum against the back of the couch, "Are you gonna tell me what's wrong or...?"
You scoff, "Nothing's wrong, Choso."
He waits exactly ten loooong seconds before cracking a smirk, "So move."
"What?" You gasp.
He's still starring at you with the same unconvinced look on his face, "If there's nothing wrong, move."
You wave your arm out in a dismissive gesture before rolling your eyes and turning your head elsewhere, "You're being annoying over nothing."
Choso sizes you up, drinking in every inch of your noticeably rigid frame. "And something's wrong with you but you won't tell me what. Are you in pain? Did you hurt yourself in an embarrassing way? C'mon, if that's the case, I promise I won't make fun of you for it."
God, you hated when he acted like this. Sometimes Choso cared too much for his own good. He almost walked in on you touching yourself one night and wouldn't leave you alone until he set his eyes on your face to make sure you were okay.
You turn your head back towards him and sigh. You knew he knew what was going on here. Otherwise, why would he be pressing you to tell him what you were up to like this?
"You walked in at a bad time, that's all," You admit to him.
Choso's brows scrunch up all cutely, innocence etched into his sight as it softens on you. "What do you mean?"
How the fuck are you supposed to explain that you were in the middle of bouncing up and down a dildo—that's actually a direct copy of his cock—just moments before he walked in, and now the damn thing is nestled inside you??
"Well," You pause, heart racing a mile a minute as he stares you down like you're the only person who's every word has had him on the edge of his very seat. Then you start to fidget with your fingers in your lap and let your eyes drift away, "I was in the middle of something, and—"
You notice his legs spreading apart and his hips rolling up slowly from your peripherals. Before you can even finish, "In the middle of what?" Choso asks.
He knows.
You look at his face, and the way he's staring at you now is enough to make the heat pooling below get impossibly hotter. You can't help but squeeze your legs together, which causes the cock inside you to slip deeper.
Then your face twists up in reaction before you can help it and Choso watches the entire thing—not missing the movement in your thighs, the breathy moan you let out, and the way your fingers curl into the blanket you have neatly clutched over your body.
Oh.
Choso drags his slightly salivating tongue over his lips to wet them and then releases a short, unnerved chuckle. "I interrupted you, huh?" He asks rhetorically, voice husking a pitch deeper.
You nod your head, aching to move your body to satisfy yourself again.
"Are you embarrassed?" He goes on, trying his hardest not to move his legs out of fear you'll finally notice the boner he's been sporting this entire time.
"O-Obviously," You stammer, "But, I don't wanna talk about it. Just—"
"Don't talk then," He huffs, feeling something starved resting all thickly against the tip of his tongue. "And don't let me stop you."
Your breath tangles, "What?"
His eyes glide up and down your body thrice—seamlessly undressing you through those desperately blown-out pupils of his. "...You were playing with yourself, right?" He questions lowly.
"Something like that, yeah,” You reply.
A singular moment passes between you two before he finally says fuck it and looks at your face, "Can I watch?"
Your cunt involuntarily clenches around the dildo and you squirm, "Choso, I..."
He gives you a surprisingly calm, reassuring smile, “You know you can say no, ri—"
"I know that!" You huff, turning away as your face burns from the heat of embarrassment.
Then, without giving him a vocal answer, you finally shift around in your seat. He watches as you lean back against the corner-part of the couch and move your hand to the blankets edge before lifting it.
The first thing he notices as the cover is removed is that you're in his hoodie—the one he just wore yesterday!
You slouch your body a bit and move the blanket to the side as you slip from sitting to laying back, peeling your legs apart nice ‘n wide to give him the most sinful display of that dildo sliding a few inches out of you. Then your hand reaches down to make contact with the base of it and you bite your lip before languidly pulling it out of you.
Your pussy lips hug the silicone neatly whilst it schlicks its way out of your hole and you release a breath you weren’t aware you’d been holding in. There’s a droopy string of your slick dangling from in between the dildo’s glossy tip and your pulsing entrance—all of which Choso’s is left to peer at.
You redirect the toy’s weighty tip towards your clit and roll it around slowly before tossing your head back a little and sighing in relief.
"Ohgod-," Your roommate chokes into the palm he’d slapped over his mouth all of a sudden.
His body jolts and his other fingertips dip and grind into the couch as he tries to steady himself, holding on so tight that the veins trailing his arms begin to protrude out against his muscular arms. Something in between a throaty grunt and a whine had been ripped out of his throat.
You look over at him from beneath your lashes before batting them, "Are you okay? You're the one who wanted to watch..."
He nods shortly, mumbling, "M-Mhm, m'fine."
As if you’d believe that.
You raise a brow and move the silicone away from your cunt before snorting, "Why're you making that face then?"
"Well, I kinda..." He turns his blushing face away from you completely. Voice small, "Watching that made me cum..."
"What?” You lean up a bit, propping your body up more comfortably against your elbows, “I couldn't hear you, speak up."
Choso thinks his cock is gonna hurt after all this. He turns to face you again and looks you dead in the eyes as he speaks softly, "Watching you do that made me cum."
You blink dumbfoundedly as you find yourself unable to stop the amused smile that breaks into your features, "Just like that?"
He nods.
"You didn't even touch yourself..." You snort, looking down at yourself and shrugging as you tap the dildo against your pussy. Speaking casually, "I know you're a perv 'n all but, shit, I thought you'd last a little longer than that."
Choso’s entire world freezes, "Wait, what?"
"Mmnh," You’re busy moaning as you let the tip play with your entrance—teasing yourself shamelessly right in front of him.
The fact that you just admitted you’d known he was a filthy pervert all this time, and then went back to playing with yourself like it was nothing really threw him off.
Not that he has much time to let that sink in, though. Choso is far too easily distracted by the sight of your glistening pussy below, the living room light doing well to illuminate just how pretty your wet, sopping folds look against the head of the dildo.
“O-Ohhhh fuck.” He gasps, already on the verge of pleasureful tears. “You’re…” His hand shoots down to hold his dick as if to control it—squeezing his shaft roughly before pushing at it. "You’re soakedd. Can I taste it?” Choso asks, voice cracking a little on the last word.
You flick your eyes up at him, “What?”
“Wanna lick it,” He's whispering while moving to lean down, and flashing you this voracious look from his half-lidded eyes. “Can I? Please? Can I taste you, mommy?”
The second, “What.” that falls from your lips is flat as you find yourself struggling to process just how quickly he'd positioned himself in between your plush thighs and how smoothly that name just poured off of his tongue.
“S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to uh-, call you that…” Choso grumbles awkwardly, looking away to let the moment pass before peeking back up at you, “But, can I please—“
“Why should I let you?” You interrupt rudely.
He blinks. “Huh?”
The sudden shift in tension was rather palpable since you realized it's you who's in control here, and not him. “After alllll the dirty things you’ve done in thought of me," Your head angles off to the right, "Why should I let you taste me, Choso?”
“B-Because I’ll make you feel good,” He tries to promise, his dark eyes locked up onto the unfairly gorgeous display of you—wearing his hoodie and spread out a few inches away from his waiting mouth.
His small promise does little to help his case considering how you tut, “Aw, you think so?”
“Uhuh,” Choso nods submissively.
There's a feral, burning urge inside of him to bury his face in between your legs without permission, but that same urge battles strongly against the equally as resilient urge to be pliant and await your every command.
“That’s cute," You say before holding the dildo towards him, "How about this; if you can make me cum with this, I’ll let you get your taste, yeah?”
For the first time, Choso lets his eyes capture the toy you've been using all this time. The item is... weirdly familiar. Your roommate is many things, but he's not stupid—he knows what his own dick looks like.
Not that he has the mind to question you about it right now, though. there are much more pressing matters to tend to.
Which is exactly why he's not asking you anything as he takes the toy from your hands and then looks down at your cunt. Your hole pulses as if asking to be filled and he thinks his heart skips a beat.
He can see, touch, and smell everything.
Sluggishly, Choso directs the head of the fake cock towards your entrance and applies the faintest bit of pressure before stopping the moment he feels resistance. “Uh, is it.. supposed to do that?” Choso murmurs as he looks up, “Like.. are you supposed to be this tight? Do I need to use lu—“
“Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex before," You cut off.
You've had a feeling for months that Choso was a virgin but you'd never been too sure until now.
He pouts sheepishly, “Well..."
“Just-,” You cut yourself off with a sharp exhale. “Y’know what, you're the one that wanted to taste me so bad. I’m not teaching you, figure it out.”
His chest feels like it's caving in for a moment, “What?” He'd never heard you be so.. mean. Though he'd be lying is he said he wasn't into it, “But you made a copy of my dick, I don’t think that’s fai—“
“I don’t think it’s fair that you’re in between my legs with a toy in your hands and no idea how to use it," You say with a prominent roll of your eyes. “If you wanna taste my pussy, figure it the fuck out, Choso. Make me cum."
Oh, his cock swells impossibly harder.
Then he whines, “Y-Yes ma’am..."
Choso takes a deep breath and returns his attention to your cunt. Leaning down experimentally, his lips press clumsy, open-mouthed kisses against your inner thigh before he starts working his way inward. His nose bumps against your folds a few times, but you keep watching him try his best to piece everything together.
His brows furrow a little before he glides the dildo up and nudges it under your clitoral hood, plucking it away directly after once he notices your body flinching, and then tapping the silicone back down against it in the same way he'd seen you do earlier.
“This is your clit, right?” His question is made with genuine curiosity, but something in his eyes tells you that he already knows the answer to it—he simply wants to hear you say it.
Your head bobs a little and you're already feeling a little dazed from watching him, “Uhuh…”
You could feel his searing breaths flap down against all your wet skin and it was making you more sensitive than normal. The sound of your breathy confirmation made his face light up triumphantly.
Choso waves the tip of the dildo—technically his cock—left 'n right against your clit just to tease you before he lifts it away and lets it push against your hole again. He presses it forward with more pressure than the first time and finally pokes an inch inside you, lifting his eyes to see you bite back a moan.
You were so fucking needy.
He can only imagine how hard it was for you to sit there and act like you didn't have this toy inside you all that time. Now you're more worked up than you probably would be in any normal situation.
He strips your insides of that taunting inch after a few seconds and then repeats this action over and over until he can hear it in your breathing that you're getting frustrated with him. But before you can send him any complaints, he lifts his head and hovers his lips over your clit.
“It’s so pretty, can I kiss it?” Choso asks softly.
“I…” His eyes are all glossy ‘n pleading—too irresistible for you to say no. “Yeah…" You concede, "But no licking.”
“Thank you,” Then he dives in and smothers his lips against your clit, sucking on it lightly without ever letting his tongue make contact with it.
The tip of that stupid silicone continues to pop in and out of your squelchy pussy mindlessly as Choso gets addicted to the feel of your clit against his lips.
Muttering, “S’pretty,” into the twitchy lil’ bud over ‘n over again in between the groans he's letting vibrate out. “It keeps—mwah, runnin’ from me.” He whispers against you, “Sensitive girl—she’s so fuckin’ cute.”
As soon as that praise leaves him, the entire length of the fake cock is thrusted into you and your back is forced into a nasty arch as your hands grab at the couch. A wanton, “Choso!” flying out of your mouth before you can even help it.
He plucks his lips away and glances up at you desperately, “Can I lick her now? Please. I’ll pass out if I don’t—“
“Fine,” You huff shakily, “J-Just... lick her ‘real good for me or I’ll make you stop.”
He doesn't have to be told twice whatsoever.
The next thing you feel is his tongue finally melting against your clit as the dildo is thrusted into you, stretching your saccharine walls out perfectly. Choso only fucks the toy in halfway this time though, pulling it out directly afterwards and then repeating this action many times over as if that's all you could take.
It's at complete random that he decides to fuck the entire length of it inside you, and your body flinches as the sudden gesture is paired with his tongue practically wrapping around your poor clit.
“You like that, princess?” Choso utters with a rasp, sticking his tongue out to show you how he moves it around into spelling out his name, “Like the way I flick my tongue against this pussy? Hm? Am I doin' a good job now?”
“F-Fuck. Hnngh-, yeahhh..” You purr out all softly, hips carefully rocking up to meet both his tongue and the dildo.
You hadn’t expected him to be a talker, especially since he’s never done this before. You assume he’s just saying whatever sounds right in hopes that it works, and luckily for him it always seems to.
In a matter of minutes, Choso's fucking you relentlessly with both his tongue and the copy of his cock. You could drive that toy into you at the same speed of which he's doing now, which is exactly why it's not long before you're whining for him to slow down a little since you didn't wanna cum so quickly.
It felt like he'd only just started!
And if he was doing all this with his tongue glued solely to your clit and that toy thrashing against your g-spot, you could only imagine what the entirety of his mouth would provide for you if you let him.
Even with your pleas of him slowing his pace, Choso wasn't much listening until after you came all over the dildo. He let the toy slip right out of you and held it to the side as he tried to move in and lick at your gaping hole in an attempt of finally getting a raw taste of you.
Sure, he got to savor a bit of you just from licking at your clit but that was far from enough.
You shot a hand down to grab ahold of his hair and yank his head up before that could happen. Panting, “What’re you doing?” as you furrow your brows at him.
Choso whimpers, “Y-You said I could taste you after I made you feel good.”
“Yeah," You smirk, "But not like that.”
You make a gesture towards the same toy he's steadily growing very envious of and his eyes are slow to follow along. Then he frowns because he knows exactly where this is going.
His chocolatey eyes travel along the fake veins trailing the cock and he wonders distantly how you managed to capture every essence of his sex like that. “You… You want me to suck my own…” Choso trails off instead of completing his sentence as the realization settles in.
All whilst you're laying there with the same haughty smile on your face, “You want your taste don’t you?”
A light, defeated groan evades his lips as he watches you go on to grab the dildo and hold it up towards his mouth. The slick, shining toy is absolutely coated in you—your arousal clung to the silicone in glossy streaks, and the evidence of your orgasm fragrant and sloppy against the material.
Choso's nose twitches as he catches the sweet scent of your release oozing off of it before his voice stains out. "Fuck." He breathes, watching a slow bead of your cum slide down the length of the silicone—some of it pooled at the tip where a perfect copy of his own slit had been molded.
The man can't help the way he licks his lips reflexively as he leans towards it.
"Atta' boy," You hum, tapping the head of the toy against his bottom lip and watching your wetness smear across his skin. "Open up and get your taste, c'mon."
There's a war between his pride and his raging need to satisfy your every whim, of which the latter easily wins.
Choso parts his lips and you guide the head inside, his eyes fluttering shut upon feeling your taste meet his tongue. He moans around the toy and you push more of it into his mouth, watching how pretty his lips sealing around the shaft as he begins to hesitantly suck.
"Look at youuu, sucking yourself clean," Your words come out in a breathy purr the more you watch him work his mouth around the copy of his dick. "Good boy."
His eyes open and he bobs his head forward a little more, hips rutting against the couch hard enough for the furniture to inch forward. You watch drool trickle out of his mouth and trail down his chin, feeling yourself throb each time he moans.
You knew Choso was desperate for you but this...
“Mmgh..” He groans around the faux flesh, sucking a little faster once he notices the glow of entertainment in your eyes as you watch him.
“How’s it taste, pretty boy?” You ask in that unfairly sinful tone.
Choso pops his mouth off and gives you a fucked-out little simper, “S’good, mommy.”
Your hand falters against the base of the toy for a moment as you chuff out, “Stop calling me that.”
“Sorry,” He says, not sounding the slightest bit apologetic as he returns to licking his cock clean.
After a long, drawn-out time of him practically sucking and licking the dildo brand new, he pulls away from it with a slippery, wet pop!
Then he gasps, sucking in air, and moves his arm over to wipe off the slick and saliva mix from his chin. There's a disheveled look plastered all over his face and his eyes are hazy when met with yours.
"Was that good?" You ask despite already knowing the answer.
To your surprise, Choso doesn't respond.
He just stares at you like he's debating more things than can currently be expressed through words. Then he wraps his hands around the base of the dildo, snatches it from your grasp, and tosses it across the living room like it's useless.
Halfway-glaring at you with a new look in his eyes, he leans up leisurely. His hands move to the edge of his sweatpants and you see his dick imprint practically staring at you from beyond the fabric—a concerning wet patch darkening the area.
There's something grave in his eyes as he cocks his head over and exhales heavily, “Can I give you the real thing now?”
Your thighs twitch but you hope he doesn't notice it. Trying to distract him from it by shrugging, “You think you’ve earned it?”
“I think,” His fingers dip beneath the fabric and he begins to tug his pants down, “You’re being a brat—acting like you’re not just as bad as me.”
Oh. The switch in his head had most certainly been flipped and you were not expecting it.
“What?” You puff.
“Look at you now,” He reaches out and presses the thick pad of his thumb against your clit, “Swollen, needy, aching… all for me.”
Your thighs try to shut, “T-That’s just because—“
“Shhh, shhh,” He hushes, rapidly swatting his hands over to your legs and forcing them open before you can close them, “Let me show you I’ve earned it.”
He grips at your skin until it feels like you won't move once he extracts his hold on you, swallowing up how pretty you look submitting to him now.
Choso goes to pull his dick out and your breath hitches, entire body flinching as you watch it bob out. His length spanks down against your pussy, meanly spreading your wobbly lips apart and nudging against every sensitive nerve you have there.
Your roommate doesn’t move for a moment and just sits there so you can feel his veins thumping, and watch the crown of his cock drooool silky, wet ropes of mushy cum against your abdomen. He's a mess of his own seed but he doesn't seem to care or be embarassed by it whatsoever.
After all, you're the one who got him like this.
All while he’s panting, sweat running down his skin, and face flushed beyond belief. Hovering over you, Choso tilts his head and continues on with his needy glare, “Can I fuck you now?”
“Yeah,” You don't even hesitate to whisper.
His hand moves to hold your jaw graciously but the way he tugs your face up is quite rough, “Speak up.” He demands.
“Yeah,” You say clearly, “You can fuck me, Choso.”
And that’s all he needs.
Next thing you know and Choso's tucking his thiiiiick, creamy cock into your quivering pussy, throwing his head back from the sensation of feeling you welcoming him in for the first time. He's got one hand clasped onto the couch and the other having moved to grip the top of your head so you can watch him have his way with you.
He couldn't let you miss a second of this by looking away or turning your head because you didn't want him to see how much your face twists up in pleasure. No, no, if you're gonna let him fuck you then you're gonna watch how he does it too.
Every fuckin' second of it.
That initial inch of him sinking into you had your vision blurring. The dildo you had made couldn't even begin to compare nor replicate the real thing. It doesn't twitch the way he does, doesn't end with his hips pressing forward with intentional, punishing slowness as if to get back at you for making the damn thing in the first place, and doesn't make you feel every ridge or rubbing vein against the soppiest crevices of your pussy.
"Look at that," Choso drawls, his eyes locked onto where your bodies meet, "You take me s'fucking well—always knew you would." He admits.
But then he stops halfway with no warning, no nothing. You're left impaled and clenching around him, wanting and needing more desperately whilst he just waits. He watches how your walls flutter around him as if to bed for the rest but he still doesn't move.
Your voice feels broken, "C-Choso.."
"Hm? Something wrong, princess?" He coos innocently, "You want me to keep going?"
You nod desperately and the movement makes his hand grip at your skull tighter by just a fraction. Then he sinks in a little deeper and you deliver a trembling moan in response.
He doesn't even sound like the sweet, respectful Choso you know has he tuts, "I can't hear you."
Through gritted teeth, "Yes—fucking move, Cho. Please, fuck me." you beg.
The edges of his lips curl, "Thaaat's more like it."
And then he's bucking the rest of his plump cock into you, bottoming out just the way both of you have always desired. The fluid motion has air fleeing from your lungs and your back angling up ‘n away from the couch, a shamefully loud cry—that you’re sure your neighbors will send complaints about later—leaping out of your trachea.
Choso sets a nasty rhythm inside you, thrusting without a concern in the world about the way the couch is squeaking and creaking beneath your bodies.
Shit. At this rate the dame thing could just break and he still wouldn’t give a fuck.
His hand tightens within your hair and he pulls at your head, “Goddd, you’ve no idea how long I-, hahh… waited for this. Need you to watch, baby. Watch how I fuck this pretty pussy.”
You feel his stout cockhead flog up against your cervix repeatedly, almost like he means to brand himself into the area and have his cum signing his name across it permanently.
“Can’t believe you got some-, fuck—s-stupid toy to replace me. L-Like m’not right here for you,” He pants, a crisp whine slipping out somewhere in between his words. “You knew you wanted the real thing, knew you needed it. Right? Doesn’t this feel s’much better, princess?”
Your jaw is flailing open at this point and you’re a slobbering, moaning mess underneath him, “Yes, Choso. F-Feels s’good, nngh!”
A particularly puncturing thrust makes your eyes fly to the back of your head and your hand reach over to hold onto his arm, nails scratching across his skin. He smiles once he realizes he’s found the perfect spot to fuck you dumb.
Then he’s doing exactly that, pounding your body straight into the cushions and letting groans pour out of his mouth. He’s so fucked-out that he doesn’t even realize he’s drooling on you as he plows forward.
Your pussy is weeping all over his cock, lugging his every jerky inch in deeper ‘n deeper until he earns a specific twitch from you.
“O-Oh,” Choso moans again, “I found it, huh? You gonna cum on me again?” Once your head goes nodding and your pleasureful cries pitch out into airy whines, he gasps. “Give it to me then. Please? Please cum on me, lemme feel it. I wanna feel it baby—wanna feel you cum.”
His words immediately fade off into whimpers when he feels you doing exactly as he’s begged you to—your orgasm practically crashing through you and causing your body to convulse around him. Choso fucks you through it like his life depends on it, eager not to disappoint.
Then he’s right there with you—even though he technically came again quite some time ago, but both of you were too fucked-out to realize—and you feel globs of his cum gushing all throughout your pussy, the mess of releases getting mixed with one another with the way his hips insistently continued on.
Muttering, “Take it, take it, take it-,” over and over mindlessly whilst your cunt shuddered around him.
It’s not until his hips come to a sharp stop that both of you manage to catch your breath in an synchronized gasp of air. Choso’s body topples down over you and you feel his cock twitching as it goes flaccid inside you.
Your bodies remain still for a minute or two before he lifts his head to look at your face, leaning in to plaster kisses on your cheek and whisper intimate things that your ears don’t quite catch.
When your ears come in tune with what he’s saying, "—and about that video... I wanted to apologize for that. A-And for everything else." you hear him finishing off with.
To which you let out a little dream-like sigh, "Choso… I literally have a camera in my room. I've known about what you've been doing for quite a while now. You don't have to apologize."
"Oh, you-," He pauses and lifts his body. "Wait, what?"
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summary: peter’s new arachnid senses often leave him disoriented—hibernating and waking up in places he doesn’t recognise. it’s a small problem, one he's willing to deal with on his own, till he wakes in your apartment with his arms wrapped around you.
pairing: peter parker x reader
content: no bnd movie spoilers (feel free to read if you haven't seen bnd), FLUFF, clingy! peter parker, comfort, light banter, arachnid! peter, peter goes through it, yearning
Peter hates most of the new developments that arrived with the enhanced levels of his arachnid half—and migraines are definitely top of the list. Particularly the ones that start early in the morning, muffling his senses and rendering him a zombie slob for the entire start of the day. He stirs in his sleep, a soft, pounding ache burrowed in the back of his skull. It's an irritating sensation, one he's already grown familiar with, worsening the overheating, the sensitivity that comes with his overloaded senses, the pull of nerves behind his eyeballs.
His nose burrows deeper into a comforting scent, arms tightening around something soft. Letting out a dragged sigh, low against his throat, the pain fades into something barely noticeable. A sort of relaxed relief that hasn't hit him in years, with his entire body growing slack and heavy, the kind that only comes after a restful sleep. One he hasn't achieved since—his gaze peers open, blinking heavily as his eyes adjust to his surroundings.
The first thing he catches sight of is a familiar bundled sight of hair, and the curve of a shoulder. He must be dreaming. The sunlight stings the sensitivity of his eyes, and he blinks harsher in an effort to recollect himself. His brows furrow as he loosens a hand, parting from his tight grip to run his fingers gently over the loosened hair.
He wasn't dreaming. Somehow, he was laying in your bed, hugging you like an oversized koala.
"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.
You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.
The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.
What has he done?
"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.
Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.
"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"
Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?
“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”
Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.
Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.
"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."
"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."
Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?
He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.
His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.
“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.
He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.
He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.
There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.
“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.
Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.
“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”
His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.
“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.
Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.
“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”
His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.
“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”
Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."
A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.
"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.
Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.
Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.
"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.
He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.
He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.
You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?
Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.
You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.
"Don't go." He whispers.
Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.
"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.
He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."
You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.
He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.
"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."
His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.
"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."
He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.
"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."
The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.
"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.
"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.
You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.
Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.
You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.
Apparently, today was its much-needed day.
Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.
Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.
"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"
He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.
Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.
Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.
Okay, sure. You could work with that.
He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.
Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.
He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.
You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.
"Spidey." You whisper.
He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.
"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.
His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.
"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."
His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."
"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."
His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.
"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."
It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.
You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.
It gets demolished within seconds.
As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.
You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.
Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.
"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.
His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."
You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.
"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."
His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.
"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.
If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.
"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.
Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.
“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”
It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.
"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.
If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.
You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."
Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"
His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”
Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.
He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.
He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.
"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."
His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.
You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.
"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.
He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.
The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.
It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"
"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."
The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.
You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"
"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"
"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."
You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."
"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."
"That's not true." You hum.
He blinks slowly, processing your words.
"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."
He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.
"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.
The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"
"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”
He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.
It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.
“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”
"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."
Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."
"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."
"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."
His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.
"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."
Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.
It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.
"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.
You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.
"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."
His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."
"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"
He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."
His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."
Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."
"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."
You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.
He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.
"Spidey." You call out.
He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.
"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."
He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."
Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.
You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.
You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?
Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.
You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.
"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."
"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."
Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."
"Why?"
"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.
You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."
His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"
"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.
"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.
"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."
You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?
You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.
Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.
Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.
"Peter. Peter Parker."
likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3!!
marvel masterlist (do let me know if you'd like to be added to a peter parker taglist as i have more fics coming up for him <3).
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
summary: in an effort to finally move on from MJ, peter hooks up with the pretty bartender from his class, but everything quickly unravels when he can’t push away his growing feelings for her— and when he finds out she’s been investigating spider-man
or, peter parker realizes he shouldn’t be afraid to fall again
warnings: 18+, slight angst, smut, dual pov, post nwh, strangers to lovers, canon divergent (loosely based on universe-accurate stuff), alcohol, peter’s grief is a character, allusions to depression and self-isolation, petermj erasure (i’m sorry), ned remembers again bc peter needs at least one friend sue me, 20/21-ish ages ??, canon-typical violence, peter’s a massive munch & a bit of a disaster (affectionate), inaccurate bnd info bc it wasn’t out when i wrote this lol
smut warnings: sloppy/semi-public sex, mutual handjobs, fingering, drunk (but consentual) hookup. tags will be updated on part two :)
word count: 22.4k — ao3, masterlist — playlist
author’s note: oh, the character that started it all. he will always be a special part of me, so i couldn’t not write for him with bnd coming out. writing for him (and actually posting it) after all this time with an adult mindset was interesting, but im happy with how this little story unfolded. i hope you enjoy this one <3 let me know if you do !!
⁀➷ now reading: part one | part two (coming soon) preview
Truthfully, in part, this was a bad idea from the beginning.
He knows who he is—always has—but no one really prepares you for what you lose of yourself when people leave.
Not really.
Sure, there’s pieces of it—age-old sayings, over-quoted self-help books, your pushy therapist’s nagging mantras—but it’s not only that a part of you dies with the person you lose— It’s that you start to question if what’s left of you is able to survive.
Or willing to, for that matter.
So, he was doomed from the start. He used to lie awake at night pushing back against the threat of morning light like his life depended on it. He used to come alive in the afterglow, swinging through the city like it was his heartbeat, chasing after it like a lifeline.
Now, he counts the hours down. He watches his clock move so slow it might as well be going backward. He stops wishing for days to be longer and foams at the mouth for more time asleep.
Unaware. Unbothered. Unmocked.
And suddenly he’s suffocating. He feels it in every thread he runs worn, tired fingers over. Frayed at the edges, torn and half-stitched together too many times to count, bloody knuckles laying so many patches he loses the seam.
It hangs, derisive as it clings to a crooked doorknob.
Fated blurs of blue and red used to fuel him, used to make every decision—every action, every mistake—feel worth it. It gave him purpose, gave him direction. It made him forget the violet in between every wrong turn and right hook and focus on the parallel fate propelling him forward.
Now it all feels eroded, taunting what he let slip away. Laughing in the face of failures that stopped making him stronger and won. Watching, waiting for a next move he could never make.
He only slipped deeper with every month that passed, desperate for something to tether himself to. His responsibility started to feel heavier, and his motivation to get off his futon and to a fire escape was few and far between.
Because what did he really have to fight for anymore?
Then the wails of sirens and veins of flickering streetlights tracing down the cool city pavement roared like a heartbeat he couldn’t shake, rattling him from the inside out, making him remember where he came from.
Reminding him that he is this city, and this city is him.
So he pushes through. She shoves it down. He pulls the mask off his doorknob and fixes what was broken in more ways than one. He conquers the battle one fight at a time. And the greater good remembers that it’s just the good in him.
Because after all, Peter Parker knows who he is.
And Peter Parker doesn’t give up.
But this wasn’t giving up— At least that’s what he’d convinced himself of. He was simply accepting a fate beyond his control. Giving credit where credit was due. Letting go, even if it hurt like hell.
He’d gotten particularly good at that.
Besides, how could he surrender when it was starting to feel like there was nothing to give up in the first place?
No matter how much he tried to ignore it, he keeps getting the reminder. Like when he sees her new friends, or when she waves past him in a room full of people, making him foolishly wave back at no one. When he says hi to her across the hall and she responds,
“Oh, hey… you.” And keeps walking, brows knit and laughing off the fleeting awkwardness with that guy.
With Paul.
“You,” he echoes in bitter disbelief, dropping into a seat he barely kicks half-out. “She called me you. Buddy or Pal would’ve stung less.”
Ned doesn’t even bother glancing up from the essay and lunch he’s hunched over, expression flat and unbothered. “Because she doesn’t know you, Peter.”
Right. Of course. Tact was never lost on him.
“Yeah, but you think she’d at least sense something by now, right?” He sighs, slumping deeper into his seat and mindlessly picking at something non-existent on the table. “She just looks right through me.”
Ned shrugs loosely. “It’s been two years. Maybe you should finally move on.”
The unwelcome words settle, rooting themselves inside his head and making him nearly choke on nothing.
“You can’t be serious.”
Ned lower his laptop screen, leveling him with a look. “She has a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, and people… break up,” he says with a shrug, completely unconvincing. Ned’s glare narrows, irony sharp on his tongue. “And don’t say that’s what we did,” he adds. “I really don’t need the reminder.”
“This is college, Peter,” Ned urges, tossing his hands up to the room of laughing students and chatty professors around them. “There’s way more options out there than just MJ.”
His face shifts into a scowl, making Ned sigh and adjust his approach, expression softening a notch.
“Listen, you know I love MJ— We’re still friends.” Yeah, just not with him. “But you’ve been chasing after her for a while now and you’ve gotten nowhere.”
Peter steals a fry from Ned’s tray, shrugging innocuously. “And?”
“And maybe that means it’s just not meant to be.”
Ouch. His stomach twists on cue despite the harrowing, irrefutable truth: Ned was probably right.
He’d been chasing after a ghost so long he could feel his own body going cold. He was trying to pin down something that kept slipping away so persistently, it was starting to dissipate from reality. He was stuck running after something that didn’t want to be found, a fate he couldn’t face.
Maybe they just weren’t right for each other anymore.
He still loves her— At least he thinks he does. Things fell apart before he could really figure it out. He’s grown a lot. Changed a lot, too—a bit for the better, certainly some for the worst—and despite it all, he was still standing, still pressing on like forward was all he knew.
But maybe he couldn’t ever really move on until he accepted what was so glaringly in front of him. The shell of his high school romance flatlined at his feet.
And the echo of a DNR order looming over it.
It killed him to surrender— To let something he always thought was special slip away like he’s mourning a piece of himself he never really had. Not in the ways that counted most. He didn’t even get the chance.
He was supposed to be resilient. He was supposed to face a challenge head on when all else fails. He was supposed to be a hero—hers, and his own—but lately it felt like he wasn’t even capable of that.
And if he wasn’t… then who was he, really?
The void that met him in the mirror was starting to fade faster than he was willing to accept. And choosing to acknowledge the barren, fractured truth sitting between him and someone who was nothing more than a stranger now was making him question if letting go was really worth it.
Or if it was just another crack he couldn’t fix. Another mistake that tarnished what was barely left of him.
Another loss he couldn’t stop.
“But what if we are right together?” he counters, voice low from its weight in raw, unbridled reckoning. “What if losing her means I lose me too?”
Ned frowns, eyes laden with something he can’t hide.
“You’re already lost, Peter.” He pauses, brows creasing in something too close to pity. “I can’t keep watching you chase after what’s already gone.”
He swallows, rough and tight. God, he hated when Ned was right. But he needed to hear it. He needed the truth to scream through his lungs instead of whisper.
Maybe then he could find himself again.
“I’m not saying it’ll never happen,” Ned adds through a mouthful of fries. “I just think this is a good opportunity for you to get it out of your system.”
Peter’s brows lift and not from intrigue. “My system?”
“You know what I mean,” he defends, polishing off his lunch and sliding his laptop into his bag. “Meet new people. Enjoy being single. Use it to your advantage.”
“That’s, like, the complete opposite of me, Ned.”
“Is that really a bad thing?”
“Dude,” Peter mutters, expression twisting.
Ned holds his hands up in faux surrender. “All I’m saying is it won’t kill you to let loose a little.”
“I’m totally loose!” He was not at all loose.
“Go to a party, have some fun for once,” he explains like it wasn’t abundantly obvious. “Maybe even hook up with someone.”
Peter shakes his head immediately, the thought foreign and sour swimming in his head. “No, no way. That’s not something I can just do.”
“Why not?” Flashbacks of the weird, flukey flings he’s witnessed his oddly-charming friend go through rush in all at once. Of course Ned wouldn’t get it. “Have a couple drinks and find someone hot. Easy.”
“I’m just not wired like you. I’m a relationship guy.”
“You’ve had, like, one girlfriend, Peter.”
“No,” he defends, voice cracking like it was on a mission to expose him. “There was Liz, too.”
Ned’s mouth tilts. “Yeah, if you consider ditching her at homecoming and sending her dad to jail a date.”
Jeez. He was right about that one, too.
Ned glances at his watch, quickly shoving the rest of his stuff into his bag while Peter mulls in the completely undesirable suggestion floated his way. Let loose. Party. Hook-up? No way— No chance in hell.
Ned lingers in front of the now empty table, weighing if being late to class was worth one last attempt at convincing Peter this was sound advice.
“Do me a favor and at least think about it? Please?”
Despite himself, he caves, giving Ned a half-hearted smile. “Yeah. I will.”
He sits alone in silence, helplessly watching as his friend disappears into the flood of mingling students he’s still a stranger to. Everything buzzes around him, alight with life and the fresh promise of summer’s rapid approach. All he can hear is himself, trying desperately to rationalize the new question humming in his brain.
What the hell did he just get himself into?
Three weeks. It had been three weeks since that conversation with Ned. The topic wasn’t really brought up again—at least not directly—and he wasn't exactly complaining.
Not at all.
It was mentioned in passing—a vague invitation to a party, a harmless question about weekend plans that hummed with the hope for more, a not-so-subtle nod at a pretty girl passing by—but neither of them dared to push it further.
Ned was smart enough to know Peter would take the push when it was needed, and Peter was too scared to even entertain the idea of it looming in his mind.
How could he? How was he expected to just turn his brain off and let himself go? Pluck at the loose strings of his body that beared too much tedious tension. Unravel just enough to do something that didn’t require meticulous, painstaking logic for once.
Knowing the option existed only made it worse.
His mind raced behind blank stares in class. He got more clumsy with every building he swung from in the crest of midnight. He tossed through every hour of sleep, desperate for silence to sweep his brain again.
Was it really over? Just like that? A love he thought was going to last a lifetime dying a pitiful, worthless death— Reduced to the shape of a name that decays, growing unfamiliar when it whispers through his soul.
And the worst part was that he was starting to consider it. Like, actually consider it.
Put himself out there. Reclaim his identity again. Kiss someone new like it means absolutely nothing and enjoy being young for once. Forget about the crushing threat of responsibility constantly burdening him.
It was becoming abundantly clear that he wasn’t capable of the mantle he took on, so maybe he should.
He tried to fight it—the nagging doubt staining his mind, the ghost of his failures coming back to haunt him—but how could he when he was grappling with the fact that this was just another thing he couldn’t save?
And if he couldn’t save this, was he worthy of saving anything? Was he worthy of the pressure put on his shoulders? To be the one people turn to when they need hope?
He didn’t particularly want that answered right now.
The longer it lingered in his mind, the more it crawled to the forefront. The last time he spoke with—no, spoke at—MJ was 12 days ago. 12 whole days and all he could come up with was an invitation to join his group in their Experimental Physics lab when she already had one.
Things were rough, to say the least.
All he had to do was survive a few more pointless lectures and drill through his pile of neglected work. Then maybe he could spend his weekend remembering what it’s like to recharge.
His phone buzzes as he slides into his usual seat for his 2pm: Ned with his end-of-the-week attempt to drag him out to some Greenwich Village hole-in-the-wall spot called Lion’s Head Pub tonight. Pass.
He sighs thinly and clicks his phone off without replying, slumping further into the cool, sterile chill of his lecture hall chair like it could swallow him whole.
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this. Ned was getting his hopes up only for Peter to inevitably decline or go MIA. He hated the guilt that followed, making him question if he was even capable of starting over again. And it didn’t matter how many times he expressed his disinterest, Ned still offered like he might finally change his mind.
It was the same doomed cycle.
His stare hones in on the board in front of him, littered with indistinguishable strings of words that were starting to hurt his head. All the pre-lecture noise slips away with his attention—eyes glazed over, expression blank and unreachable—completely aloof to someone gently nudging his foot.
“Parker? Did you finish it?”
He blinks back to life, glancing up to find someone looming over him, blocking the blinding slats of stale overhead lights. And his brain nearly short circuits when he realizes it’s a girl— A really pretty girl.
Talking to him.
Your eyes flick between his in a straight-cut motion, silently beckoning his answer. Impatient fingers lightly drum a pencil against the edge of a thick stack of notebooks curled into your chest, studying him with barely pouted lips he suddenly can’t stop staring at.
His senses shift into overdrive, stumbling their way through trying to catalog everything about you: the soft strokes of hair gently framing your face in static light. Your perfume lingering around the heat of your skin, completely captivating and haunting through his head. The way your weight shifts the longer you’re forced to stand there, like time kneels to you and knows it has no business being wasted in your midst.
Then he realizes he’s just staring— Mouth parted, thoughts stuttering, eyes slack and completely silent like a fool… Or a freak.
Fuck, Peter, pay attention.
He clears his throat sharply, choking on the ghost of words that don’t come. “S-sorry, what?”
He’s completely thrown. Sure, he’s caught your eye once or twice when you transferred into this class, but you’ve never once spoken to him. Or really looked, for that matter. Why would you?
The slim clock hand usually brushed a few minutes past two when you slipped in, slowly easing the door shut like you could muffle the resounding click that echoes through the room, making heads snap to yours in a nosy wave. You always found an inconspicuous seat tucked in the last few rows, darting toward it like your name was etched there. Most days you were covered in an oversized hoodie, your eyes heavy from too many late nights, shoes shuffling, headphones in.
He didn’t know your name—or much of anyone’s anymore, for that matter—but he’d be lying if he said his attention didn’t snag on you when you scooted past him for the last remaining seat in his row the second week of class.
The warmth lingered in him, the memory of your hand brushing his shoulder to steady yourself over some asshole who wouldn’t tuck in his knees unmoored.
You didn’t speak, just offered him a soft, lopsided smile when you finally reached your destination like you appreciated that he didn’t slip away from under you— Like the steady weight of his shoulder simply being there was worth more than it should be.
He didn’t say a word either. Just matched your expression and went back to packing tiny, mechanical font into his notebook like it could help shake the way his thoughts were suddenly frazzled… And the fact that his favorite elective class was suddenly the least interesting thing in the world.
He forgot about you after that. It was better for everyone if he continued being invisible. Unknown, unnamed, un—
Wait… How the hell did you know his name?
“Your transcript?” Your eyebrows tick up in quickly fleeting patience, staring at him like it was obvious.
Right. The final project. The interview he totally hasn’t typed out yet… And you must be his partner.
Everyone was randomly assigned a faceless-name to work with through the class portal. Most identities in a class this big were a mystery, and it worked that way. No one cared. As long as your partner did some semblance of work that was good enough for a mostly passing grade, there wasn’t a second thought given.
The same went for you and him.
When the rubric was handed out and the deadline was set, you emailed a handful of times—designating roles, coordinating plans, dividing everything evenly—and that was that. You both had your tasks to do. But the way you peered down at him with a question held a between your brows told him you clearly did your part.
And the way his palms began to sweat and his brain started frantically flipping through its fuzzy filing cabinet of every half-assed assignment he barely survived this week made it abundantly clear he didn’t.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, digging through his bag and saying a silent prayer it looked convincing enough to you. “I think it got lost on my desk.”
It wasn’t even a titled document on his computer yet.
You sigh, tilting your head like this was the last thing you wanted to hear. His stomach twists on cue.
“I can’t start writing the feature without it.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” he rushes, crumpling his bag shut and shoving it under his chair to distract from the heat crawling up his neck. “I’ll get it to you tomorrow, I swear.”
You pause, weighing it through narrowed eyes that were far too sharp to be making his heart flutter the way it was. Then you cave, sighing gently.
“Fine. First thing.”
He nods with a little tug at the corner of his mouth, settling back into a reality where he was known enough to have someone’s nerves grated because of him.
“O-of course. Promise.”
Your gaze stays on him for a beat longer than it should’ve, and he swears the room slips away when your expression softens, barely, just enough to make his brain go a little numb.
Then you smile—routine, polite, lined with something he wants to turn around inside his head—and slip past him for your seat in the back, same as always.
And for once he doesn’t feel too bad about being distracted during class if it was because of you.
By the time the clock crawls toward 11, he’s starting to genuinely consider the very plausible reality he’s no longer conscious.
He turned into a machine, natural instincts clicking into place as he tore through the growing pile of work looming on his desk.
Now he can finally see through his window again, dark and dusty reflection catching the bleak glow of his lamp light straining to cut through the shadow-swept room.
He glows like a ghost from the dying light of his laptop, clinging to a despondent seven percent battery, a victim of his relentless focus. He plugs it in, stretches against the chair squeaking under his weight, and stares at the ceiling, slowly recalibrating his psyche.
The city roars beyond his window with the resurgence of nightlife, floating conversations and the symphony of sirens a blanket of sound down below. He finished relatively early considering the dense amount of work he had to chew through, but now his reward was being left alone in his shamefully empty apartment.
Like even his walls could come to life and judge the lack of one he had. Nice.
Then his phone buzzes on his crumpled sheets. The muffled sound rips through the silence, and he doesn’t have to bothering looking to know who it is.
“No, Ned,” he mutters, rubbing a tired hand over his sunken, aching eyes.
There was no way in hell he was entertaining the idea of some overcrowded, borderline-animalistic dive bar when his skull was still throbbing with the lingering remains of theorems and study guide questions.
He kicks his music up a notch higher in retaliation when it buzzes again, focused on filing away his work.
By the third interruption, he breaks, letting out a tired groan and blindly fumbling just to find the ringer. He freezes before he gets the chance, blinking back at the hollow glow of the screen tracing the outline of his jaw in late evening indigo.
His eyes have to run across the subject line four times before he realizes his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. It wasn’t Ned. It wasn’t his reminder to pay rent or a new assignment added to his dashboard. None of that.
It was you. You, who now had a face he could connect to the name decorating his inbox. A pretty one, at that.
One his mind admittedly drifted to more times than it should’ve during class. And the class after that… And every hour between, slouched over his desk and trying to stay focused on slicing through his stack of work.
You still managed to slip in between the cracks he couldn’t seal. Your presence, your expression, your eyes. All of you lingered where he didn’t want you to— Where he felt like you weren’t allowed to.
Not yet.
He stares back at the notification, stunned like the universe was mocking his mind for drifting to you all night long. It wasn’t much—just a routine email with an outline for the rest of the project attached—but that was enough to do it. That was enough to make him realize he somehow, someway, wanted it to be more.
He quickly taps the dimming screen back to life, sliding the notification open, eyes tracing over every letter of your name like it could allow him to know more than just your student email address and a tapping pencil in midday Manhattan sunglow.
He opens the outline, slowly dropping onto his bed and running over the meticulous, fine-tuned details you laid out in the document. Something buzzes under his skin from it, like he just got another tiny piece of you—the way you were wired, the way you worked—all through a couple bullet points and bylines.
And if that was as close as he’d get, then he’d take it.
Suddenly something aches in him— Something he’s done such a good job of suppressing. Something human, hungry for more he knows he can't have.
This was stupid. The isolation he swore himself to had gotten so bad he was excited over an email for an elective credit group assignment— Over the fact that someone knew his name besides his landlord or Ned.
Someone clearly driven. Someone with soft skin and kind eyes edged with something that made his heart hammer. Someone with a baggy sweatshirt that brushed his desk every Tuesday and Thursday at two.
Someone he wanted to know more.
He shakes it off, quickly closing the document and marking the email as unread so it wouldn’t get buried in his inbox. This was something he already made peace with, something he already accepted: the less people know him—even as simple as a first name or assigned seat—the better. He couldn’t risk it again.
Besides, he couldn’t get distracted. He was meant for MJ— Now, and always.
No one else.
But it wasn’t you that was throwing him off. It couldn’t be. It was the nagging, persistent tenacity of his friend finally catching up with him, poisoning his focus and making him wonder if he was worthy of moving on.
He had enough on his plate as it was. He didn’t need to add to what he already couldn’t sort through. He needed to forget about you and every dangerous, fleeting thought that came with you.
He fails miserably.
You linger in this mind like you belong, warmth sparking through him like wildfire. The way you glowed in lecture hall light, hair a little messy and unkempt, but never careless. The way your eyes quickly flitted over him, like you sized him up and had him completely figured out before blinking, all with a faint tug at the corner of your mouth that made his bones hum.
He couldn’t get you out of his head. Why couldn’t he get you out of his head? Was Ned actually right about everything? That he was tying himself to something sinking, something already gone?
That maybe he was worth another chance again?
Regardless, some harmless, completely illogical little crush curls at the corners of his shredded heart, curious to try to put him back together again.
He blinks at the ceiling, letting frayed curls sink into his pillow, and thinks. His brain wrestles itself until it’s numb, making room for something to settle between his ribs— Something daring he hasn’t felt in forever.
The willingness to begin again.
And this time when his phone buzzes, he pulls himself off the bed, powers through a shower, shrugs on fresh clothes, and leaves his apartment with the address Ned sent lighting up his screen.
Because maybe sacrificing a little more hurt was worth the chance to feel something again. With someone—anyone—even just for a minute. Just for one night.
And you made him believe it might be possible again.
The place was easy to find considering the dense group of drunk ESU kids flooding the doorfront, shouting and laughing over music that’s easily drowned out. It’s a small place, almost unrecognizable along the strip, just one wobbly brick away from being swallowed into the rest of the building.
He slips between swaying bodies, following a dingy, stone staircase down to the roaring basement pub. There’s people everywhere: pressed against the walls, hanging over sticky tables, packed together in the tiny space surrounding the bar, all looking for attention.
Everything was dark, bathed in silhouettes and draped in the smell of margarita mix and mistakes clinging to the thick, balmy air. Shadows dance between bodies, painting slick skin in flickers of colored Christmas lights draped across the ceiling. Every inch of exposed brick was plastered in garage sale collectibles and old bar games that were charming enough to pass as decor.
Toward the back of the room he spots Ned near a high top with a tray of shots that were surely all sugar. He catches his eye, stopping dead in his tracks and instantly lighting up at the shocking sight of Peter swiftly cutting through the crowd.
“Dude, no way,” Ned beams, quickly pulling him in for their handshake. “I can’t believe you finally showed!”
Peter shrugs, trying to hide the fact that he was already regretting this decision. “If I had to look at one more derivative, my head was gonna explode.”
Ned shakes him by the shoulder, clearly tipsy. “Let’s get you a drink.”
He winces, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man. I just came to…” Well, he didn’t really know what he came for, to be honest. “Check it out, I guess.”
He hadn’t even been there for two minutes and he was already starting to get cold feet. The reality was setting in quicker than he could handle, and allowing himself to divulge in this fickle moment of bravery might equate to something he couldn’t take back.
With someone who wasn’t MJ.
Then he scans the room and his attention immediately settles on the person behind the bar, tilting a pint under the tap and politely indulging in a customer clearly too old to be alone at a college bar.
You.
You were here. Not in his class, not in his head, not on his screen. Here, standing in front of him under dusty, jagged spotlights and falling perfectly into his line of sight like it was the only place you belonged.
His pulse thumps in his ear, cheeks hot while he stares, in awe of you completely in your element. Then you laugh and he swears it cuts right through the crowd and punches him square in the gut like the sweetest sucker punch to his better judgement.
Wait, why was he regretting this again?
“Peter,” Ned whines, immune to the spellbinding daydream he was suddenly stuck in. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to go dry on me.”
He clears his throat weakly, trying to act normal. “I live, like, four blocks away, Ned.”
“And you didn’t walk four whole blocks just to bail on me again. Come on— Just one drink.”
Ned’s right: he didn’t. He came to let loose, to get out there. To explore the feeling you helped him remember how to have—and now here you were—so he mumbles,
“Yeah… yeah, you’re, uh— I’m gonna go… Yeah.”
He says it under his breath, meandering over to the line at the bar like a moth drawn to life’s last light. If Ned responded, he didn’t catch it— Just cuts his way through every sweaty body like a man on a mission.
To say what, exactly? That was still unclear.
He almost turns on his heels and abandons ship when your attention lands on him— Smooth, mindless motions buffering, almost like him being thrown into your orbit again made you do a double take.
You blink, calculating how to place him in your mind, and smile. It’s small—almost missable—but it’s there.
And it’s for him.
The moment slips away like it’s nothing—probably because it was—but the stutter in his heartbeat grows with every step he takes toward to you.
As soon as a narrow, empty spot clears up at the counter, he takes it, patiently waiting with his nerves in his throat while you top off a drink with the soda gun. You look so effortless, gliding through motions like you were keeping the whole bar afloat without even trying.
There’s something about you that has him captivated with every little thing you do— So much so that by the time you sling the towel over your shoulder and slide up in front of him, he’s completely unprepared for it.
You smile, expression lined with something that makes his brain buzz, head gently cocked as you size him up with one swift tick of your eyes.
“You know, when I said first thing tomorrow, I didn’t mean it literally,” you tease, glancing at the overhead clock showing just a hair past midnight.
Red covers the top of his ears, lips pressing into a tight, sheepish smile.
“So you mean to tell me I came all the way down here for nothing, then?”
Your confidence falters, disbelief slowly seeping in. “Oh my God, did you actually bring it with you?”
“No,” he chuckles, a little proud. “But the look on your face kinda makes me think I should’ve.”
Your shoulders loosen a notch, smiling with a shake of your head that was anything but annoyed. “Very funny, Parker.” You pause a beat, watching him like you’re searching for something. “What’re you having?”
He blinks. “Huh?”
“To drink.” You casually lean against the counter until the heat of your skin brushes his. “You’re at a bar, remember?”
He clears his throat, praying his synapses click back into place and start doing their job.
“Oh, uh, right. Sorry.” He quickly glances over your shoulder at what was on tap like he has any idea what kind of beer he even likes. “Can I get the, um,” he pauses, eyes narrowing, “the Voodoo Ranger?”
You grab a clean pint glass, glancing over your shoulder while you pour. “You don’t come here often, do you?”
“What makes you say that?” he asks against the thin head of foam before taking the kind of sip that wants to prove something. The second it hits him, his face twists, sheepishly coughing on the bitter trail of honey-gold liquid that cuts down his throat like a threat.
You cross your arms, smiling in satisfaction. “That.”
His cheeks heat in a way he can’t hide, but it’s hard to care when you’re looking at him like that, laughing in a way he knows will get stuck in his head.
“What,” he manages, “is this, like, a notoriously bad beer, or something?”
“Not necessarily.” You shrug, taking the glass and dumping it. “You just don’t strike me as an IPA guy.”
His eyes settle on the tug at the corner of your mouth, soft and undeniable. It makes his heartbeat skip.
“You seem to know a lot about me.”
“This kinda job comes with a lot of people watching,” you say casually, just the simple truth. “You learn how to read people pretty quickly.”
He smears the ring of condensation left on the bar, staring at it like it could wipe his smile away.
“Okay, what am I drinking, then?”
You lean a fraction closer and it’s like thunder strikes behind his ribs. He barely even knows you but suddenly none of it matters.
You hum, eyes sharp. “You tell me.”
He studies you for a second, gaining the confidence to look you square in the eye again and raise you. It comes out of nowhere—this low, pulling buzz—but he can practically feel the electricity pulsing between you now.
“Whatever you wanna make me.”
Your eyes sweep over him, the movement kickstarting his pulse. Then you pull away, nodding just once. “You got it, Parker.”
The world falls away while you work behind the bar, slipping into an easy rhythm like garnishes and simple syrups were second nature. He’s completely hung up on your every move, so much so he barely catches Ned across the room flashing an ever-so-obvious thumbs up and toothy smile. He ignores that.
“Alright,” you say, sliding a freshly chilled rocks glass to his fingertips. “Give this a try.”
He studies the drink like it bites. “What is it?”
“A secret. Just try it.”
“I’m good at keeping secrets.” His grin unfolds despite himself. You have no idea just how true that really is.
You cock your head, weighing it. “Okay. Only if you tell me why you finally decided to show up here tonight.”
“Because I was bored. Your turn.”
You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath while he beams over a cautious sip of his new drink.
“Weak answer, but fine.” You tilt your chin to the glass between you. “7 and 7— Easy ingredients, stronger than a tap beer, and more interesting than a Captain and Coke. You’re welcome.”
The warm, woody burn of whiskey floods his system, perfectly balanced by the fresh tang of lemon-lime. It’s good—genuinely something he likes—but with a smile that inviting and eyes impossibly soft under faint splashes of copper spilling through the room, he know’s he’d happily take just about anything you made.
“Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a knack for this?”
You huff a timorous laugh, dropping your stare to the counter like the loose pieces of hair falling in your face could hide the way your smile lightens with something that lands right between his ribs.
“Yeah— Only the creeps who tip too much and, well… you.”
He nods, mouth tilting as he pushes two measly, crumpled singles he had in his pocket across the counter to you. “Glad I’m neither of those things, then.”
You laugh, all sweet and breathless like it was meant to find itself along the way. It’s fleeting, but he actually makes you blush. His nerves flutter from knowing he’s the reason behind that kind of sound.
It was terrifyingly easy to become enamored with you. You were like a trap he walked himself into and didn’t want to escape. Why was he even here, again?
You slide the bills back, fingers tentatively meeting his in the process. “Get that transcript to me and we’ll call it even?”
Before his nerves could talk himself out of it, he takes your hand—small, warm, gentle in his palm—and shakes it, sealing the promise of more between you. “I would anyways, but deal.”
His voice comes honestly, almost too quiet beneath the blanket of social sound unfolding around him. It didn’t matter— Not when something dangerous runs behind your eyes as you watch his fingers loosen from yours.
Everything else goes forgotten between the brick and sloppy string lights. Nothing more exists. Just you, just him, watching each other like maybe you’d find a way to define what was starting to settle inside the thinning space between you. Not the crowd, not the noise, not—
Ned plants a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder, slurring a loose hello and shaking him free— Literally. He places the tray that’s now a graveyard for the sticky-sweet shooters from earlier down for you to take.
“Thanks again for the shots,” Ned says to you, trying way too hard to be cool about what he just stepped into as he passes over his card to close out his tab.
Peter’s brain blanks, eyes basically screaming for Ned to please be normal about this as he watches in mild-panic. Then he glances between you both with the kinda look Peter hates—especially when it’s preceded by alcohol—and his stomach drops in preparation.
“You guys know each other?”
“We’re in Investigative Journalism together,” Peter quickly cuts in, not willing to risk things when Ned was currently on a one man mission to make his life more interesting. He introduces you, silently praying his friend doesn’t take it as an invitation and leaves.
“Woah,” Ned breathes, looking at you like you’re a paradox. “You go to ESU, too?”
You nod, finishing up a quick vodka cran for someone else. “Yup. Sophomore. What about you guys?”
“Same,” Ned affirms.
“Wait,” Peter interrupts, brows furrowing gently. “How are you a bartender if you’re still a sophomore?”
He regrets it immediately, fearing he might have offended you. You could’ve been held back or taken a year off or something, but he was too caught up in daydreaming over you, he didn’t really properly assess how his question would come across.
Or how much of his drink he’s already thrown back.
Luckily, you just shrug and hand Ned his card back.
“Eh, Eddie doesn’t really care that I’m underage. The less he has to report to the IRS, the better.” You pause, smirking at Ned. “Besides, according to your friend here, I’m pretty damn good.”
It flashes across Ned’s face immediately: the kind of dangerous curiosity Peter could only silently curse.
“Oh, I’m sure he’s probably thinking more than that.”
Peter exhales sharply, quickly steering Ned away while you laugh under your breath at just how obviously flustered he is. “Okay. See you later, Ned.”
Your easy laughter only makes the embarrassment knot tighter through him, skin hot with harmless heat as Ned takes the hint and disappears into the crowd.
The bar is rocking far beyond full capacity now, finally at the height of Thirsty Thursday fun. His vision goes a little hazy as he scans the crowd around him, dense and desperate for drinks. Some girl immediately slips into the space Ned left, eager in hopes of getting some service, but you don’t pay her a shred of attention.
And he notices.
Instead, your eyes stay locked on Peter, sharp with something that toed a line neither of you have decided to draw yet. You glance down at his freshly empty glass, lips curved with curiosity.
“You plan on sticking by for another round, Parker?”
A thick beat of heady silence pulses while he lets his nerves drown in the sweet, careless buzz of warm whiskey and wanting. The tension stretches, humming with a shameless electricity dire for direction.
The same perfume from earlier floods his senses, his eyes heavy with something he couldn’t ignore, and it hits him: there was no where else in the world he’d rather be right now. So he tilts his head, leans closer to you bathed in dusty, yellow spotlights that suddenly look like heaven, and dares to feed the spark.
“Do I have a reason to?”
You don’t say a word, just reach between you, grab the sweating glass, and pour a fresh drink in record time, garnish and all. When you slide it back, you lean in to match his stance, bass and breath brushing his cheek until his heart makes a good case for cardiac arrest.
“You say that like it’s a challenge.” The trace of heat in your eyes raises the stakes instantly, not daring to back down.
“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, low and level.
In this moment, he is truly, wickedly, in deep, and he doesn’t want to even think about climbing out of it. He’d happily drown in indulgence if it meant he got to spend another second under the pressure of your full attention.
You huff a laugh, soft and fatal. Then your voice falls low, the danger in it criminal for anyone else to hear.
“I like you loose, Parker.”
Before he can respond, your coworker who’s been swarmed by a rush of drunk, demanding college kids—and no longer willing to cover—calls you over, a gunshot in the spell. So you sigh, fingers brushing his as you slide the drink closer.
And this time, they don’t leave.
“Stay here and think about what you want that reason to be.” Then you slip away to the other side of the bar, leaving him alone with a spark coiling between his ribs.
It was insane— The dizzying, undeniable combination of you and whiskey all rushing to his head. Traces of anything else behind his eyes melts away between the heat of stolen glances at you across the room and the alcohol striking like fire through his veins.
All the responsibilities, all the overthinking—all of his desperation to cling to what was lost—is gone. The only thing he can think about is how he would do anything to make this night last forever— To tie himself to the feeling of falling, to keep his head above water just a little bit longer. To lose the air in his lungs by making you breathless instead of from suffocating in the reality he’s faced every day since the last time he was looked at and known.
But tonight—for one fleeing, thoughtless night—he had an identity. His face was next to his name. His soul, perceived again.
And, God, it felt good.
So he was okay with this being a bandaid on a wound that needed sutures. He was okay with leaning into this dumb, reckless rush. He was okay with caving to echoing impulse and seizing what was right in front of him instead of chasing after ghosts.
And he was damn well tired of being one.
His second drink is noticeably stiffer, but still downed nice and easy without any pretense catching in his throat. His depth perception grows foggy, his nerves loose and looking for something to hang onto.
He doesn’t know how much time passed, but he doesn’t care— Not when his self-control was slipping away with every minute he watched you work. His knee won’t stop bouncing, his mind won’t stop running to you. Restless fingers fiddle with the edge of his empty glass, eventually earning the attention of one of the other bartenders to replenish it.
Every sip swaps his apprehension with a familiar buzz that curls between his ribs and replaces his better judgement. Not a problem— It didn’t want to be found.
By the time the clock nears one, you find your way back over to him, smile all temptation and trouble. The late night crowd filed in: bodies packed, bass slamming through the speakers, drunken drama traded for dancing under flashing strobe lights.
Everything got too loud—too intense—including the bubbling ache knotting at the pit of his stomach for you. The alcohol was making him want to do something dumb— To jump, to lay it all on the line and finally forget the consequences.
Go where he normally wouldn’t have the guts to.
But right now—with the salacious way your eyes glimmer in the spill of midnight, with the way your soft lips curve like you know you have him undone—denying the spark that was tired of threatening to catch was the complete opposite of dumb.
“You stayed,” you hum over the wall of sound, warmth brushing the shell of his ears going hot as you lean in.
He tucks his head closer to your neck, lips ghosting your hair. “I had a good reason to.”
You laugh gently, making his heart hammer senselessly behind the cage of his chest as you pull back a fraction to study him. God, he was in trouble with you.
“Oh, yeah?” you murmur. “And what might that be?”
His cheeks flush, boyish nerves written raw across his face. It was miraculous just how easy it was for you to get him all worked up.
“If I say,” he begins, stare helplessly flicking down to your lips for a beat, “you won’t believe me.”
You hum, narrowing your eyes like you were preparing to sink him. “And why’s that?”
“Whiskey.”
You glance at the almost-empty glass tilted to his lips, brow lifting gently. “Still nursing those?”
“No.” He swallows, setting it down between you with a final, echoing thud. “Waiting for them to be worth it.”
It flashes across your features so quick you’re able to hide it, but not to him. He sees it: throbbing under your skin, lingering in your eyes, slipping across your sly smile that almost falters— Almost.
You look nervous, like you’re slightly taken back with the way he matches your game. Like you weren’t expecting him to flirt back—all harmless and fun—but weren’t opposed to the surprise of it, either. It makes you shift your weight from the whisper of wicked want.
Even if just for a second, it’s there.
And it counts.
You shake it off in an instant, cocking your head like you’re ready to go toe-to-toe with him to see just how far he’s really willing to take this.
The answer on his end was abundantly clear.
“You know,” you murmur, voice low and syrupy-sweet as you reach to take the glass between you. “If you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just said so.”
His heart slams into his chest, hard and ruthless. His breath catches, brain trying to rationalize that your fingers were still touching his on the lukewarm glass— Curious. Tempting. Deliberate. He’s truly no match for you, and the way his eyes go a little wide and his lips part in pure elation tells him you know it, too.
But he tries, anyway.
His lips tilt, trying to hide the way his mind was struggling to reboot under your intensity. “Kinda sounds like you’re putting words in my mouth now.”
“Careful, Parker.” You smile, soft and fatal. “Say the right thing and you might get more than just words.”
His blood’s on fire, his heart awestruck, completely and hopelessly so. You were water in the circuit board of his self control, quickly sparking through him until he shorted.
Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was the loneliness or the abandoned feeling he’s been chasing after for years, but suddenly he doesn’t have a single thought behind his eyes that isn’t getting his hands on you.
So he swallows any innocence sitting his tongue, humming like he knows something that could raise what you put down.
Your eyes flit over him, curious. “What?”
“Nothing.” He lowers his voice, finding your hand splayed on the sticky wood. His eyes hold yours as he slowly uncurls your fingers and places his card in your palm to cover his tab. “I just like how you say my name.”
The tension hums, thick and persistent in the air that suddenly feels electrifying. His heart was a mess, his nerves the same. You were so close— Your heat, your breath, your lips, full just like the blush crawling up to your cheeks.
Your hand, still held in his.
Every doubt folds into impulse, every impulse demands action. Every action loses its command between the adrenaline and alcohol flooding his system. You’re the only thing he feels— The only thing he wants.
The principle checks out of his brain, the sanctions he placed on his hunger dissipate. It’s all you, and only you.
So when you slip toward the back of the bar for the night, clocking out and reaching for the back door, he grabs your wrist— Gently, but with complete and total desperation.
You find his eyes in the sweeping shadows, the dangerous spell of high stakes and low contrast wild beneath your body aching for his.
He’s not prepared to speak, he doesn’t know what he’s willing to do— All he knows is he can’t let you go just yet. Not when his bleeding heart was finally patched by the tourniquet of tender touch. Not when it was still in his hands, hammering pulse tying itself to yours. He needs you. He needs to know you want this too.
So he whispers the only truth he has left, raw and timid.
“I don’t want you to leave yet.”
Your lips curve, eyes molten under his gaze as they catch the dim, dusty blur of a bleeding bar behind you. Then you lean closer and take his hand in yours. Your skin shocks his like a defibrillator bringing him back to life, the promise of dawn in his palm.
“I’m not. I’m making those drinks worth it.”
Before he can process it, he’s stumbling through the backdoor and slamming you against the wall. Limbs tangle, new heat is knelt to, every cell of his body fights for dominance against unshed need sparking in the narrow alleyway of the rear bar exit. Your mouths are hot—hungry and demanding—as they devour every inch of each other. Sounds, skin, spit— All of it.
His palms trace every spill of your skin, frantic to uncover more. He grips tightly, tilting your head back to kiss you deeper. Your tongue curls around his, legs wrapping around his waist, tiny little hands pulling until every messy curl comes undone right along with him.
He groans into your mouth, lips melting into yours, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. His hands are wild: skimming up your sides, looping through the hem of your shirt, palming you through the fabric until your whimpers ring through the echoing brick.
“I don’t usually do this,” he breathes between kisses, trialing his wet mouth down your neck. “I swear I don’t just hook up with people all the time.” His weight presses you into the wall, pinning you to it. “Do you?” He laps at your collarbone, pausing for a second as that thought settles. “Wait— Fuck, sorry,” he pants. “Don’t answer. That sounded wrong. And judgey. I meant—”
“Just shut up and touch me, Parker.”
He obeys like he was made for it, letting you yank him by his hair back to your lips, crashing together.
He follows your lead like he’s possessed, letting you guide his ravenous fingers from their bruising grip on your waist down to the hem of your skirt. They rest on the crest of your bare thigh, inviting him to cross the line he long but killed in his mind.
You smile, slow and sly at the way his breath catches when you return the favor. Fingers he can’t get enough of find the pressing weight at his zipper, stroking him through his pants until he can’t think straight.
He didn’t come here for this. He didn’t plan this.
But, fuck— He doesn’t care.
He wants you badly, and the way you’re looking at him while your fingers dig in deeper—hips mindlessly shifting against his rough, calloused touch like you’re desperate for it—tells him you want this just as much.
And he’d be damned to deny you both of it.
He unravels quickly, turning off his brain and blindly following every sensation that rips through his cells. His teeth graze your swollen lips. Your breath catches on a soft, sinful sigh. His body jolts with heedless need, blood rushing so far south his head spins.
His fingers drift under your skirt, tattered knuckles brushing the smooth fabric as he slides his hand to the lace stretched over your pulsing center. He shudders into your mouth as you fumble with the zipper of his jeans, fingers tracing the soaked spot sitting between your thighs.
His mouth latches onto your neck, sucking your skin like it could distract from the needy way his hips follow every drag of your touch. He’s ready for it—to finally feel your bare skin wrapped around him in more ways than one—when you stop, pulling back a fraction to look him square in the eyes despite your fingers still hovering over the crest of his newly unbuckled jeans.
Your voice is husky, slicked over with wild, messy want that hits him low in his gut. “You’re sure, right? You’re not, like, drunk drunk?”
He shakes his head instantly, still helplessly teasing his touch at your clothed core. “Barely buzzed.”
You snort in the spill of abandoned darkness and the sound etches its way deeper into his heart.
“We both know that’s not true.”
“Probably,” he pants, “but I’m still sure. I want this.”
He pauses, leaning closer until his lips brush yours. His eyes are heavy, mouth daring to capture yours when he adds,
“I want you.”
You waste no time going to his bulge, thick and straining below his belt. Catharsis finds its breath when you finally mold your palm around the long curve of him, hips bucking into your patient pressure, chasing more.
His lips smash into yours, swallowing your breathless, little moans as he circles your folds through your panties. His mind is soaked in sin, teasing pace increasing tenfold on a desperate mission to make you fall apart first.
His head spins, veins buzzing like they're pumped full of jet fuel. Every wired, heightened sense is dialed into you like you’re where life begins again— Each touch slowly bringing him back to the wake of resurrection.
Your mouth is wet on his, finding the waistband of his underwear and diving underneath. The hot and heavy weight of him greets you, held closely in your clumsy fingertips, both limbs screaming with need.
He returns the favor, pushing soaked, clinging lace to the side until he feels your bare, throbbing skin. Both of you indulge in every desperate, collapsing need, fingers working over each other in ruthless tandem.
Nothing else matters—not pounding bass, not the distant noise, not the drinks or bruised feelings he shoved down to get here—just this.
Just you and him.
When he finds just the right spot, he’s rewarded with a gentle tremble in your thighs, fingers blindly swiping in a frantic, building rhythm against your clit swollen from the friction you chase. Your hips rock, completely drunk on the pressure he pleasures you with.
His mind starts to blank, knees threatening to give as you stroke him with the same vigor now, shamelessly smearing the pool of precum while you work him ruthlessly through his pants.
Every thread of tension pulls tighter until neither of you can breathe. A moan breaks in your throat, rhythm on his length faltering, hips grinding into his hand— Needing more without saying it. He listens, hoisting you up in one smooth, quick motion so you’re pressed against the wall on top of his thigh.
You gasp against his mouth at the new position, melting against his firm muscle as he holds you up around your waist with one hand, anchoring you to the wall while your legs wrap around him and your fingers blindly search for his cock again.
Your strokes go slow, twisting at the base and tracing the heavy curve of his underside in a tedious, aching motion. You continue to pump him while he runs his finger through your slick and plunges inside, making you adjust around the sudden stretch.
“Fuck, right there,” you whisper into his mouth while he thrusts inside you, curling up against your soft, spongy walls. “Feels good. You feel good.”
He effortlessly adds a second finger, sloppy and slow as he strokes you from the inside out, knuckles disappearing between your slick-smeared thighs. Your thighs tremble, muscles locking in focus as you teeter on the edge of euphoria. He’s knocking on the same door, body ready to implode with a ravenous release he’s desperate to nail down as you work him harder.
Your fingers coax his throbbing head, twisting around his length until his breath catches and his movements falter, fighting back against the plummet of his own pleasure to get you exactly where you need to be. You cling onto him for dear life as his fingers slam inside of you, filling the dark, dingy hallway with the shameless sounds of sweat and sex.
Your lips fall to his neck, breath fanning over the juncture of his shoulder as your body thrums with a quickly approaching climax you desperately chase.
“I’m close,” you pant against his skin, eyes fluttering shut in focus while you work your relentless rhythm around his cock. “Please tell me you’re close.”
He hums, broken and breathless, completely devoid of forming coherent a sentence when you quicken the pace and circle your thumb quickly around his head.
“Uh huh,” he mumbles, needy and pathetic. “Keep going. Just like that.”
You bite gently at his shoulder, body shaking as his fingers thrust inside you, slick thumb gliding in vigor over your clit in determination despite the burn.
He could feel you going slack at the pleasure building inside your body, moaning with every torturous, messy slide of his fingers. Your words are a mess, spilling helplessly into the sweat building on his skin as his pace falters and his arm burns from the chase.
“Don’t stop,” you plead. “Don’t you dare stop.”
“I got you,” he groans, deep and low in his throat, breath hot and spent. “I got you, baby. Take what you need.”
Your walls shudder around him, hips thrusting into his hand as you follow his command and grind into his palm. Oh, what he wouldn’t do to give you his cock right here right now if deeper was what you needed.
His eyes screw shut, breath hot and strained in your ear as he crumbles from every dirty stroke, begging to unravel him like it’s the only thing you know.
Sinful sounds bounce off the walls— Your moans, his panting. The sloppy slam against your cunt, his twitching cock, wet and muffled in his pants.
Neither of you care. Nothing else matters.
His pace turns dangerous, fingers demanding you to cum with their messy, filthy movements. His thumb sears into your clit, commanding your finish. He can feel it coming. Your muscles lock, stiff with focus, fingers barely surviving the rest of his handjob. Your voice gives out with a weak, winded little sound crawling from low inside your throat, hips slowing.
And just like that, you fall apart around his fingers, walls pulsing, throbbing as they flutter in pleasure at the way he rubs you through it. Your forehead collapses into his neck, breath wrecked and spent despite still being desperate to push him off the same ledge as you.
It doesn’t take much between the broken little sounds you make or the way your soft, slick walls swallow his fingers, soaking down his hand. Part of him wonders if it wasn’t even about his own pleasure, but yours— Or the pride of knowing he was able to get you there.
Regardless, one testing, tedious slide of your finger along his slit before you pump him with tight, desperate demand is all it takes to tear him apart.
His groans into your hair, spilling ropes of thick, hot cum into your hand and his pants. You pump him through it, fingers tightly wrapped along his shaft until you slow your pace when his release stops twitching.
Both of you go completely silent, hands still buried in each other's pants like stupid, horny teenagers. The alleyway hums with released tension finally given the kind of space it demands, thick and sweet with hammering heartbeats and sweaty, reckless sex.
Both your breathing eventually evens out, regulating itself as you take a moment to unwind and slowly untangle, a little dazed at what just happened… Because what the fuck just happened?
His head is swimming with lust and raw, undeniable afterglow. You look euphoric, fucked-out and free of frustration. He slowly sets you down, sliding his fingers out from between your legs while you both situate yourselves.
And it dawns on him, slow and creeping, invading the fleeting ecstasy fading away with the night,
Maybe he has no idea who he is anymore.
By morning, he’s half convinced all of it was a dream.
The scrape of the exposed brick against his burning arms, powering through every move to make you fall apart. The whisper of every word and sound you made for him echoing through his head. The unbridled, deteriorating speed of it all like nothing else mattered.
It crashed just as quickly as it built. One minute you were demanding his half of your project, the next his fingers were buried between your legs in a very public space as he spilled himself into your trembling hand.
Jesus. What the fuck was he thinking?
He regrets it… and yet doesn’t all at the same time. The feeling was foreign— Something he doesn’t really know how to name swimming through his gut as he blearily blinks up at the ceiling bathed in pale morning light.
Maybe if he could lean back into the clean-cut, meticulous, logical part of his brain, he could compute the solution in ways he knows how to. Sort through what he couldn’t shake and settle into a rhythm he could navigate again.
There were some undeniable, irrefutable facts he could file away with this: he was interested in you. He thought you were pretty, thought you were intriguing. He wanted you in the moment—the quick, haphazard connection, the sexual frustration, the costs that came with it—all enough to override the doubt.
None of what happened was just the liquor talking, but it gave him the confidence to let go. It gave him the permission to find what he lost— Something buried under the dusty, desolate semblance of a heart that could still be heard.
Not forgotten.
But the other side to that coin was the fact that he let himself betray every truth he tied himself to. Just a few days ago he was only focused on getting MJ back. That was all that mattered. He was completely opposed to even entertaining the idea of letting loose.
Drinking. Socializing. Hooking up.
He thrived on structure. He had a responsibilities on top of crushing grief and a girlfriend to win back. Finding the guts to let go was completely unparalleled to the neatly sanctioned rules that keep his brain in check.
…So then why did last night feel so good?
Life flickered for a moment, penance suddenly bathed in careful, cautious saturation. He indulged in the chaos. He let his tension melt. He blended in with a crowd instead of avoiding it and talked to someone who wasn’t just a ghost in his head.
Then did a lot more than just talk.
But why couldn’t he stop overthinking the jumbled, tangled mess of it come morning? Waking alone in his cold, rickety bed, only joined by knotted nerves and doubling doubts. Thinking about MJ… and you.
Betraying something that wasn’t there anymore.
He pushes that to the back of his mind as he gets ready for the day. The thin toothpaste trail swirling down his sink was like a trance, stuck staring dizzy and dazed as his mind remains riddled with memories of you.
He sighs, scrubbing his hands over his tired eyes, headache pounding beneath his skull. He didn’t do anything wrong… Right? It’d be different if MJ knew who he was. Or if he never found her. Never tried.
Instead he was busy waiting—holding himself at bay—because he knew eventually, somehow, someway, she would remember and come back to him. She would realize the guy she was with wasn’t worth it, and see she was meant to be with him instead.
Because wasn’t she meant to be with him?
Worse than the self-inflicted guilt, he feels a thread of insecurity threatening to tangle out of control. It spirals deeper, waiting for him to finally accept the harrowing truth—
MJ moved on.
If she could, then maybe he should, too. Which was exactly what he did. Even if it was brief—unplanned, and doomed to end before it could really begin—he still did it. And he liked it more than he thought he would.
He tugs his hoodie closer to his chest against the sharp chill of morning air, popping his headphones in and starting down the street like it could clear his head. It didn’t matter how far he walked, you linger everywhere.
It wasn’t fair for him to drag you into this mess— All just to chase down the dizzy taste of lust that would never fix what was broken in him. Even if it could, the boundary between you was set in stone.
You didn’t owe him anything. This was strictly sex. Just imploding hormones, or erroneous adrenaline. That’s it. And that was all he needed it to be, even if deep down it felt wrong— Even if it silently sliced through his gut until he felt nauseous with the implications.
He had no right to your heart… But he also couldn’t act like it didn’t happen, especially if he still had to work with you— Pass you by on the street and navigate how to associate more than just your name to your face.
So he buys two coffees and follows a street he’s walked a million times like he’s lost. He goes, hoping you could exchange something a little more baseline— Even if he has no idea how you’ll take it.
Both the coffee and the opportunity to start fresh.
Maybe it was unorthodox to smooth things over with a one night stand, but it was one of the only things he felt sure about right now. He was too hung up on the feeling of hearing someone else speak his name and know him.
That was all he needed to try.
The pub looked different in the light. It might as well’ve been abandoned in the soft shimmer of sunlight slowly brushing the atmosphere again, empty, without a soul in sight. The door at the end of the descending stairs was left wide open, letting lulls of cool city air filter through like it could cleanse the lingering echoes of cheap bar crawls and impulsive tequila shots.
His nerves ignite, rising to his throat as he slips down the weathered steps. He inhales, sharp and tight, trying to convince himself this was still a good idea.
You don’t notice a thing. Fresh light paints you perfectly, filtering through thin hopper windows, clinging to the soft edges of your skin. Your hair is pulled out of your eyes, attention lazily locked on a dusty broom’s labored drags across the floor still sticky with sin. Everything was turned off like the whole bar needed time to reset, only the stale overhead spotlights piercing through the room.
Pretense falls away when it’s just you and him in a small space that suddenly feels huge in its silence. He clears his throat softly, internally wincing at the sudden interruption.
Your attention snaps toward the empty, echoing sound, expression blank and unreadable as you process the fact that he’s awkwardly wading in the entryway— A place he certainly didn’t belong at 10 a.m. on a Friday.
He half-expects you to call out the absurdity of it, but instead you cross your arms like it’s nothing, letting lips he could still feel the memory of curve into a smooth, knowing smile.
“One night and suddenly you’re a regular, huh?”
He laughs, thin and nervous in a way he hopes you miss despite knowing you won’t.
“I figured it was my turn to get you a drink now.” He takes a small step over the threshold, holding out the humble offering of standard-order caffeine. “Hopefully you like subpar bodega coffee.”
He glances down to the sweating cups, one with cream and sugar, the other one black, just in case. You let him simmer in the uncertainty—just long enough to remind him how wildly you could make his heart race—then you tilt your head, beckoning him inside.
“I like anything that makes up for the sleep I lost.”
He shuffles inside, careful to avoid the pile of dust bunnies and bottle caps you swept up. He passes over your coffee with a wobbly smile, trying to ignore the way his skin sparks when your fingers brush his again.
“So…” you hum over a sip, swirling the ice around to fill the awkward beat of silence. “I’m kinda surprised you’re alive before noon.”
If he didn’t already know you handle the afternoon regulars for a bit of extra cash on days you don’t have classes, he’d say the same about you. But he does.
It’s the kind of soft, domestic information he tries not to dwell on despite filing it somewhere in a deeper cavity of his heart.
He unzips his backpack and pulls out a copy of the transcript, still warm and slightly curled at the corner.
“I’m a man of my word,” he says, running his thumb over the crease before passing it over. “Sorry it took so long.”
You study him, eyes flicking between his sheepish expression and the packet. Then you take it, shaking your head with a gentle smile.
“Didn’t seem like it yesterday,” he points out, not judgmental— Just honest.
“You know how it gets. I got kinda worried you might be bailing on me or something.” You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. “Plus Thursday was kinda the only time I had to do it because I work the night shift here and… basically the whole weekend.”
“But, thanks.” You pause, glancing up at him with something far too soft lining your eyes— Just a flicker of it. “I appreciate it. And the coffee.”
He smiles, warm and honest. “No problem.”
Silence unsure of itself settles in the hazy morning light, catching the soft curve of your jaw and exposing the subtle pink hiding in your cheeks. Lingering traces of exhaustion poison your expression, smile weighed down just enough that it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
You look pretty despite it.
He’s still standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, unsure of what to do next— What you’ll do next.
“So…” you start, grabbing the broom and glancing his way again. “I’ll see you Tuesday?”
“A-actually,” he sputters, thoughts quickly snapping back into place as he steps an inch closer. “I was kinda thinking, um… Maybe you wanted to hang out and study?” He pauses, face going red. “I-I mean, like, actually study,” he adds quickly. “With me.”
His pulse roars in his ears, fingers uselessly fidgeting at his side for what feels like an eternity. His eyes are nervous as they meet yours, always steady and even.
Always holding something that makes him want more.
You study him, clearly amused at the way he trips over himself in every sense of the word.
“You don’t do this very often, do you?”
He shifts his weight, nerves pressing. “Not exactly.”
“I can tell,” you tease, light and harmless. “Plus you made sure to tell me that last night.”
He groans, dropping his head to the ceiling in agony as he pinches the bridge of his nose like it could erase the very painful memory of his mouth running when it wasn't on yours.
“Can we pretend that didn’t happen? I was drunk.”
You cock your head, not biting. “And nervous.”
“…Maybe.”
“Or barely buzzed— Your words, not mine.”
He sighs, reduced to a ball of embarrassment plagued with the echoes of last night. “Please don’t remind me.”
You laugh softly, the sound kissing over his bruised ego and wounded memories. “We can sign the marriage license later.”
His cheeks go crimson, heat crawling up from under the collar of his shirt. Man you loved making a mess of him, didn’t you? He’d be crazy to admit he kinda loved it, too, but he did.
You scan over the tension in his posture, leaning the broom against the bartop soaked in the sterile scent of clean citrus and chemicals, expression unbothered.
“Relax, Parker. We hooked up. It happens. Life moves on.”
“So what happens next?” He asks it honestly, a little quiet from the traces of genuine uncertainty seeping through the edges of what you both danced around.
Things were clearly different, one way or another.
You gesture to the packet still in hand with that same knowing smile as you comb over the first page. “You tell me why you referred to Al’s children as kids,” you tease. “Your AP style needs work, Parker. They’re not baby goats.”
He chuckles, shoulders loosening a notch. “Writing’s not really my thing.”
“Right,” you say, pulling out a stool and raising a brow at him still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “What is your thing, then?”
He shrugs, mouth tilting as he takes the hint and joins you. “I do better in STEM stuff.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t necessarily make it your thing.”
His brows knit, really thinking about it as he drops his bag to the floor and slouches against the counter.
“I’m into photography, I guess.” He hesitates, insecurity suddenly sinking in. “It’s kinda dumb.”
“It’s not,” you counter, nudging his foot gently. “Can I see?”
His eyes widen, surprised you’re actually interested— Or willing to pretend, at least. When you don’t change the subject, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up a folder with some final edits.
“What’s yours, then? Your thing,” he echoes, watching as you swipe through with a faint smile on your face.
“Writing, actually.” You glance up from the screen, sliding it back his way. “Original, I know.”
“Well, that explains a lot,” he teases, nudging your foot back. It’s only then he realizes you haven’t pulled away.
Your smile tugs. “Should I be offended?”
“N-no, the opposite. Definitely the opposite.” He rakes through his messy curls, giving his nervous fingers a distraction. “I just meant it makes sense why you care so much about our feature when half the class is just trying to survive for the credits, you know?”
Your cheeks tint an innocent shade of pink. “Well, that and the fact that I have to be. I’m a journalism major and I’m interning at the Daily Bugle, so…”
He shifts his weight, trying to hide his visible disdain at the clickbait-machine of a tabloid that has a particularly colorful opinion on him.
“Really? People still read that thing?”
“No, not at all,” you snort, soft and genuine. “But hey, an internship is an internship… Plus they kinda let me do whatever I want, which is cool.”
He smiles, dimples deepening as he watches the way you lean against the bar, traces of the night before roaring through the veins wired to his fluttering heart. Soft, desaturated light pours in from the door, casting your features in the hazy, muted crescendos of spring. You made everything so easy. He loved the easy.
And suddenly, whatever’s left of the semester wasn’t nearly long enough.
“…Safe to say you’ll have a busy summer, then?”
He hopes you don’t hear it— The undercurrent of a low, unidentified ache threaded through the question, cushioned in casual formalities like it didn’t hurt to think you’ll clearly be much too busy to get to know him outside of a drunken hookup and a group project.
But his heart knows things his mind doesn’t, and showing up here today was clearly about more than just smoothing things over and easing his conscience. He didn’t realize he wanted it until it was staring him square in the eye and making him name it. But he does.
He wanted to see what you could look like in his life.
“You can say that.” You pause, stare dropping to your hands like your expression gave away more than you were willing. “They’re always looking for photographers to buy from, actually… You should check it out.”
His pulse flips, nerves buzzing again.
“Yeah? What kinda photographers?”
“Whatever the articles need, really.” You shrug, running a finger along the edge of your cup starting to leave a ring of condensation on the counter. “Maybe you could shoot for me— If I ever make any progress, that is.”
His posture straightens, instantly intrigued. “Y-yeah— Of course. What’s yours on?”
He’d take pictures of anything you wanted, actually.
“Don’t laugh, okay… But I’ve been trying to track down Spider-Man.”
Anything but that.
He nearly chokes on his coffee, eyes going helplessly wide as he tries to suppress a strangled cough.
“Oh my god, you think it’s dumb,” you mumble, shrinking in your seat. “I knew that would make me sound insane.”
“N-no, not at all! It’s not that, it’s just, it’s—”
“Then are you one of those weird conspiracy theorists or a pro Mysterio guy or something?”
“No! Definitely not that.” Quite the opposite, actually. “I-it’s just…” He’s Spider-Man. “That seems like a hard subject to tackle, you know? Tall order.”
“Exactly!” You lean in, face lighting up. “That’s what makes him so interesting. Haven’t you noticed that dude’s been like a ghost lately? Doesn’t that make you wonder why?”
Nope, definitely not. The reality was disappointing.
“Like, what’s he so busy doing?” you continue, passion lining your eyes despite his posture going rigid. “Is he just old and ready to retire? Is he going through something personal?” You sigh, obsessed with the possibilities. “Imagine it: a hero who hurts… That’s the perfect story.”
Leave it to you to make his grief-ridden identity crisis sound cool and mysterious. He wishes he could agree and mean it, but the truth is pretty disappointing. You’d hate the reality maybe more than him— Maybe more than the sour truth settling deep in the pit of his stomach: he couldn’t get involved with this. With you.
He clears his throat, trying to sound unassuming. “You said it yourself, though… The guy’s a ghost.”
You smile like you know something he doesn’t, swirling the thin line of coffee lining the bottom of your cup.
“Do you know what a ghost is?”
He blinks, lost. “What?”
“They’re just souls with unfinished business,” you add, eyes sparkling in a way he’s gotten too used to seeing in the likes of him. “We only have ghosts because they can’t move on—can’t rest—so they linger in between.”
His brows knit, unsure of what you were getting at.
“Point is, all ghosts want to be found eventually.”
Maybe, but not this one. It took some time, but he was perfectly fine with falling off the face of the Earth. It was for the best. The less people who pried into his life, the better. They’d only come up empty.
And so would you once you realize he’s a ghost in more ways than one.
He goes quiet, the thoughts fast and unreadable behind his eyes as he tries to find a casual way out of this… And maybe convince you to follow.
“I don’t know… He’s, like, really hard to get pictures of.” He shrugs, innocuous and empty. “There’s no way they’d buy from me even if I could.”
“Printed media is a dying art,” you level. “They’re so desperate they’ll take just about anyone.”
He smiles tightly. “Gee. Thanks.”
“Which is why you’ll definitely get it because you’re actually good,” you add, nudging his arm. You pause, grabbing a pen and empty piece of receipt paper from the register behind the bar, scribbling something down.
“Just think about it.” You slide the slip with the Bugle’s email address inside his jacket pocket, heat tangling with his. “You never know— Your summer might get a lot more interesting.”
Something tells him you’re right, regardless.
By the time his last class gets out, Ned’s already blown up his phone.
He sighs, pulling it out of his pocket as he assesses the damage, quickly climbing out of his seat and beelining for the exit. 3 missed calls and 17 unanswered texts.
No wonder why Happy never used to answer him.
None of it phased him. The whole time his mind was riddled with you. Your body, your laugh, your voice.
…And now your investigation as well.
Every thought he had lately was a contention point, all opposite of each other. You were like the best kind of quicksand, enticing despite his resistance. He tried to chalk it up to the fact he’s been living like he never existed the last couple of months—that any semblence of human connection was fucking with his head—then the memory of your roots itself deeper, carves lower into his bones until you linger without eviction.
Every class. Every lecture. Every question and equation answered. You were there, making him second guess if this spiraling feeling was something he could contain.
Or wanted to, for that matter.
Then the logic seeps in. What you did in your free time. Who he already belonged to. What happened was strictly sex—reckless release, a casual thing—and both of you agreed on that.
Anyone he got involved with only got hurt. It would be selfish to let himself get close to you, and the last thing he wanted to be was that. Maybe it was best if he never saw you again. He was busy with more than he could handle, and he definitely couldn’t let you get near that. He’s been there before, and every time it somehow ended up worse than the time before.
Liz. Ned. Happy. All collateral damage he had to answer for. Then there were the real losses. Tony. May. MJ.
At least maybe one of those could still be salvageable.
That’s what he had to focus on—getting back to what mattered—not distracting himself with you. Not when his life was an irreparable mess and he still wanted—
MJ clips him as he rounds the corner, completely caught up in himself: feet shuffling, face buried in his phone, mind stuck on a different planet entirely. It sends him reeling, leaving him a speechless, sputtering mess as he helps her pick up her things and rambles through a string of flustered apologies.
“Sorry,” she echoes. She pauses, tilting her head toward the lecture hall he just left, letting out the last few stragglers for the day. “So… How’d you do?”
He blinks, mouth dry with unannounced contrition.
“H-huh?”
“Ket’s exam.” She says it like it’s obvious, probably because it was considering he just took it. “I thought it kinda sucked— Especially on a Friday.”
“Oh, right, yeah,” he rushes with a nod, trying to act normal like she didn’t just knock the wind out of him, more so than literally. “Y-yeah, it did. How, uh… How’d you do?”
“Standardized testing is subjective to the true measure of intellectual truth.” She shrugs. “We’ll see.”
It melts his frozen heart, all while exposing a pulse of something foreign curling at the pit of his stomach. It’s MJ—it’s the MJ he fell in love with—but there’s still an awkward beat of silence like neither of them were sure how to be around each other anymore.
It wasn’t new, it just built up enough to be noticeable now. Every conversation didn’t make things easier. It didn’t remind either of them of their shared past. It only exposed just how quickly things slipped into a void of nothing.
He hated to even think it, but it's still there. It’s still true.
She presses her lips together, giving him a tight wave—polite, but distant—and continues down the hall like she was never there.
His shoulders slump as she slips out of view, fighting the the betrayal crawling up his throat and sitting like a lump of guilt. Why did everything feel so forced? If they were meant to get back together, shouldn’t it come naturally? Like things never changed?
The sharp jolt of his phone buzzing in his hand snaps him out of it. Everything forgotten from last night comes crashing back at full force.
MJ might be different, but now he was, too.
He slides the answer bar with a defeated sigh, already bracing himself for an onslaught as he heads to the coffee shop on the corner of 8th and Astor he already knows Ned will be at.
“Dude,” Ned says as soon as the call connects. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been texting you, like, all morning.”
He shrugs loosely, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder as he cuts between passing cars.
“I had class.”
“Yeah, at noon and three— And you never sleep until noon.”
His lips pinch together, already regretting the words before they find themselves in his brain. “I stopped by the Lion Head before my first class…”
“To go see—”
“Yes,” he hisses under his breath, suspiciously scanning the room through the window like his classmates could somehow sense this was a new version of the walk of shame. “Just keep your voice down, alright?”
Ned might as well’ve inherited his own version of a sixth sense with the way his attention immediately snaps up to Peter opening the door and darting toward their usual back-corner table, head tucked and cheeks flushed.
“What the hell happened after I left?” Ned pushes, hanging up once Peter got close enough, sliding his backpack off the unoccupied seat to make room.
Peter hesitates, shame creeping up the back of his neck. “We just… hung out.”
“Hung out?”
“Yes,” he says weakly, dropping into the chair. “Hung out.”
“And by ‘hung out’ you mean hooked up, right?”
The way he goes helplessly silent with crimson-warmed cheeks might as well’ve just spilled his entire personal life to the whole Coffee Bean. Ned’s eyes blow wide, coughing on a sip of his drink in disbelief as the realization sets in.
“Holy shit, no way!” he gapes, eyes alight with intrigue. “You actually slept with her?”
Peter exhales, strained and tired. “Can we not talk about this now? Please?”
“Peter—”
“I’m serious, Ned.”
“Yeah, so am I!” He closes his laptop, hanging on every imaginary detail like this was life or death. “Are you gonna see her again?”
Peter’s face twists like the question was egregious. “What? No— No way. This was a one time thing.”
Especially after what he learned this morning.
“Why not? Peter, come on— This is your chance.”
“Chance for what?” He bristles despite himself, muscles going rigid with the obvious. “It’s just… not a good idea, okay? It’ll ruin things with MJ.”
Ned blinks. “You can’t be serious.”
“I promised her, Ned!” He pauses, slumping forward like the guilt was taking a physical toll on his body. “Besides, it’s too risky. I can’t get involved with someone else like that again. I just can’t.”
Ned goes quiet, brain running a million miles a minute behind his eyes.
“Did you have a good time last night?”
He shifts in his seat like it’s sinful to admit. “…Yes.”
“And you’re into her, right?”
His mouth tilts like he hated to admit it, but couldn’t stand to lie, either. He does like you—more than he probably should—but he also wasn’t ready to say that.
Then his mind drifts to you, soft swells of spring sunlight sweeping over you, eyes warm and honest, sparkling like you couldn’t help yourself around him. You made everything lighter, made everything in his life suddenly feel meaningful without trying. It didn’t matter if he just met you, or if what you shared was something you brush off and don’t look back at.
You still made him feel like it was more. Or could be.
So, despite his vicious doubt, he nods.
“Then there’s your answer!” Ned levels, eyes grounded and certain. “MJ’s happy, you’re happy— Or having fun, at least. That’s all that matters.”
His jaw works with a truth he couldn’t accept. He knew MJ was happy—and the thought that she was probably better off without him certainly wasn’t a new one—but his mind fought the idea of moving on like it was ingrained in his bones and woven into his DNA.
Like he had a duty to die with the part of him that died to the world.
He shakes his head, loose and evasive. “That doesn't really change things.”
“That changes everything, Peter.”
He exhales sharply, voice low. “It’s just… complicated, okay?” His eyes drop down to his lap like the truth was drowning him. “I’ve had enough problems lately. I really don’t need another.”
He doesn't elaborate, prompting Ned’s brows to lift past his glasses, silently urging him on. He tilts his head like he has to weigh it, wincing in painful surrender, voice low and shameful.
“I think I like her…”
“Peter, how is that possibly a problem?”
“Because…” He pauses, rubbing his temple. “Because it just is, okay? I’m not supposed to. This is supposed to be a one time… two time thing— Nothing more for either of us.”
It didn’t matter how many times he turned it over in his head—how many times in the last 24 hours he’s tried to file away every feeling and redefine it with firm, resolute logic—you hummed between what he knew of himself. You warmed your way into a soul that forgot what it’s like to be spoken to.
You were in his head—your smile, your charm, your body, slick and needy against his—all of it. You were there, exactly where you shouldn’t be, and it didn’t matter in the least.
Nothing could come of this, that much was obvious. Even if he wanted it—just a sliver of it—it couldn’t happen. You established the boundary yourself.
Casual. Thoughtless. Something to help block out the noise, even if the way he chose to muffle it only made it louder. The amplified sound of exile’s rest sang through him when he was with you.
And that scared him.
Then there was the other piece of it. The piece that made his heart stutter and his head hurt. The reminder that the face behind Spider-Man needed to be forgotten for a reason. No excuses.
You’d only end up hurt.
Ned frowns. “Dude, this sounds like the solution. She’s hot. Like, way-out-of-your-league hot.”
He’s right. You were. That much they could agree on.
Like Ned could read between the anxious lines etched on his face, he sighs, expression softening a notch like he knew Peter needed to hear what they both avoided if he wanted a shot at pulling him out of his head.
Something true, more so than he’d like it to be.
“You’re allowed to be happy, Peter.” He pauses, eyes searching. “You don’t have to punish yourself forever.”
Peter goes quiet, letting the words sink into his skull. Was he? After everything—after everything he’s lost, everything he’s become, everything he’s failed to save and ruined while trying—was he really worth the risk of being a taken chance again?
And if he was, who was willing to take it?
It crawls under his skin slowly, the hungry, human crave, whispering with what he wanted more than he realized. Something starved and no longer patient after a taste of indulgence.
Maybe he did deserve to be happy.
Even if the path to get there wasn’t what he planned.
You had no idea how to file Peter Parker in your mind.
There was something there— Something right beneath the surface that didn’t want to be found, yet didn’t know how to stay hidden, either. He was quietly interesting, a paradox dressed in zip-up hoodies and wired headphones. He lingered like a color just a shade off: close enough to blend in, but noticeable if you stared long enough. You didn’t, and yet there he was.
In your class. In your life. In your mind.
It didn’t start out that way— Or not intentionally, at least. It was routine. Controlled. He was nothing more than just another faceless-name you hoped could string together a coherent sentence and carry his weight. The only space he occupied in your head was attached to a few deadlines and an email address that frequented the top of your inbox.
That was it. You didn’t give him a second thought.
Until about a week later.
Rain clung to the edge of tall window panes, dripping down the glass in steady, weighted drops. Stale, droning sounds of your professor blurred into already-answered questions and the soft scratch of your pen pretending to be busy. The clock was a hostage to your eyes, diligently tracking every tick full with the promise of just five more minutes.
And that’s when you heard it.
His name.
Your head snapped up, eyes scanning across the room until they landed on a guy five rows in front of you, lowering his hand and slinking back into his seat.
He didn’t crash into your system, he didn’t completely upend your balance or make you lose focus. He just simmered under your skin, clinging to the edge of your mind until you caught the side of his face slipping out of class.
He was nothing more than just the back of a head, but it would be a lie to say the day you first saw him didn’t trip you up. The moment was nothing—because it wasn’t one—but you still remembered it like it was.
You were barely half-awake, eyes and feet heavy as you moved up the aisle with your head down. Past-due rent was coming in faster than your already pathetic paychecks, and suddenly the offer of extra hours and handling closing at Lion’s Head was worth a little less sleep.
It was embarrassing enough to be late, but pulling open the lecture hall doors to find one empty seat left felt personal— Like the universe tilted a little off-axis just to make sure the memory of him would stick when it really counted.
And it did.
He was all soft stares and scuffed up sneakers, like he’d seen every edge of the city. Soft curls framed his face, stubborn and wind-tossed with a mind of their own. His shoulder stayed steady, ready to catch you like waiting came naturally to him.
Then there was the brief smile once he saw you safely reach your seat— The kind that was softer than most, like he was afraid of it leaving an impression.
He slid into your mind with ease after that.
Your thoughts drifted to him without permission, eyes cataloging the quiet confidence he tried so hard to hide. It lived in the way he carried himself—reserved, but certain—like he didn’t have to be rewarded to persist.
He was always there before you, same seat halfway up the hall. Ankles crossed. Slumped low with his hood half-up, pretending to work while his attention wandered somewhere else entirely. He thrived on routine, on quiet systems that let him disappear into the background. Smart enough to coast, but diligent enough to care.
It only made the day he failed to send the transcript more confusing.
You woke up half asleep, blankly scrolling through your notifications with the expectation of seeing his name at the top of your inbox bright and early.
It wasn’t.
Your brows furrowed slightly, helplessly refreshing the screen like it might pop up. Eventually, you forgot it and moved on with your morning. It was the end of the semester, he was always relatively prompt unlike half the barely-functioning students in your class. He was probably just busy with a million other things. Whatever— You could crunch the first draft of the feature before your shift like you’ve done a million times before.
Then the whole day went by.
The radio silence was unnerving. The assignment was due next Tuesday, sandwiched between an early opening, long shifts, and an exam Monday you’d surely fail—not to mention you had to make some serious headway on your piece for the Bugle—so the decision to ask him about it was an easy one.
You expected a lot of things to happen when you did, but what you didn’t expect was how easily it changed everything.
Your pulse stuttered with something fierce and foreign under his attention. Your heart became cautiously aware of its rhythm like his stare could write a cardiogram. And it didn’t matter what you had reserved him to— Peter Parker stuck.
He lingered, settling somewhere you couldn’t find. He found his way into everything without trying.
That was new.
You weren’t one to get caught up on guys—you’d spent too much time watching them disappoint you to expect anything else—but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find any trace of what you avoided in Peter.
And suddenly seeing how far he was willing to go with you was the only thing that made any sense at all.
Despite being a little unassuming, he wasn’t one to scare easily. He held the kind of strength that made for a sound soul, and the physical traces of it were just an extra added bonus. You could fall breathless from the memory of the way he had you pressed up against that wall alone— Effortlessly holding you like you were nothing while he moved in time with your whimpers.
Maybe it was your own fault, but he wouldn’t stop buzzing under your skin after you opened that door. He was like a string left loose, still finding what to thread itself through. And for the first time, you found yourself disappointed at a one night stand being just that.
One night.
Luckily, he felt the same, lingering in the doorway with more than just coffee in hand. Guilt hummed low in your stomach as he left that morning, leaving you stunned at the way you flipped your own world upside down to fit him in it like you didn’t have a choice. He was supposed to be a one time thing. He was supposed to be nothing.
Why did you suddenly hate the idea of that?
It didn’t matter what you wanted from him— Not when you had to focus on your article. Your lede was buried in more ways than one, and the last thing you needed was a distraction in the form of warm eyes and soft lips.
The Bugle wasn’t going to entertain your petulant fantasies of Spider-Man forever, especially once they figured out your angle was pretty opposite to theirs. You couldn’t coast by with complicated conspiracies, and you certainly weren’t going to secure a job with only the concept of an article to your name.
You needed real journalism. Now, or never.
Even fighting through your mind riddled with memories of Peter, you managed to shift into survival mode. It was your only option if you wanted to get through being pent up with drunk assholes for the rest of your Friday at Lion’s Head… And most of the weekend.
Whispers of the day clung beneath your eyes, heavy and indifferent as you peeled off your tank top soaked through with sweat and the stale bite of basement vodka the second you stepped into your room. The city never stopped moving, always waiting beyond your window no matter how little time you had for it.
Your phone showed a little after 10 as you climbed onto the fire escape, desperate for a minute to recalibrate before collapsing into bed and doing it all over again tomorrow.
And that’s when you found it. A sticky note.
It was missable, like it was meant to flutter against the rusted metal with regular city litter. You almost left it—almost didn’t even notice it, actually—but then you realized in the soft pulse of breeze, it’s tucked. A simple corner curled under the curve of the railing so it stays put. You glance around, quickly examining the empty spill of shadows, and snatch it before it blows away.
I know you’re looking for Spider-Man, it says, written in stiff, block letters. I can show you who he really is.
A chill runs up your spine as you slip inside, locking the window behind you with a final click. Damp, hollow desk light clings to the corners of it tight in your grip, eyes darting between every word like something bigger could hide between.
Whispers of doubt runs through your head as you trace your finger over the bottom, memorizing the vague address scribbled at the bottom.
Then something else curls in your veins, reclaiming your nerves and demanding they cave to the other part of you.
A tip. Your first tip. Maybe even real.
Someone who wanted to nail Spider-Man and was desperate enough to hand you the trail. Someone looking for the right person to blow it wide open. Maybe you— The one who could finally uncover another facet to the face of New York, who could finally shed some light on why he’s gone dark.
Yeah, Peter Parker was gonna have to wait.
The late evening air was unforgiving, sweeping the city in a blanket of hollow breeze. The edge of May bites your cheek while you wait, discreetly tucked on top of a subway station elevator entrance in Midtown East.
You didn’t know the area, but you knew it well enough to know it was littered with low traffic allies. The only life this late came from the wailing sirens floating by, perfect for shaping shadows. No one was around to catch you watching— Or care, for that matter.
That’s one of the things you loved most about New York: people would die for this city all without giving a damn about what went on within it.
It’s been about an hour of you staring blankly at the starless, light-polluted sky. A blanket of black stretched across the skyscrapers and the last trickle of traffic up a handful of blocks. Maybe all of seven people walked by in the time you were there, making you jump at any sign of other warm bodies, scrambling to the edge of the station cover to peek around the corner.
Nothing was ever there.
You checked your phone constantly, groaning in agony at the inevitable reality of the clock only changing by a minute or two. There wasn’t a soul in sight— No sign of someone wanting to meet you. No sign of danger or another life-altering event to plague the city.
But most importantly, no sign of Spider-Man.
You sigh in defeat, watching your breath curl in the midnight chill, ready to pack up your things when it happens: a flash of light in the distance. Just once.
You freeze, shuffling just enough to study the block around the corner. The same block written on the note.
You wait a minute. Then two. And you almost fall off the edge when you catch it just out of the corner of your eye— A quick blur of red and blue swinging from one building to the other.
You bite back a squeal of shock, bursting with excitement as you watch him scan across the streets from a rooftop.
The distance didn’t swallow his intent. His posture was rigid, almost defensive in nature, legs folded in a stance ready for action if it came. His eyes felt obsessive, even behind the mask as he watched for something, same as you.
You tried to calm down, tried to regulate your nervous system, but God, how could you? It was Spider-Man. Actually Spider-Man— Here, in front of you, just like you were told he would be.
Your heart hammers ruthlessly behind your chest, a ball of conflicted feelings bubbling up inside your body. You’re completely enamored, blindly fishing a pair of flee market binoculars out of your bag and scooting to the furthest edge of the structure to see him better.
This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. You were in complete and total shock—
So much so you forgot about the mysterious, unnatural flash of light that brought him here in the first place.
A violent, bone-shattering noise rocks the concrete beneath you, making you drop the binoculars to scramble for purchase against the dingey, faded metal. Your breath catches in your lungs, tight and sharp as you quickly slide away from the edge, still equally as desperate to search for whatever Spider-Man was surely watching too.
Anxiety floods your veins as you crouch down, blindly fumbling for your phone as a shadow melts into the corner. He flickers in your mind for a moment, thoughts wandering to the kind of pictures he’d take if he were here— How he’d probably protect you at the first sign of danger.
You shake it free, adjusting your phone’s lens. Focus.
Everything around you quickly spirals into frantic static. There’s yelling in the distance between mercenaries and the masked hero, whirls of strange technology and the shattering sound of explosions imploding. Bodies collide, the sharp sting of punches and whipping webs striking through the air.
You couldn’t see much from this distance, but zooming in only further compromised the blurry altercation, so you push your luck and slide closer to the edge. The focus racks, your fingers slipping across the screen in a rush to combat the ashy static on your screen.
One second he’s there, the next, he vanishes.
Then he gets closer.
Spider-Man is suddenly hurling straight toward you, swinging down at full speed, increasingly filling your frame. He’s right there, he’s right in front of you. He’s—
A violent burst of heat engulfs the block, light blasting, concrete bones shaking so intensely they might as well shatter. The building across from you erupts, crumbling back to the dust it was built from.
And suddenly you’re falling.
The structure holding you up explodes, slicing through the city in shards of flying glass, shattering from beneath you. Heat curls around your body, fear striking through your spine as you plummet to the ground.
Your stomach drops. Everything slips away from under you in the blink of an eye like it never existed. Fear crawls to the top of your throat, tight and helpless like the frantic pulse hammering in your ears until you’re in someone’s arms right before hitting the pavement.
Before you could process that you’re falling, your feet brush solid ground again, watching in shock as a vehicle flies by you, blasting everything in sight. Flames catch the shell of broken buildings, eroded and barely standing. Sirens scream around you, painting the crisp edges of skyscrapers in flashes of red and blue, surely chasing what left you behind as collateral damage.
You’re frozen, clinging to a solid frame that tries to stop the van screeching around the corner by webbing loose scaffolding down in its path. Everything spins as you desperately try to ground yourself in the middle of imploding, adrenaline-hungry chaos.
Dust and debris clings to your matted hair, caught in wind that refuses to settle like your nerves. Slowly, you turn in his grasp, measuring the humming aftermath still catching its breath along with you. Then it hits you, slow and crawling, but all consuming. All at once.
Spider-Man. You’re standing in front of Spider-Man. Real and warm beneath your trembling touch.
He’s shorter than you expected, hovering beside you like he hasn’t figured out how to step away yet. His suit has character up close—less high-tech, Stark-type build, and more homemade—like only he knows exactly what makes it move. It’s tattered, covered in flimsy stitches trying to hold more than just fabric together. The eyepieces fluctuate like he’s quietly assessing you, ensuring you’re still standing in one piece.
It stops your breathing, sweeping you off your feet even after he put you back on them. You should be talking to him, questioning him—saying literally anything that might help your story—but you’re frozen, completely speechless as you blink up at him in the curl of smoke.
“You alright, Miss?”
Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Embarrassment floods you, making your mouth snap shut as you feebly nod. He matches your movement, nodding once like he could move on now that he had the confirmation.
“Good. You stay safe out here.” And he swings away before you could say a word.
You blink, stunned and starstruck. Your phone is buried under rubble, cracked and covered in dust, barely holding on for dear life. Blurred photos of nothing litter your camera roll, fingers shaking, mind in overdrive as you run through every unthinkable piece of what just happened— And the fact that you failed to come away with anything useful.
Except, maybe in a way, you did.
Now you know that tip was real, and maybe they’ll come and find you again. Your heart hammers, nerves fierce with lingering traces of adrenaline. Only one thing comes to the forefront of your mind. One person.
You had to tell Peter.
He’s halfway through his window when his phone rings, buzzing with what had to be your newly added number.
He fumbles for the answer bar, snapping the window shut and tugging off his mask, fighting to keep his voice casual as he says your name and quick hello.
“Oh, so you do know the girl.”
He freezes, veins going cold under his skin. “Detective Dewolff.” He swallows, rough and thick, trying to calm his racing mind before it runs away on him and dives head first into the deep end. “I-I’m sorry… who?”
“Seems you already know,” she says evenly. “You don’t have to worry, she didn’t show.”
His mouth goes dry, lungs tightening. “Show where…?”
“Doesn’t matter. The important thing is you’re not being followed like I thought. In other news, how did tonight go? Please tell me you made some progress.”
His phone buzzes against his ear while she talks, your name dropping down from the top of his screen.
You
i got a tip. can u come by my place?
His heart stops, clues snapping into place quicker than he could handle. You. A tip. From the high-profile detective he was working with as Spider-Man… Who apparently knew you were looking for him and sent you straight to the first sign of danger just to prove it. Fuck.
“Wait, wait— You sent her that tip?”
“Did your hearing get damaged in the fight? I just said she didn’t show.”
Anger bubbles up in his throat, ruthless and fast as his defenses click into place. It takes everything in him to bite his tongue and keep what he knows to himself. The fact that there was someone else out there who knew who you were—knew you were looking for him and exactly where to send you—swims with twisting, unshed panic in his stomach.
Silence crackles on the other end, thick and empty while the detective waits for his response. He has nothing to give that wouldn’t cause more problems, so he says,
“I can’t do this right now.”
“Wait, we need to—”
“Sorry. We’ll talk soon.” And he hangs up the phone before she can get another word in. What matters most right now is getting to you.
The faded brick and cool concrete on the edge of the East Village slips away in blurs behind him as he finds the address you sent. Nothing else matters—not the fight and the failure that came with it, not what got away or came after—none of it. The only thing on his mind as he smoothes over his hair and brushes lingering soot off his fingertips is knowing you’re okay.
Sure, he caught you before you fell. The danger skirted by you like it was never there. He saw you in one piece—held you that way, too—but something bordering on the perfidious edge of panic slices its way through the pit of his stomach until he feels sick with the possibilities.
He didn’t really want to think about what it meant.
Or why he felt so strongly about it.
It was nothing, right? It was his job to keep people safe. This was no different, nothing special… But why does that feel like a lie when he knocks on your door, nerves crawling up his throat, eyes, anxious to see your face instead of drab, chipping paint.
The lock unlatches with a groan, swinging open to reveal him straightening his shoulders and tugging his sleeve down to cover a gash on his forearm he forgot about. You greet him the same way you have ever since he met you— Efficient. Controlled. A whirlwind that makes him reassess how he fits into a world you share.
Warm kitchen light spills through the apartment behind you, bathed in milky white tiles and little signs of life. Your face is freshly washed, shadows hugging the gentle curves of your skin. Delicate, sweeping blush settles at the tops of your cheeks softly carved from midnight. Traces of the city cling to you in smears of dust on your clothes, chaos still knotted through your hair, but your eyes are alight with something unbridled.
You tug him inside and lock the door behind him, wasting no time dragging him down the dim hallway to your room, steps sharp and purposeful. Everything slips away, eyes stuck on the way your soft hand is wrapped around his again.
He hovers awkwardly in the threshold while you slip into quick, calculated motions: closing the door, locking your windows, flinging your curtains shut. Despite the evidence of your paranoia, excitement floods your expression, buzzing and palpable like the adrenaline hasn’t settled yet.
Luckily, you’re distracted enough to miss the way he quickly scans over you for anything out of place.
“No one followed you, right?” You glance over your shoulder, raising a brow at him like the question was a test created for him to fail. “You were careful?”
He clears his throat and weakly gestures to the dark grey sweatshirt swallowing his frame, hood still half-up in his thoughtless pace. “I was inconspicuous.”
If only you knew the half of his experience with that.
You nod, disappearing into the tiny ensuite bathroom, leaving him alone in your space. It was intimate, soft and spilling at the seams with you. Your heartbeat was threaded through every blanket, your past pressed between the pages of every book on your shelf. Your soul sang through every inch, clean and concise, but free.
Undeniably you.
His hands wring, timidly stepping further inside like he was crossing a boundary bigger than an invitation.
The faint drone of running water melts into the gentle hum of midnight just beyond the windows. Delicate little string lights illuminate the room, draped over your bed that’s a bundle of thick, plush pillows and smooth sheets. A sweater he’s seen you wear to class a million times hangs on the post of your bed next to a tiny candle on your nightstand, stained with scorched wax from being burned too low for too long. The scent of it is unmistakable, subtle and tender just like the perfume that always clings to the warmth of your skin.
Everything about your space was comfortable, easily likeable at first glance— Much like you.
He’s caught up in it, completely immune to you leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, mouth curved and eyes locked on him.
“Are you gonna take a look, or what?”
He freezes like he’s done something wrong, eyes wide with slight alarm. “W-what?”
“The tip,” you explain like it’s obvious, tipping your chin to your desk, neat and well-organized. “You don’t need an invitation, you know.”
The knot of anxiety in his throat loosens, chuckling as he scratches the nape of his neck. “Right. Sorry.”
You shake your head softly, laughing under your breath at his innocent apprehension as you cross the room. A damp towel scrunches through your hair, holding up a tattered, electric-orange sticky note like it was a prize rather than a warning sign shooting through his soul.
“Check it out, Parker.”
He shrugs his hood down, slowly dropping to the edge of your bed as he takes the note and studies it. The letters were sharp like a threat in disguise, draining the blood from his face until he feels faint. A lump crawls to his throat, crushing his lungs as he runs his finger over the folded edge, searching.
“Well?” you urge, peeing down at him while you work through your dusty, matted hair. “It’s cool, right?”
He clears his throat, trying to settle his nerves. “You sure it’s real?” Oh, it was real alright.
You grin like you won the lottery instead of a death sentence. “Totally real. He was right in front of me.”
He exhales, carefully putting it down like it was a ticking time bomb. “Wait, you actually went?”
Yeah, and almost plummeted your way to a couple of stitches and a concussion in the process.
“Why wouldn’t I? If I manage to track him down, that’ll, like, guarantee me a job after we graduate.”
Everything slips away as he stares past your elbow at the note, taunting him from your desk. The words were menacing, sinking their teeth into every rational part of his brain trying to sort this.
Was it a bluff? Were you a pawn, just someone to get in the way? Or was it a serious offer from a person who figured out his identity and wanted to destroy him with it again?
But the biggest question was how do they know you.
There were hundreds of reporters always looking for him—desperate to find the edge of his mask, hungry to poison his reputation for attention—but why you? Why an entry level intern— A college student who slings drinks to pay rent?
Someone he cares about more than he should.
He didn’t want to be involved—he wanted to stay far away from you and your work for more reasons than one—but he keeps getting pulled back in.
“So, what happened, then?” he asks, playing into the part of being invisible he hates the most. “He was just swinging around or something?”
“No, there was, like, a full fight,” you gush, dropping the towel on your desk and peeling off your dirty sweatshirt. “Looked like some high-tech stuff that’s always being trafficked. He was chasing a group of guys with these crazy weapons, but I couldn’t get a good look.”
“I don’t know… That sounds intense.” He hesitates, dropping his stare down to his fingers running along the seam of your comforter. “There’s, like, a million things you could write about.”
You blink, brows pulling together. “We literally have the best subject right here in the city.”
He shrugs, weak and unconvincing. “So?”
“You’re telling me you’re not even the least bit curious?”
“He just… stops bad guys.” His voice is laced with evidence of his internal contradiction. “People do that all the time.”
“Yeah, but, like, insane felons.” You toss your sweatshirt into the hamper, thinking. “That vulture guy who was stealing stuff, the Doctor Strange wannabe, the freaking giant lizard thing… I mean, how am I supposed to resist that?”
In any other situation, he’d be obsessed with your passion, hanging on every word like he couldn’t get enough, but with this, his stomach drops. There was no way you were letting this go.
He swallows his pride, nodding slowly. “I get it, I do. I’m just…” He loses the words, fighting what he was too afraid to admit. “I-I just think you should rethink this.”
Your answer is immediate. “No. No way.”
“You said it yourself— These guys are crazy dangerous, same with whoever sent you that.”
You grab your brush on the nightstand, starting to work through the tangles, scanning over him steadily. “Or it’s someone who has a lead they wanna share.”
“Or it’s someone looking to hurt you.”
“Why would anyone want to hurt me? I don’t know Spider-Man, and clearly the person who sent the tip knows that.”
“It’s just a big risk, okay?” He sighs, strained and weighted. “You really shouldn’t go back.”
Your eyes sparkle with a challenge, leaning against your desk and slowing your methodical strokes through your hair. “And what if I don’t listen? Are you gonna stop me?”
Warmth crawls to his cheeks despite himself, glancing out the window for refuge. “C’mon, that’s not fair.”
You tilt your head, eyes flicking down his frame. “Live a little, Parker.”
“Are you always this bossy?” he counters, shifting his weight on your mattress like he could handle your gaze.
“You didn’t seem to mind being told what to do the other night,” you hum, lips curving like a tease. His heart hammers, cheeks on fire under your attention.
“Come on,” you add, putting the brush down. “Just think about it.”
He looks away again, hands raking through his hair, ready to fold, when he catches it.
Your arms crossed over your chest reveal a thin slit of your midriff, soft and swallowed by shadows. It’s faint, barely there, but the thin fabric of your tank top rides up just enough that it’s eyeline with him. Something he wasn’t supposed to see, but does.
The blooming edge of a reddened bruise.
“Woah, woah, hold on,” he says softly, shifting closer as his eyes search yours. “Did you get hurt?”
You follow his stare down to your side, shifting your weight as you try to tug the hem down to cover it.
“It’s nothing,” you dismiss easily. “I’m fine.”
Something wanders across your face despite your words, bearing what you didn’t want him to see. The stress was creeping up on you, thinning adrenaline exposing the dim whisper of exhaustion clinging to your features. Your lips were a little chapped, pressed into a thin line like you could keep your frayed composure buttoned up with them. Hesitant eyes search his, glossy with the reflection of city lights beyond the world you tried to trap yourself in.
And suddenly nothing else mattered.
Slowly, his fingers find the hem ghosting the dip of your waist—tentative, testing—touch barely brushing your skin, warm and familiar under his. You flinch, watching his hand like you weren’t sure if you should let him in like this, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you let him peel it up to reveal an unattended cut.
It was a little swollen, puffy with bitter blooms of purple and red swallowing your bare skin. The gash was still open, starting to crust over with dried, browning blood. It wasn’t the worst, but it certainly wasn’t just a light scratch either.
His throat tightens in its wake, sharp through his soul.
He glances up at you, struck with silence as his finger runs just underneath it, gentle and questioning. He doesn’t know what changed—doesn’t know what passed between when he first felt your skin against his and now—but it was like he never touched you before.
And suddenly the contact felt like it was making you both cross a line together for the first time.
His lungs tighten around the realization, silence between you stretching like the moment lived on an edge it didn’t know which side to take. The splintered world hums around you, still buzzing with blurs of city sounds and faded lights in the hush of midnight.
A different darkness than the night before.
His eyes hold the offer: to turn back, to brush it off, and return to the boxes you drew around yourselves like it could make whatever wanted to burn between you safer.
Because even if this was nothing, it never felt like it.
Not with you.
He whispers your name, soft like the sound was breaking something set in stone. “You’re hurt,” he says carefully.
“It’s okay.” Your eyes flick between his, trying to sense where your denial landed on him. “I’m okay, really.”
Slowly, he rises, body eclipsing yours. “You’re not the only one who gets to tell people what to do, y’know.”
It runs behind your eyes, fast and unreachable— A flicker of something raw you weren’t ready to face.
An edge that softens without knowing why.
Then you cave, sighing as you feebly point to the bathroom behind you. “Top drawer on the left.”
He watches you a beat too long like you might slip away in a moment too delicate for its own good, then nods.
When he comes back, you’re tucked on top of your comforter, legs crossed and bare. Vulnerability clings to you in ways that make his heart rattle. Damp hair brushes your shoulders, fingers tangled around each other in wait. Your eyes are trained on the window, trying to hide what lines them.
Everything slows, narrowing like time has no place between what was and what could be. Stillness threads through every fiber of panic, leaving him frozen in the crest of your doorway like he’s finally seeing you for the first time.
He buries it, nerves simmering despite the jumping pulse beneath his ribs, and he ties himself to what he knows. He moves efficiently through your first aid kit, taking what he needs and setting it aside, but then he pauses like sitting next to you was closer than anything you’ve already shared.
Maybe in the spill of sudden stillness—in the limerence that whispers through his soul, demanding to be reassessed—it was.
He distracts himself, stare locked on his meticulous motions through your supplies as he lowers himself to the spot beside you, mattress dipping under his weight.
When he looks up, you’re already watching him, eyes intentional and honest. It makes his mind stumble, tension tight in his spine. You don’t say a word, just shift closer until your heart brushes his.
Slowly, your fingers slip to the hem of your shirt, cautiously lifting it so the whole cut was visible to him.
Everything goes static—his brain, your history, the lines you set after wrecking them long before they were needed—and suddenly nothing else exists to him besides skin he can finally heal instead of hurt.
So he leans in, eyes flicking up to yours with the offering of another out, breath caught low in his lungs when you don’t take it.
His hands fiddle with the bottle of peroxide, soaking a cotton pad until it drips on his jeans.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, softer than intended. “This might be a little cold.”
You don’t answer, just watch carefully as he presses the cotton pad to your side and slowly soaks the cut clean.
He couldn’t figure it out— Why even the most innocent of touches felt so charged with weight it couldn’t bear. You rendered him speechless, completely at a loss at the way you somehow managed to make his heart a mess without the help of whiskey.
The way you made it worse.
But this time—unlike the consequences he lies awake sorting through, unlike the indulgence he feels no right to, defenseless and blindly devoted—he doesn’t fight it.
He can’t. Not when your exhale thins with a hiss at the antiseptic bubbling through the lingering dirt and debris— The same breathless sound you made when he touched you where your skin bled into shadows.
Not when your eyes fluttered shut at the subtle sting coursing through the cut— The same way they closed when he kissed your neck and whispered into your hair.
Not when you watched him patiently— The same way you looked at him when he showed up with more than coffee in hand, ready to reset the line you both moved.
Something quietly warm in the curve, finally accepting that he was meant to exist in this moment with you.
“You’re good at this,” you say after a moment, voice seeping into the silence. “Taking care of people.”
His heart flips with innocence, careless curls hanging in his eyes that stay glued to your cut finally fresh beneath his touch. The words land somewhere open and aching he didn’t know they could settle in.
He doesn’t respond—he doesn’t know how to—not when the passing time sharpens the lines of your face, tired and bare in late night glow. It clings to you, exposing what burned-through adrenaline could no longer hide once you put your heart in his hands.
The silence settles, thick with something neither of you knew how to face. The raw contempt of reckoning lingers in your expression locked on him, holding back.
“You know,” he says, low and careful. “I already told you I can keep a secret.”
Your brows knit softly, watching as he tosses the stained cloth and searches to find your Bacetracin. He catches your eyes, leaning a fraction closer to apply it.
“You’re allowed to be scared,” he whispers.
It’s free of judgement, completely unassuming. Just the opportunity to exist with what was. To listen.
To allow.
You don’t say a word, but you don’t deny it, either. It’s there—raw and throbbing under your skin, no longer able to hide in the delicate intensity of manhattan midnight—a mask shifted just enough to remind itself of the human part hidden underneath.
After a moment, you lean into his touch— Not enough to notice, just enough to count. Your lungs loosen around a breath, ribs retracting softly under his gentle pressure.
“It just happened so fast,” you confess, voice even like it’s all you know. “One minute I was staring straight at my cover photo of him, the next, I’m falling 15 feet.”
You pause, watching the way he runs his thumb over a fresh bandage, patiently waiting for you to give him what’s been on the tip of your tongue the whole night.
“That’s why I can’t let this go.” You peel the corner for him and place it back in his palm. “So many people act like he’s the problem— Or part of it, at least.”
You sigh, the warmth of a bare soul brushing the edge of his cheek tilted near your lips, body leaning in to press the dressing to your skin.
“He didn’t hesitate,” you whisper. “Even if it meant losing the fight, he didn’t hesitate to catch me.”
The words land into the palm of his wild pulse, waiting to be taken. It crawls from deep inside him, patient and persistent, wrapped around a heart that suddenly forgot it’s purpose wasn’t just to beat for you.
Something he hasn’t felt in years— A sacred truth reserved for those few and far between.
He’d drop anything to catch you. Always.
And worse than that, he’s not scared of the way the realization etches itself into his bones. Not at all. It feels tragically fated, meant for only him to find.
He says the only thing he can think of, eyes steady as he peers up at you in the hush of spring’s final breath.
“Because it’s not a sacrifice to save you.”
Your inhale catches as he smoothes the bandage over your ribs, touch soft and timid like it’s afraid of awakening something finally tired of lying dormant. He can feel your mind moving, familiar rhythm ticking behind your eyes as you study him like it would help both of you make sense of this fragile, foreign thing taking root without permission.
“Still… There’s more to him. I just know it.” You pause, searching his eyes. “I need to see this through.”
It hits him somewhere raw — The honesty in your voice when it comes to the other side of him, lonely and forgotten.
The way you somehow already saw him better than most despite that part of him being stranger to you. The way passion bleeds through every word, your soul on fire with every glance, the spark reaching for him and warming what’s been dead and cold for so long.
The way you see him without seeing him at all.
It didn’t matter if you did or not. He couldn’t let you do this alone. There were risks, there always were, but the reward felt worth it if he got to land in the safety of your eyes.
His fingers still against the soft splay of your skin, lingering along the bandage longer than he should. His eyes find yours, suddenly steady like his voice.
“I guess I’ve got summer plans now.”
continue reading here where part two is posted .ᐟ — i hit block limit (boooo) so this seemed like a good place to stop. i really wanted to avoid posting two separate parts but, alas, i never shut up. i hope you enjoyed this in the meantime ! part two is almost done, so let me know if you’d be interested in that <3 thanks for stopping by xx
edit: omg the love on this already ?? it’s been up for 9 hours and already has 500 likes what ?? my notifs are literally broken lmao. just had to say a quick thank you to who read and made it down here 🤍
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✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦
✦summary: after being woken up, soldier boy found a woman, promised he'd never leave her, then did. two years later, he's back and looking for one thing only. you.✦
✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred, it's to be expected), angst, softer!ben, canon divergance, pining, some plot to get to the smut (posessiveness, some spanking, dirty talk, teasing, praise and degredation kink, dom!Ben, fingering, begging, manhandling, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, oral f!reciving, edging, creampie, big dick ben, overstimulation, body worship, rough sex, just complete debauchery, dumbification, dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11.1k✦
✦author's note: made myself start drooling with this one. enjoy!✦
You had a secret. And you kept it buried in the deepest, most sacred corner of your heart. Not out of shame.
Out of survival.
It’s best to keep your head down, in a world like this one. Supes patrol the streets, and people who are a little too loud and unhappy get sent to their death. Vought says it’s just to be corrected, but you know. Everyone knows.
They’ve just all learned how to whisper about it.
And you’re braver than you wanted to be. You do more than you should be doing, when the most anyone should be worrying about is waking up in their bed the next morning. But there’s the teenage girl who lives down the hall from you, who got loud about hating Homelander in school, and almost got taken because of it. You helped her get out, and lied to the face of the people who showed up to find her.
You lied with a smile, too.
He would’ve found that amusing. He would’ve teased you about acing so cool and collected, right up until you were staring down the barrel of a gun. There hadn’t been a trip of your heartbeat, or stumble in your breath. Lives depended on you being able to do this.
And they depended on you being able to keep your head down.
You’d gotten good at it. Before him, it had been your job to keep calm and collected. Doctors couldn’t be panicking and crying over everything, or nothing would ever get done.
“What about when something’s real fucking gross and sticky?” He used to ask you. “You allowed to cry then?”
You’d smiled at the dishes in your hands. “Would you cry over something gross and sticky?”
“No, because I’m not a-“
“Fucking pussy.”
You’d dropped your voice to mock his, your smile becoming stupid and ditzy as the chair had scraped on the floor behind you. Riling him up was too easy. And if he didn’t want you to keep poking all his old, shiny buttons, he shouldn’t make it so damn fun.
“You got a mouth on you, doll.” Ben had muttered in your ear, arms wrapping around your stomach.
“Hm.” You hadn’t stopped washing the dishes. He’d rip them away from you soon, you might as well focus on what you can.
“Hm? All you got to say is hm?”
“I think you like my mouth.” You’d swayed on your feet, shrugging lazily.
Ben’s arms had tightened around you. “I like somethin’ about your mouth.”
“You like all of it. You like me so much, you chose weed over me, you think I’m better than weed-“
Your dishes had clattered into the sink. Ben spun you around, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to the counter as he slammed his mouth of yours. You’d made a happy sound, craning your neck to try and chase more, and he’d chuckled. Soft, light kisses had been trailed down your jaw and over your throat, landing on a spot that seemed to be permanently dark since you’d met him.
He’d bitten at the skin, then sucked, letting his tongue flick slightly. Before him, you hadn’t even known you were into that. Now you can’t even graze the spot without your body getting fuzzy and confused. Like it knows he’s supposed to be there.
But he’s not.
“You’re lucky I like you.” Ben had muttered. “And you’re not a genius to figure that out, I think I’ve made it real fucking clear.”
You’d beamed at the air, wrapping an arm around his neck when he released one wrist. His massive hand had grabbed your waist, slipping fingers under the hem of the shirt. You’d shivered, and leaned into his mouth.
He’d been solid. Safe. And you’d been so foolishly sure that he was going to be there forever.
“You have.” You’d breathed.
And you’d really believed it.
But then he’d just… Left.
You’d woken up the next morning, and he’d been off with William Butcher to deal with Homelander. He’d failed, on both the being with William Butcher front and the deal with Homelander front. They’d said he had died. You’d sunken into something like a ghost, wandering through the world without touching anything, passing through days like they were all just a veil to something else.
There were regrets. Not demanding that he stay. Not kicking him out the first time he ended up on your doorstep. Talking to him that first night at the corner store at all, because at least then your heart would’ve still been beating instead of this hollow, gray husk.
But you also wouldn’t have traded him for the world. The time had been fleeting. Only a few splatters of paint on what had previously been a clean, respectable life.
You’d found out you liked being dirty. You liked all the color it came with, and you’d liked how Ben had held your hand through the whole thing. You don’t know why he had. You don’t even know why he’d liked you, why he’d bothered coming back over and over, why he’d decided that you—of all the many, more interesting, more carefree people in the world—were the one he wanted to share himself with.
“You shouldn’t eat those.” You’d told the strange, handsome man at one in the morning.
He’d looked at you like you were crazy. You’d blinked innocently back—a faint bell in your head, ringing that he looked familiar, and you should’ve listened to it—and he’d raised his brows.
“You talking to me?”
“Um,” you’d looked around the aisle. “Yeah? Who else would I be talking to.”
The man had grunted. His eyes hadn’t left yours for a second, and he’d been staring like he was trying to peel you apart. You’d started to feel all dizzy under the attention—he was very pretty, and pretty people shouldn’t stare like that—and shifted on your feet.
“There are studies.” You’d said lamely. “About those drinks. They give you cancer.”
“Cancer?” The man had snorted. “Doll, I’m not worried about fucking cancer-“
“You should be. It’s linked to pancreatic cancer, which is very- Fast spreading.” All your usual, well performed confidence had been wavering. Why had he been staring at you like that. “Because of the pancreases function in, um, your body, it’s basically- It’s fast spreading-“
“You said that already.”
You’d swallowed. His voice was very deep. “Oh.”
His eyes had shined with something that, in the moment, you hadn’t understood.
Now you know it to his form of affection. When he’d look at you and decided that you were real fucking cute, like a twitchy bunny—his words—and wanted to have more.
In the store, you’d hadn’t been sure if he was going to murder you or make an indecent proposal.
He hated that movie. You’d made him watch it, a few weeks later, and he’d been furious she chose the penniless sad sack. You’d told him you’d chose him, if he was the penniless sad sack. He’d grumbled that he hoped you’d have better survival instincts than that, but you’d been able to read him by now. He’d liked that a lot, and you had the hickies after to prove it.
And he’d laughed.
That night, he’d just laughed.
“You some kind of a fucking doctor?”
“Yeah.” You’d said, nervous and small. “I- I am.”
The man had blinked. Looked over you like he was seeing you for the first time, and leaned back as if the sight punched him in the face. You’d still been wearing your scrubs. Later you’d tease him about not paying attention.
He’d say he’d just been that enraptured by your beauty. You’d flush, and tell him he was using that word wrong. He’d say he didn’t fucking care, and kiss you until you were stupid and giggling.
“What’s good?” He’d jerked his head at the drinks, and you pointed to a different can a shelf over.
He’d eyed you suspiciously, but grabbed it and stomped away. You’d thought he’d be gone when you paid for your own food and walked to the parking lot. Instead he’d been waiting at the counter, watching you with that same, wearily curious expression.
“Are you going to stalk me to my car?” You’d asked causally, careful not to look him in the eyes.
He’d grunted. “I’m escorting you. Stalking makes me sound like I’m some fucking creep-“
“You’re a stranger who’s going to follow me to my car. I should be calling 911.”
“911 couldn’t stop me, sweetheart.”
You’d paused, frowning at him. He’d rolled his eyes, looking around the store like he expected a camera crew to pop out and tell him the whole thing was a prank.
“Don’t call 911.” He’d muttered.
“Why shouldn’t I.”
“Cause I’m not going to fucking hurt you, that’s why-“
“And why should I trust that?”
He’d blinked. That thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.
“I swear I won’t.”
“Promises mean nothing.”
“My promises mean something-“
“Not to me, they don’t.”
He’d stared at you. You’d tipped up your chin, and held his gaze. You were not going to be murdered in a parking lot tonight. You’d ordered new pants last night, and you wanted to be alive to see them.
The man had caved before you. He hadn’t been happy about it, but you’d come to learn that he was never openly happy about anything. There was his genuine annoyance, and his fluffy annoyance. Where he didn’t mean a single groan or eye roll or muttered curse.
He saved that second one for you. And he hated that you called it fluffy annoyance, because he wasn’t ‘fucking fluffy’. But you’d tell him that you liked him fluffy, as long as it was just yours. And he’d said he was just yours, and he’d promised, and you’d learned how to believe him.
“My name is Ben.” He’d told you, reaching into his jacket. “And if I try to hurt you, use this.”
And he’d handed you a fucking gun. The poor cashier that had been listening to all of this shrieked and ducked behind the counter. You’d gaped at Ben, then smacked his arm.
“What the fuck-“
“You can’t just pull out a gun, are you crazy!”
“Don’t call me crazy, I’m trying to make you feel- Fucking better or whatever-“
“How is a gun going to make me feel better, I’m a doctor-“
“So you can stitch me up after you shoot me, all the fucking better-“
“I am not going to shoot you-“
“But you could, that’s what the damn gun is for-“
“I don’t want your gun, I just-“ You’d cut yourself, glancing at the shaking cashier. It had just been some high school kid. He didn’t deserve to deal with this.
And even then, some part of you had known. Ben was a lot of things. Most of them weren’t half as pretty as his face.
But he wasn’t a liar. He’d realty thought the gun would make you feel better.
Later, you’d learn that it had really only been meant to make you feel better. Literally. That if he had been intending to hurt you—which he hadn’t, as he reminded you all the time—the gun wouldn’t have done fucking shit to stop that. But he’d thought it would help you be less nervous. And as much as you’d punch his dumb, big chest after he told you, you had to admit that the plan had—in a very roundabout way—worked.
“Come on.” You’d turned on your heels and walked out of the store.
Ben had followed.
And for a strange, priceless month, you’d known that if you looked over your shoulder, he’d be there. It had become a comfort. It had become the best thing in your life.
Then it had been gone.
Ben had left you, and the world had only gotten darker from there.
So you have all these regrets, that you pile on top of your secret. And they tell you to be more careful. You haven’t been on a date since Ben, although you never even technically dated. You’d never even fucked. It had been a lot of kisses and sharing a bed and wandering hands. Ben had asked. He’d asked all the time, and always sighed dramatically when you said after. After he was done with Butcher. After he dealt with Homelander, he could have whatever he wanted from you.
It was already his for the taking, he just needed to reach it.
And now all of you sat on a high, dusted shelf, waiting for hands that would never reach it.
Now, you’re careful.
After that girl down the hall, there had been the couple on the side of the highway. They’d been trying to hide from Black Noir, but one of them had an infected cut and was getting a fever. You’d treated it, then been on your way.
Then there had been the little boy who’s parents had been taken, and the shrapnel in his foot. The older woman who’s son had been shot, and the people who’d been hit in collateral and didn’t have insurance. And you kept helping and helping and helping, but always with your head down. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t help at all. It draws attention. Attention begs for investigation. Investigation undercovers secrets, and Ben had always been very clear.
No one could know who you are. What you were to him.
Why you have that gun in your closet, unloaded and kept clean like an heirloom. It wouldn’t be hard to trace it to Ben. It wouldn’t take a long time—especially for Sage, who you’ve only seen once from afar but sent a chilling fear through your bones all the same—to realize why you had one of Soldier Boy’s guns. To look at cameras and place timelines and know. What you’d meant to him.
Part of you wants her to. Maybe she’d be able to tell you, after.
Because he hadn’t stayed for you. And you hadn’t been foolish enough to ask him to.
But still.
You’d hoped he would.
“We should go somewhere.” He’d muttered one night, lying flat on his back.
And you’d looked at him in the dark, and found him staring back. He’d always been staring back.
“When this is done.” Ben had reached over, grabbing your wrist. He did that when he needed your attention. You don’t think he ever knew that he had all of you, whether he wanted to grab it or not.
“Done?” You’d breathed. Ben had nodded.
“The whole thing. All of it. I’m not going back into acting and shit, everything is bad now anyway-“
“You liked Paddington 2-“
“Shhh.” Ben had covered your mouth, eyes shining. “Can’t fucking prove that, can you, doll.”
You’d shrugged smiling against his hand. Ben had leaned down until your brows were pressed together, and let out a slow, heavy breath.
“We’ll go.” He’d said it like a secret. Like even in the empty room, you were still the only person he wanted anything to do with in the world. “Anywhere in the world that you want. No more of this fucking bullshit. Just you and me.”
And you’d giggled. You’d pulled his hand away with a laugh, and kissed his adorable little frown.
“You like me so much.” You’d whispered.
Ben had only stared. His heavy sigh had fanned over your cheeks, and he’d kissed the space between your eyes.
“You got no idea.”
And you wish you had.
You wish you’d asked him to stay, but you keep that buried with the rest of it. You don’t want to think about how if you had, he might’ve.
If you had, he might still be next to you today.
You broke a cup.
The TV in the breakroom is always on, but you usually just spare it passing glances. Since Homelander’s takeover, it mostly just plays Firecracker’s stupid propaganda show, or reruns of old Vought movies with Starlight’s scenes cut out. It makes for a clonky, confusing storyline. Sometimes you watch it when you’re bored, if only to feel a ghost of a smile.
Other days, they play Ben’s old movies. And you can’t stand to listen to those. Just his voice makes you shiver and look around the room, as if he might materialize and grin at you the same way he always did. Like in his eyes, everything just narrowed down to you. The walls existed to hold you and everything around the room was a noise or blockade that needed to be moved, so he could be at your side.
I’d swim in the ocean for you, doll. He’d told you one. You’d laughed. He’d meant it to be romantic, but he’d just sounded annoyed about it, and it had been so stupidly sweet you’d fallen a little more in love with him. But love with Ben had always come like that. In slow drips that built up and up and up, until there was a bucket to be doused over your head and you had to understand.
That he had been everything.
You’d known too late. The downpour had come with the news of his death, when every light had become too bright, and all the color in the world had been washed out to nothing. You hadn’t been able to tell your co-workers why you’d stumbled and started to whine like a lost dog. Why you’d needed the week off, because your legs had turned to lead and it was too hard to get out of bed.
And you’re not going to be able to explain this, either.
Why you hear his voice, look up at the TV on an instinct you’re never going to be able to squash, and drop your cup.
It shatters all over the floor. The two nurses at the table shoot up to help, one saying something about walking carefully over the broken glass, but you don’t hear it.
There’s only the ringing in your ears, and—rising above it all—Ben’s voice.
This isn’t old footage. You’d know. You’ve watched every video and listened to every archived radio interview, just trying to hold onto what you could.
No.
This is new.
Which means Ben- He’s alive.
He’s on the TV. Standing next to Homelander with a bored, unimpressed expression, hands on his belt, looking the exact same as he day he left you.
He left you.
It wasn’t death that took him. He’s right there, instead of at your side. His gaze is just as intense as before, and he holds himself with the same confident, lazy posture, and his mouth stays in the pretty, downturned line that you always loved grabbing up and pulling into a smile.
He’d grab your wrists, but not move you away. He’d ask what you thought you were doing, but he already knew. You’d beam and kiss his nose. He’d pretend to bite yours, and you’d dissolve into giggles and wrap around him like a koala. He’d tell you he didn’t know what he was going to do with you. You’d call him a liar. Say he knew perfectly well what he wanted to do with you. And he’d grumble, because you teased him so much without ever actually throwing him a bone.
You always reminded him there were plenty of other women out there who would happily want his bone. You’d wink, and he’d give you that adoring, exasperated look.
He’d say he didn’t care about any other bones but yours. You’d say that you were both losing the metaphor.
Ben would say he didn’t fucking care, and flip you under him. You’d lose track of time. Of the movie you were supposed to be watching. Of the world.
And then he left.
Just left.
Wasn’t taken. Ben just… Left. After telling you so many sweet thing, after making so many promises, he just left. And now he’s back.
But not back with you.
Your hand is bleeding. You tried to pick up some of the glass, and it sliced along your palm. You barely even feel it. A part of you was already bleeding all over the floor anyways.
He didn’t come back.
Ben couldn’t fucking find you.
He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to go up to any of these weird little pussies and ask them where you were. He didn’t need them to know you existed. No one needed to know you existed but Ben himself.
Before he chased after Butcher, he’d gone to your apartment. And he’d been a fucking idiot with this picture in his head, where he’d knock on the door and you’d been thrilled to see him. He’d sweep you off your feet, and you’d be crying with joy, then he’d fuck you and carry you far, far away from here.
But he’d knocked. And knocked. And shouted your name, but no one had answered the fucking door.
He’d broken in. You’d be mad about that, if you were with him. That was the kind of thing that got him a stern finger and snapped Benjamin like he was a damn dog being scolded for pissing on the couch.
Don’t kill that guy who’s harassing me, Benjamin. Don’t pick up that car in my parking spot and throw it across the street. Don’t punch the dickheaded dumbass who cat called me, it’s fine, it happens all the time.
It was real fucking cute when you got all mouthy and angry with him, as if there was a damn thing you could do about it.
Although he had always listened.
But it was real hard to tell you no. Or upset you. Or do anything that made your voice all thick and eyes all watery and sad. Ben had a lot of fantasies about your wobbling lips and sad little kicked kitten eyes—the ones you gave him when he was gone for longer than he said he’d be, or had very fucking reasonably verbally threated the men who’d been giving you a hard time—but none of them involved you being sad. They were all about how pretty you looked like that, and how nice it would be to see that gorgeous sight without feeling so fucking bad about it.
His heart squeezed uncomfortably, when he made you upset or nervous. It was incredibly fucking annoying. When it had first happened, he’d decided he needed to keep you close. To figure out what the fuck you were—what supe or Russian spy had been sent after him—so he could neutralize you.
Then you’d just been a person. And Ben had to deal with the fact that his dumbass fucking heart just did that for you. It didn’t do that for anyone else, and he’d been alive a damn long time.
He’d been angry about it, for about ten seconds.
And then you’d smiled at him.
He’d decided that as long as you were smiling, there wasn’t much to be angry about in the whole fucking world.
There were things to be angry about now, though.
You weren’t smiling. You weren’t there. Ben had kicked down your apartment door and found it empty. Bare.
Hollow.
Something inside of him had split and become so fucking hollow. He’d ripped up the floorboards and checked in the vents. He’d punched a hole in the wall and roared your name, but you’d been gone.
Someone had to have taken you. You’d always been to smart and kind, you might’ve said something truthful and gotten dragged off to one of Homelander’s stupid camps for it.
If you were dead, Ben was going to break some shit. A lot of shit. Namely, Homelander’s fucking skull between his hands.
And if you were alive, he’d still probably do that anyways. For hiding you and hurting you. He’d just be faster about it. You didn’t need to see that shit, and the moment Ben had you again he wasn’t going to let go for a damn second.
He just had to find you first.
Ben had been good at investigating, in his day. But shit had also been simpler. There hadn’t been Sage hanging over his shoulder and watching him like a very annoying hawk. That Firecracker girl hadn’t been trying to hit on him—a shame, because his dick was sore, but his hands hurt even trying to touch someone else so he shut it down fast—and Homelander hadn’t been whining like a little fucking bitch baby all the damn time.
All these damn computers with their fucking passcodes and weird words didn’t help either. Ben spent an hour trying to break into one, then physically broke it, and all the others in the lab.
The Fish-Fucker walked in on him. Ben narrowed his eyes, and the pussy paled and raised shaking hands.
“Hey, dude, I didn’t see anything-“
“You know how to open a computer?” Ben barked, and Fish-Fucker blinked.
“Uhh… You mean log into one?” Fish-Fucker laughed, high and weak. “Yeah, bro, I know how to log in to a computer, who doesn’t know how to-“
He cut himself off as Ben’s jaw ticked, going even paler. He even looked like a fish.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean- You shouldn’t kill me! I can log in, I can find whatever you want-“
“Shut up.” Ben raised a hand, and the Fish-Fucker fell silent. “You know how to keep your mouth shut?”
“Yes. Yes- Sir-“
“Open it.” Ben pointed at the computer, and Fish Fucker scrambled forward.
He grabbed the back of the pussies neck before he could sit down, dropping his voice to a hiss.
“You tell anyone about this, I stuff you up like a fuck doll and turn you into fucking chow, you got that?”
Fish-Fucker nodded, throat bobbing and body twitching all pathetically. Ben let him go, and stood back up.
“Good. I got a name for you to look up.”
Fish-Fucker laughed nervously, nodding as he hit his fingers all over the keyboard. “More revenge, sir?”
“No.” Ben muttered, clasping his hand in front of him.
Revenge isn’t going to help, Ben. You’d told him that over and over again, but you’d also run your fingers through his hair and told him you wouldn’t stop him. He’d asked you if you’d still be there when he came back with blood on his hands. He’d meant it to be teasing, a thing he used to say to old lovers to test how much they could handle. They’d always giggled and rolled their eyes like they thought it was a damn joke. You’d tipped your head at him, eyes sharp and bright, and sighed.
You’d told him he’d need to take a shower, first.
And Ben had known.
“What is it, then?” Fish-Fucker asked, and Ben didn’t bother to answer.
That wasn’t for anyone to know but him. You weren’t for anyone to know. Not these horrible, weak people who would hurt you and use you against him.
Your face popped up on the screen. The smiling photo that you’d used on social media—you’d taught him what that was, and he didn’t fucking care for it but he sure as hell liked seeing pictures of you—and a link to your profile at that hospital you’d worked at.
You still worked there. You weren’t gone.
Ben’s heart did a little flutter. He ignored it. That kind of gooey shit could be saved for after he found you.
“Who is she?” Fish-Fucker peered at your photo. Ben should pop his eyeballs out of his damn skull. “A Starlighter?”
Ben grunted. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”
Fish-Fucker said something else. Ben didn’t listen to it.
He had to go find you.
You get home, and you feel like nothing.
It’s been two weeks, since you found out Ben was alive. Two long weeks where time dragged you through the mud and you had to learn how to keep your heart beating.
You pulled out the gun every night. You’d never shoot it—you didn’t even have ammunition—but you’d needed to hold it. To cling to proof that it hadn’t all been a dream. He’d been here. He’d given you part of him to keep.
Then he’d decided you weren’t worth the rest.
You’d thought, like a naïve, lovesick school girl, that you were going to be worth the rest.
You kick off your shoes, and go straight for the gun again. You lie on the floor, because it’s cold and that forces you to stay awake. You haven’t been sleeping properly, and when you pass out from exhaustion you don’t wake up well rested. It all hurts. It always hurts, and you don’t think it’s ever going to not hurt again.
You close your eyes, hugging the gun tight to your chest. Tears are burning behind your eyes again. You’d been hoping you’d run out, but you feel the hot shame of one sliding down your cheek. A broken sob rattles through your chest, and you’ve given up on fighting it.
This is just always going to hurt.
“I didn’t give you that so you could shoot yourself, doll.”
You scream. Your hands fly before you can think, scrambling to grab the gun. Some scratch in the back of your head knows that a bad idea, and drum in your chest demands that it’s bad idea, but you’re tired and afraid. You thought you were alone, and you’re not, so you aim the gun straight at the man standing in your door.
Ben grabs it like he’s taking a toy from a toddler. He takes out the empty clip and examines it with a frown, his hair flopping over his face. You’re breathing so shallow you think you might have passed out. You’ve had a lot of dreams about him since he left. You’ve just finally gone off the deep-end, and now they’re hallucinations.
“Hm. Not loaded.” Ben tosses the clip off to the side, shooting you a smirk. “Good girl.”
You don’t know if you scream again, or crawl to him on your knees. He sounds real. He looks real. He’s smiling at you like he never left, like you hadn’t pour every piece of yourself out to make room for the swelling grief of his absence. If you reach out, you think you’d find solid muscle and warmth. A heart that beats under your fingers, in a rhythm you always hear when you close your eyes. Ben would cover your hand with his own, holding onto your wrist the same way he did before. Like he wanted to tie you together. Like he could never bear to let go.
Or you’d just pass right through thin air.
And everything you have left would dissolve with the illusion.
You wrap your arms tight around your stomach, drawing your knees to your chest. You know this is fear. You know Ben thinks fear is weak, but he’s never looked at you and said you were anything but his.
Then he left.
And you’re not anyone’s anymore.
Ben says your name, and you swallow. He sounds so real.
“Ben?” You whisper.
A familiar smile ghosts over his lips. It terrifies you.
“Me.” He murmurs, tossing the gun onto the couch without breaking your gaze. “Hey, doll.”
He takes a step forward.
You push back, pressing yourself into a small ball on the floor.
Ben freezes. His brow furrows, and his lips press in a tight, thin line. He reaches out. And you don’t want to touch him and know he’s not real.
You shrink away.
“How did you get in.” You whisper, fixing your gaze on his knees.
“You didn’t lock the door.” Ben grunts. “Which we gotta talk about later, that’s not fucking safe, but first-“
He says your name, reaching once more, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
Strong, warm fingers grab your chin. You make a tiny noise from the back of your throat, and for a split second, the whole world goes still.
You can feel him. He’s tipping your chin up, handling you like a baby bird even as he angles it how he wants, and you can feel him.
“Look at me.” Ben mutters, and you drag your eyes open.
He’d kneeling in front of you, brow furrowed tight. There’s that look again. The one that makes you naked and exposed, your clothing sticking to your skin and every inch of you seen.
Ben sees you. You can see him.
And either you’d fully lost your mind, or he’s… He’s really…
“You’re here.” You breathe. “You’re real.”
Ben’s eyes snap to yours. His frown deepens.
“’Course I’m real, why the hell wouldn’t I be real.”
“You left.”
And something flashes over his features. It’s furious and loud, but not directed at you. His fingers on your chin don’t even flex.
“I didn’t leave.” He grunts, the words pushed through his teeth. “I told you I’d never fucking leave you.”
Your tongue flicks over your lips. You shake your head.
“I saw you on TV.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, those weird fuckin’ attention sluts love a camera-“
“You were there, Ben.” You cut him off with only a whisper. “Not here. I- I thought you were dead.”
The stupid tears are back. And they always blur the whole world, but Ben remains sharp. Of course he does. Bastard.
“I waited.” Your voice breaks. Ben watches you, his jaw clenched tight. “I thought you were dead and I still waited, and you- You were just on TV-“
“Don’t say it like that, it’s- That’s not what this shit is-“
“You left.”
“No, I didn’t-“
“You left me.” You scream, and Ben blinks.
It’s like every bit of pain, every scrape and open wound you’ve been treating with paper band-aides, Ben’s ripped everything wide open. Your tears are falling freely, your voice high and soft as you struggle to breathe, all the grief and anger at him crashing from your mouth in unforgiving waves.
“You left me, you said you’d come back, you said we’d go anywhere and you’d be here and you- You fucking left me here and I- I-“
Your word crack into a body-shaking sob, and you try to slump away from him. To just sink into the floor where he can’t see your weakness, your crying, every fissure in the mask you’re usually so good at keeping together. You don’t want him to see the rawness underneath. The way that you’ve always been ill-matched, because there’s nothing in Ben that even knows how to break, but you’re like an gastropod. Every bit of armor is borrowed and crafted. Under it, you’re nothing for him.
Weak.
“You left me.” You’re still breathing it out. You can’t stop. “You left.”
Ben sighs. And when he gets up and walks away, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to find a way to be okay, even if that means just having this gaping feeling forever.
But Ben doesn’t leave.
He wraps around you, and you wiggle a little, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls you fully into his lap, and you go limp. Your face presses into his chest, tears flowing freely with every shaking, silent sob. Ben rubs your back, holding you steady. And despite yourself, you hold on. You sink in your nails where you never should’ve let go, and you hold on.
His heartbeat hasn’t changed. And everything in your still recognizes it.
Still calls it yours.
“Didn’t run.” He mutters once your breathing has evened, tangling his fingers in your hair. “Butcher turned on me, helped Homelander and that Maeve bitch knock me off the tower. Got put back under. Homelander woke me up. And the first fucking thing I did was start looking for you, but you weren’t where I left you.”
You swallow. You’d moved because you couldn’t stand that apartment without him. You turned every corner and expected him to be there. It was pure torture.
“But I found you.” Ben continues. “I fucking found you. And I’m not going again, doll. We’re leaving, together, and that’s it.”
Ben tugs on your head, and you let him pull you back. He’s not crying—you’d be shocked if he knew how—but there’s a heavy light in his eyes, like a lamp that’s begging to be bright enough to be seen. You reach up to trace his jaw. His eyes close for a second, and he leans into the touch.
Your throat bobs. Your voice is still small.
“Why should I believe you?”
Ben’s eyes shoot open, glinting and sharp. Not dangerous. Never to you.
Just focused.
“Because I’m telling the fucking truth-“
“Swear it?”
Ben nods, and you tilt your head.
“You swore you’d come back.”
“And I am back.” He grabs your wrist, keeping your hand to his face. “No promises got broken, doll. And I’m not fucking leaving without you.”
You laugh, something in you breaking and fusing together all at once. Like glass, burning before it gets to be something beautiful. Something that can let the light in.
“Don’t say that.” You breathe, holding his gaze. “I’ll believe you.”
Ben’s eyes narrow. He leans over you, that attention as unwavering as always, and suddenly there’s nowhere to hide. Not that you ever could. Not from him.
“You think I’m not serious?” He murmurs, low and dangerous.
You don’t flinch. You never have.
“Prove that you are.”
A deep sound rumbles from Ben’s chest. He lets go of his hand, his own flying up to frame your face. Your breath hitches, right as his lips slam against yours.
You’ve kissed Ben many times. He always does it like it’s going to be the last time he ever touches you. He’s demanding in how much you take, but never how much you give. Your mouth falls open in a moan, and he grunts, hauling you up his chest to deepen the kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, your fingers scrambling against his shirt to keep steady, but he doesn’t falter for a single second.
“Be- Ben-“
He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing as his teeth drag over your swollen lips.
“Ben-“
“That’s right.” He grunts. “Say my name, I know you didn’t forget who fuckin’ owns you.”
God, you should shove him for that. But he knows what it does to you. He smirks, when your thighs clench and a soft whine escapes your lips.
Ben lands a sharp slap on your ass. It makes you keen, collapsing over his chest. You’re pulling at him, kisses uncoordinated and desperate—how did you ever survive without this, you’re not sure—as you try to further a kiss that’s already fusing you together by the mouth.
He doesn’t even come up for air.
“Oh- Fuck, Ben-“
He speaks against your lips, voice rolling in his chest.
“I know, doll. You believe me now, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Another slap. This time he lets his hand drag lower, teasing over the crease between your thighs, then the hem of your shorts. Your hips buck into the featherlight touch. Ben grunts, short and tight.
“Dirty girl.” He mutters, starting to wander his kisses over your cheeks. “Say it louder. You fucking believe me.”
“I- Ooooh-“
You press your face into his neck, biting down a moan. The tips of his fingers are tracing your pussy through your shorts. You sink your nails into his shoulders, your breathing ragged as he starts to trace them back and forth.
“You what?” He teases, nipping at your ear. “Heard you start to say something doll, you already that stupid? I’m barely fucking touching you.”
“You- You’re touching enough.” You breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut. “More- Please-“
“More?” Ben snorts. “You’re always getting me on that fucking feelings shit, you don’t get more until you talk.”
You shake your head. “Ben, I- I can’t-“
“Can’t what? Can’t speak? Can’t say Ben, I believe you. ‘Cause trust me doll, when you do I’m going to touch you for real, and you’ll feel real fucking stupid for how you’re acting right now.”
Ben rips clean through your shorts, and thick, warm fingers start to rub the lips of your pussy. He scissors two fingers, pressing them just upside your core, then dragging back and forth. It’s all pressure and not enough friction. It’s going to drive you out of your mind.
“Come on, baby, where’d all that fucking spunk go-“
“You- Benjamin-“
“Uh oh.” He laughs. “I’m in trouble.”
The tips of his fingers graze your clit. You whine, grinding back into the touch, and Ben grabs your pussy with a single hand. He’s covering it completely, pinning you to his chest, and you moan so loud you think it echoes.
“Think you’re going to forgive me?” He mutters in your ear. “Think I’m not dead fuckin’ serious, when I tell you that I’m back. That I want you, all of you, and I’d kill people to have it.”
“I- I don’t want you to kill anyone.” You breathe, dazed and drunken on him.
Ben chuckles, kissing right under your jaw.
“I know you don’t, pretty girl. And I’ll go on the damn leash if you’re yanking me, but I’m not letting you drop me. We go, we go together, you fucking remember that. We get out. You gonna get out with me?”
“Ben-“
“I’ll take care of you.” He mutters. His hand starts to move again, torturously slow. “I’ll be real fucking good to you, swear it. Swear it on you.”
Two fingers slide over your pussy, spreading your arousal on his fingertips. A slow, breathless sigh of escapes your lips, and Ben lets you have this. He teases those fingers over your cunt a few times, then slowly pushes one of them in. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. Just his finger is the biggest stretch of your life.
“I know.” He kisses under your ear, pressing it further in until he’s at the knuckle. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. But you’re doin’ so fucking well. Sweet fucking pussy, all wet and tight for me.”
“Mmmh.”
“Say it’s for me.” He demands, crooking them so they hit a soft little button you’re never able to find yourself.
“Ben-“
“Say it.”
“S’ for you-“ You take in a sharp breath, when he starts to slowly pump them in and out. “All for you, Ben, I- I’m all-“
Your words break into a moan. He’s pressing back against that same spot, rubbing it until you’re squeezing around him before drawing shallowly out and slamming back in. Obscene sounds fill the room, and you didn’t even know you could get this wet.
It’s a grace. Ben’s finger is massive. You can feel every drag of him inside you, and you’re not sure how you’re managing to take it when you keep squeezing around him.
“How- How big is your dick?”
He barks a laugh, pulling your face back with his hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you slowly, matching the pace of his fingers moving inside you.
“You’ll see, baby.” He says. “Just need to be good.”
You pout slightly. “I am being good.”
Ben’s lips twitch. He kisses your forehead, then suddenly speeds his fingers up. Your back arches, hips grinding as you try to chase the feeling, but he holds you firm.
“Ben-“
“Say it.” He grunts, squeezing the back of your neck. “You wanna be so fucking good, say it-“
“I love you!” Your words come sudden and desperate. “I- I love- I love you, please-“
You almost scream, when his fingers stop moving. You grab his wrist, blinking in hopeless confusion. Ben’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring.
Then you realize.
Shit.
“Ben, I- I didn’t-“
“You didn’t mean it?” He grunts, and you shake your head frantically.
“I didn’t mean to- I just- I missed you, and you said- And you were-“ You gesture frantically at his hand. His fingers, still buried deep inside you. “And I- You don’t have to-“
Ben moves, and your words turn into a squeal. You’re airborne, being tossed over his shoulder as he stands.
“Fuck- Benjamin, what are you-“
He slaps your ass, then drags two fingers back through your pussy. You close your eyes, biting your lower lip to stifles the moan at the perfect combo of pleasure and pain.
Ben spanks you again, his voice stern as he moves to his feet.
“Don’t fucking do that quiet shit. Let me hear you.”
His finger pushes back into your cunt, finding that spongey spot in a second. This time you let yourself moan fully, and you’re rewarded with a scraping kiss on your ass.
“There you go, baby. That’s what I want.”
You keen at the praise, and you don’t know why you bothered hiding it from him. Ben feels and see the flutter of your pussy and chuckles. Your knees are dragged together, forcing more pressure, making you tighter around his finger when he shoves it back in.
“Be- Ben-“ Your getting light-headed, from the combination of his touch and being upside down. “What- What’re we doing-“
“You’re telling me where the bedroom is.” He grunts, turning in a circle like a magic sign is going to appear. “Then I’m fucking you ‘till you can’t walk.”
“Oh- Okay.”
You grab a fistful of his shirt as he slaps your ass again, moaning when that fucking finger starts to pump once more. There’s a pressure building in your core, and the way he’s holding you is only making it worse. Like you’re just a toy, but still the most important thing in his life. He keeps kissing your thigh and ass while he fingerfucks you. Your exposed to the cold air, the window is open, but the warmth of his hand and body—the warmth of what he’s doing to you—is almost too much to handle.
“Bed, doll.” His reminder is gruff, but soft.
You nod, your tongue all loose and hopeless. “I- I um- It was- That way-“
You press on his shoulder, steering him towards the door and Ben slaps your pussy.
“Good girl.”
The praise and touch shoot through you like a drug. You think you might be about to cum just like this. Over Ben’s shoulder with barely any friction at all.
He kicks the door open, and marches into your room. You’ve never seen him so focused before. He lays you down on the bed with shocking care, before ripping at your clothing like a child on Christmas.
Ben whistles, when you’re fully exposed to him.
“Look at you, baby, can’t believe I was sleeping next to you for months and you wouldn’t let me touch.”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your breasts. “You didn’t earn touching. Only good, domesticated boys get that.”
Ben scowls, pulling off his shirt. “I’m a domesticated fucking man, doll.”
And you giggle. Because he’s so fucking stupid, but he’s here. You’d cry if there wasn’t a helium filled light, blooming through your body.
You still might cry.
Ben’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind—and like he doesn’t care the slightest, he’s just mostly concerned—and you laugh more because you’re definitely going to cry. You’re going to cry during sex with Soldier Boy, and he’s still going to fuck you anyway.
“You know it’s not nice to start fucking laughing before a man takes his pants off-“
“I love you.”
You say it plainly, because it is. You love Ben. You have for so long, and it had been buried like treasure, but now he’s here. Now it gets to shine, and it’s far too bright to be ignored.
Ben looks shell-shocked. He’s panting like you punched him, but you’re not worried. He’s a big boy. He’ll be okay.
You both will.
“I love you,” you repeat, beaming up at him. “I love you so much, Ben, I-“
You giggle again, as he almost stumbles forward to kiss you. His massive chest envelops you, his kisses pushing you back into the mattress, and you meet him with everything you have.
Ben pulls back. Staring at you the same way he always has.
Like he’s found the last, greatest wonder of the world.
“Say it again.” He mutters.
“I love you.”
You offer it easily. It’s his to have.
And Ben seems to swallow it. His mouth closes, his tongue flicking over his lips, and you know that face.
It means he’s on a fucking mission.
“Here’s how this is going.” He grunts, fixing you with a glare. “You listen. I work. I’m tasting you,” he slaps your pussy again, lips twitching at the full body shutter it gives him. “Then you’re going to cum on my cock until you’re sobbing, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t walk. You got that.”
You swallow and nod. Ben’s eyes narrow.
“You talk to me, sweetheart, I can’t read your fucking mind.”
“Got it.” You breathe, your legs spreading wide.
It’s a shameless offering. Ben slaps your pussy again, and you buck a little of the bed with a whine of delight.
“Hold onto something.” He winks, sliding slowly down your body. “I ain’t going fucking easy.”
You expect no less of him. And you’d be able to make that joke, if he didn’t lick a thick stripe up your pussy and make you shriek.
“Holy fuck-“ Your eyes roll back in your head, your hands clawing at the sheets.
Ben chuckles, the sound vibrating against you, and repeats the motion. Your thighs press together, but he shoves them back open with a single hand, settling fully down.
“No hiding from me.” He mutters, breath warm over your core. “Look at you, doll. Even prettier from down here, didn’t know that was fucking possible.”
You laugh breathlessly. “Kiss ass.”
“Gets me places.” Ben kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking softly.
His beard scrapes and tickles against you, his chin pressing where you need him and his nose bumping your neglected clit.
“Ohhhh.” You close your eyes, slowly running your fingers through his hair. “Oh God, Ben-“
He hums in approval, switching to match the mark on the other side. He’s let go of your thighs to grab everywhere else, rubbing your ass, your hips, your sides. He slides a massive palm over your abdomen, pinning you to be bed. You should know that’s a warning sign, but you’re too lost in the heat of his mouth.
“Ben...” You moan freely, covering his hand with one of yours.
He flips it over, and you thread your fingers together.
Another warning.
“That’s- Fuck-“
He blows on your clit, and shivers run up your spine. You don’t think you can take being teased any longer. Not right now.
“More, Ben, more-“
A dark, promising chuckle rumbles in his chest. You crane your neck to look at him, and realize your mistake too late.
He’d been waiting for you to ask. And now that you have, he’s not holding back.
Ben shoves his face fully between your thighs, lapping and sucking at your clit and soaked pussy like a man starved, and your mouth falls in a long, silent scream.
You’ve been eaten out before, but never like this. Ben’s going at you the same way he kisses you. The same way he does everything. With everything he has, and the mindset that less is a sin. If something is worth doing, he’s not going to slack.
And your pussy is under that full focus. It’s almost too much to handle.
Ben makes out with every sensitive spot, inside and outside. He licks and tongue-fucks, letting you squeeze around him and pushing your ass up to hit a better angle. He noses at your clit while he works on your gaping, leaking hole, then switches.
Soft, slightly chapped lips wrap around your clit, sucking on you with all the power of a fucking sex toy. His tongue flicks back and forth over and over again, building you into a whining, cloudy eyed frenzy. You scratch at his scalp and pull on his hair, but it just makes him moan, and now everything is vibrating.
Everything seems to make him moan. Ben grunt every time you jerk your hips, slamming them back down and squeezing your hand. He moans when you squeeze down on his tongue, when he brings you right up to the edge then stops at the last second, so you slam his shoulders in frustration.
Sometimes he laughs. And that’s even worse. It makes his massive arms—wrapped around your hips—flex, and it goads him into working you impossibly deeper. You turn your face, pressing it into the pillows. Ben squeezes your hand, dragging your clit between his teeth before pulling away for a single second.
“Eyes.” He grunts, and your attention snaps over.
“Be- Ben-“
“Watch me, doll.” He open-mouth kisses you clit, and you whimper. “That’s right, don’t you look away for a fucking second.”
Now that you’re watching, you couldn’t if you tried.
Ben goes back to his self-assigned job, and the sight is more lewd and sinful than any porno in the world. His massive shoulders roll and flex as he moves you how he wants. You can’t see his mouth, but you can see him moving his head with his tongue on your clit. He shakes it, playing the nerve bundle like a bop-it, and you’re right back up the edge again.
And again, Ben stops.
You almost scream, and Ben chuckles. He kisses your poor, throbbing clit all sweet, then goes back to slowly working his tongue against your entrance. You’re wound too tight. You think you might snap from just the wrong breath.
“Be- Ben-“ You pull his hair, trying to get him back up to your clit. “Ben, let me cum- I- I need to cum-“
He just moans again. You’re going to kill him.
“Please, I- I can’t take it-“ You moan, trying to squirm your body further onto his face. “God, Ben, I can’t- I need it so bad, please-“
Sharp, lust-blown eyes snap to yours. You whimper, giving him your best hopeless pout. It’s the one that usually gets him to cave. He laughs and shakes his head and gives you whatever you want, grumbling affectionately about how damn impossible you are.
But this time, he just smirks against your pussy. And you might have him wrapped around your finger, but he’s got you cornered.
Take it. He’d said.
You don’t think you have a choice.
“Look at you,” Ben drawls, kissing your clit. His beard drags. You whimper, eyes locked onto his.
The sounds earns you another kiss, and it makes you squirm. With how his eyes gleam, you’re worried he’ll just keep you like this all night.
“You’re close.” He mocks, rubbing his palm against your pussy. “So close, baby doll. I can fuckin’ see it, you’re about to cry.”
You glare at him, and he just grins.
“You think I’ll give a shit? Think I don’t want to see you break for me?”
He presses his hand down harder. You go to reach for it, but Ben grabs your wrist and pins it firmly next to him on the mattress.
“No touching.” He grunts. “Mine.”
Oh, that makes you clench around nothing. After, you’re going to force him to make dinner and maybe do taxes or drive a car to earn feminism points back, but right now everything is just Ben, lying between your legs, calling you his.
And he’s staring at your pussy, almost transfixed. You moan as his thumb rubs your clit, his hand rising up so he can watch you react. You can feel yourself, gushing and fluttering. Desperate for anything he can give you. You’ll beg more, you’ll take it however he wants, you just need more.
“Christ on a fucking cross.” Ben mutters, pressing his cheek into your thigh. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of pussies, doll.”
You shoot him a look. “Romantic.”
He rolls his eyes, pinching your clit between his fingers.
“Was going to say yours is the best, you fucking brat.”
You smile, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers. You’re seconds from exploding with desire, but you just want to hold him. Feel him, for only a little longer.
Something in Ben’s expression shifts. For the briefest moment, it softens. His shoulders relax, and the slow breath he lets out sounds like a release. He kisses the inside of your palm. His thumb pushing on your clit, dragging it back and forth in a steady, relieving rhythm.
But you’re too sensitive. You’re being worked back up too fast, and tears start to prick.
“Ben.” You breathe, fingers curling against his cheek. “Please.”
He smirks. There’s one last kiss on your clit, then another on your well-bruised thighs. He rises to his knees, slapping your pussy while one hand undoes his belt.
Ben chuckles, at the way you fully tremble from the hit.
“You fucking like that shit, don’t you.”
You shrug, watching his belt slide away. “Maybe.”
“You do. Can see it, you-“ He pushes two fingers back into your cunt, and you moan.
“Ben- Oooooh-“
He tosses aside his belt, spanks your clit, and grins triumphantly.
“Fucking felt that. You started pouring on me like a waterfall, you love it-“
You kick at his thigh, flushing and rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”
“Don’t think I will.” He drawls, going back to his pants. “Think I get to talk as much as I want, baby doll. You’re the one that’s going to be fucked all damn stupid.”
You had a smart, sharp retort.
It dies when Ben pulls down his pants, and you see his cock.
Of course he’s such an arrogant, smug ass. Endowed is too weak a word. He’s blessed. He’s got the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen—thick and long in all the best ways, like it was handcrafted to give your pussy a heart attack—and with the look on his face, he fucking knows it.
“See something you like,” he grins down at you, stroking himself slowly.
“I… Um…” You lick your lips, crawling slowly up the mattress. “You’re very…”
You trail off again. You’re humping the sheets like an animal, forcing yourself not to just fucking touch yourself, but it’s impossible. He’s too… everything.
Ben laughs, prowling up over you.
“You’re fucking drooling.”
“You’re pretty.”
“I am not fucking pretty.”
“You are.” You roll your eyes, letting Ben drag you onto your back. “You’re so pretty, Ben, it’s bonkers.”
He grunts, settling himself above you. “Pretty is what you call a fucking show pony.”
“You are a show pony.”
That earns you a glower. You beam back in return, giggling at your own jokes.
“When we’re done, you should let me braid your- Oh my God-“
You grab at his shoulder, eyes going wide as Ben slides his cock into you with one, smooth movement. He drives right into your g-spot, dropping his hips so he’s pinning you into it. He grinds down, abs rubbing on your clit, and there it is.
That coil that had been building in you all night. Ben gets inside of you for ten seconds, and you snap.
You writhe and scramble under him, grabbing at his chest and trying to hide from the overwhelming orgasm ripping through your body. Ben grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, still grinding down onto you as it drags on. You whimper, making garbled sounds of his name.
Ben kisses you, as you twitch through the last bits of it. You turn to limp putty, moaning into his mouth and shivering as he settles at being bottomed out.
“That’s what I wanted to see.” He mutters, nipping at your upper lip. “That’s what I fucking dreamed about.”
You whimper, and Ben laughs. He gives you a shallow thrust, and your eyes go wide.
“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, baby.” He teases, ghost his lips over yours. “We got a lot of fucking time to make up for, and you,” he gives another, sharper slam of his hips. “Are too fucking gorgeous to just give one orgasm.”
A strangled sound escapes your lips, and Ben grins.
“I know. But feel that,” he pulls all the way out, then slams back in. “Real good, isn’t it. Fuck, this pussy was made for me. Going to fuck you until my name is written on it, until it can’t even take anyone else.”
His logic is flawed, but you still moan. Hard not to, when you’ve got all the mass and power of him over you, driving in and out of you at a torturously slow pace.
“That’s my girl.” He coos, bumping your nose before going for a hot, sloppy kiss. “That’s a good fuckin’ cock slut for me, aren’t you.”
Your eyes fly open, your pussy clenching down, and Ben laughs. He starts to drill into you, knocking every bit of air from your lungs.
“Yeah, I know how you like it. My dirty baby, get off of me telling you that I own you,” he slams down, and tears burn at your eyes. “That I’m going to fucking wreck you, turn you into my fuck doll, my sweet little fucking whore.”
You moan, the shame only making the heat in your tummy build faster. Ben rises over you, hair pressed to his brow from sweat.
“That’s right. Take it, take this cock and thank me for it.”
He slides his thumb over your lips, pressing down ever so slightly as his cock fucks ruthlessly in and out of your pussy. You mewl, opening your mouth for him to take. Ben laughs, thick and breathless, and pushes his thumb in.
“Fucking- Christ-“ He groans as you start to suck. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and- Tight-“
He groans, fucking impossibly harder. The bed squeaks and shifts. You moan around his thumb, tears flowing down your cheeks.
“Crying for me, baby doll, so fucking desperate you’re going to cry for it- Shit-“
Your second orgasm hits suddenly. You clench down on Ben, making him groan loudly. His chest is tight with restraint, and you scratch at the muscle, whining around his thumb.
It’s so much. Too much. You’re stuffed so full, and you can barely breathe, and it’s perfect but you don’t know what to do with yourself but sob and moan.
“There you go, so tight and warm.” Ben’s babbling. You think he’s lost himself as much as you have. “Fuck, you’re going to be death of me if you keep lookin’ like that, gotta-“
You squeak as Ben pulls his thumb and cock out with wet sounds. There’s no time to protest the loss, though, before you’re being flipped onto your stomach and fucked within and inch of your life.
Ben drags your ass in the air, barely giving you a second to recover before he’s back to railing you into the mattress. You cum even faster this time, between the filthy words and deeper position.
“Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she.” Ben grunts in your ear, his chest draped over your back. “You love it, fucking love being marked up and fucked like an animal. You fucking slut, bet that pretty mouth needs something to suck on again. Be you’ll look so pretty choking on my dick, to bad you look even fuckin’ better like this.”
You cum again with Ben’s thumb in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, and his body wrapped around yours. Then a third time, when he rises up and plays with your ass, shoving your head into the mattress to watch you cry and try to wiggle back on his cock.
After a while, you lose track of what position your in. You’re over him, then under, then pressed against the headboard and folded in half. You don’t know how he’s held himself off this long. You’re a boneless, oversensitive puddle made of countless orgasms, by the time Ben starts to rut and groan.
Ben finishes inside you, holding you firmly above him as his hips jerk up. You watch him come apart under dazed, tear-stained lashes. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. He’s pumping into you, hot and jerking, dripping out of your pussy as just more and more comes. A wet sound fills the air, and you can see his own release stained over his abdomen as he just keeps going.
You think you pass out, after. You must, because when you come too, you’re lying on clean sheets and wearing Ben’s shirt. You stare at the ceiling for a while, still partially lost to the world.
You come back to earth, when Ben says your name. He’s coming out of the shower, bare-chested and glorious.
He gives you that small smile, and you return it without a thought.
“Feeling alright?” He mutters, climbing into bed at your side.
No pants. Unhelpful.
“Um-“ You stare at his cock, swinging between his thighs. Your mouth is watering. “You…”
“Jesus, woman.” He snorts. “I’m not trying to fucking break you, stop slobbering.”
“I am not slobbering-“
“Yeah, you fucking are.”
You stick your tongue out and try to roll away, but Ben’s right. He worked you. One movement comes with a whine, and suddenly you’re being pinned below Ben’s bare body.
“Rest.” He scolds, and you roll your eyes.
“You’re not my boss-“
“Yeah, but I love you, and I’m going to be real damn pissed if you hurt yourself.” He taps your jaw. “Rest.”
You blink at him.
And again, Ben just finds a way to make you feel more full.
“You love me?” You whisper.
He blinks. You don’t think he knows he said it.
“Of course I do-“
“Say it.”
He scowls. “You heard it, means I said it-“
“Say it again.” You give him that look. The pouty one.
This time, it’s going to work.
“Please?” You add.
Ben sighs, shaking his head, and glares at you like you’re the bane of his existence.
You might be. But he likes it, and he’s the one who’s going to be keeping you at the center of his universe.
“I love you.” He grunts.
You beam, and Ben kisses you with a labored sigh. It’s slow. Romantic.
Meant to remind you that you have time.
“Good boy.” You whisper, and he groans.
“You’re real lucky-“
“Yeah.” You cut him off, and he lets you.
He always lets you. Because he loves you.
“I am.”
✦End note: i dont care what he does in the show this is my emotional support old horny man✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Summary: You take down a monster but it has one last surprise for you – a polar plunge. Leon's forced to go in after you. Once you're free of the ice, you've got to go get warm, fast.
WC: 4.5k
CW: NSFW, minors DNI, you and Leon are partnered DSO agents, monster fight, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, reader put in peril, reader is injured, shared body heat, sex in the back of the Porsche, first time (together), unprotected p in v, creampie, synchronized orgasms, sort of aftercare (Leon is sweet and attentive), I'm so incredibly not kidding half of this is porn
Notes: MINORS DNI
The root of the problem is there are too many fucking limbs to keep track of.
The monster’s knotted, slimy arms – if you could call them such – are clawed into the ground, keeping it pulled onto the shore, and it has plenty more to swing and slam and bludgeon with, swatting at you and Leon running around like you’re nothing more than pestering flies. After an initial trial of overwhelm, you’re learning: shoot for the bends to shatter joints, hit the ground when it swings then immediately roll to avoid the follow-up slam meant to unite you with the dirt. Permanently.
There’s an additional complication.
“It’s a fucking hydra!” Leon shouts.
It’s a fucking hydra. You’re dealing with more limbs now than when it had burst out of the frozen lake and charged you, with a screech so piercing it still rings in your ears. This changes things, if you don’t want to end up popped like a sauce packet on the patchy grass bank.
“Fuck.”
You have to keep moving, but you’re not shooting at it now. You’re reassessing, heart pounding, breath loud in your ears and visible in the cold, grey air. Leon grunts as he dives clear of a slamming limb, rolling to his feet and dodging the bullwhip crack of another arm.
Your gaze locks on the grenade hanging from his belt. A plan fills in behind your singular focus.
He sees you half a second before you slam into him at full tilt, no time to slow down, but his stance is wide enough that it doesn’t knock him over.
“What–!”
You meet his eyes. You can see the next threat in your periphery; your one, his six, another slimy limb coming in hot. He’s realizing where your hand is. It all happens in the space of a heartbeat.
“Spicy meatball,” you explain, then drop him by kicking your heel into the back of his knee, folding it. Your grip on the grenade yanks it free of his belt and you hold it up over your head as the hydra’s arm, great ugly claw-hand open, misses Leon on the ground and grabs you, ripping you into the air. Leon shouts your name but it’s lost under an ear-splitting, triumphant screech.
The monster’s clutching you too tight, you're gasping for air. Your dominant arm is free, grenade in hand, even if your other arm is squashed in against your side. The fucker’s whipping you around like a litigiously unregulated county fair ride; black edges your vision and your head pounds horribly. You manage to arm the grenade with your teeth and grip it, breathless, waiting.
You need the hydra to screech again. You need the great stinking mouth open, throwing saliva and mucus past rows of needle teeth, the perfect basket in which to throw your one and only egg.
Leon’s already caught on.
A single splattering gunshot splits the air and the monster jerks, limbs flying skyward as it screams in fury; you’re helplessly along for the ride, heaved almost directly above it – and here’s your window.
You drop the grenade. It goes right down the gullet.
The explosion ruptures the monster’s body cavity in a great geyser of green and black gore. Its limbs thrash and flail, whipping high, slamming into the ground. You brace as the arm gripping you speeds for the ground, but then it swings you around and back up, your stomach lurching violently, and –
It throws you.
Your heart and lungs hitch, suspended; time runs slow as you arc high, tumbling, too high, way too high – and start falling. You see where you’re going to land and curl yourself into a ball, protecting your head and neck.
Your body blows a hole right through the lake ice, plunging into the freezing water below.
Leon’s already running.
The hydra is nothing but a tangled, limp, caved-in pile of slop, disregarded the second Leon saw you go airborne. He’s running, stripping off his jacket, ripping open the buckles on his chest rig, tearing off his tac belt, leaving a trail of weapons and ammunition and nylon webbing strewn in his wake. He reaches the bank in his street clothes, shoes skidding to a stop just before the water, breath loud in his ears and visible in the air.
The jagged crater you left in the ice is still sloshing dark, slushy water.
You haven’t come up for air.
“Fuck.”
He looks down at the scuffed grey ice pack, gauges the distance to you, and sprints.
The ice groans and cracks under his feet; he keeps moving. He closes the gap, every pounding footfall turbulence that fractures the lake ice in great echoing snaps, the whole thick sheet weakened by the violence of your intrusion. Finally, with a leap that calves the ice beneath him, Leon dives into the freezing water after you.
The shock of the cold pulls on Leon’s lungs, he has to fight against the primal instinct to gasp. His limbs are immediately leaden, but he doesn't stop moving. The flat grey daylight barely filters through the murky ice above and the water is dark with disturbed silt. He kicks towards the lakebed in search of you, his pounding heartbeat a timer counting down.
Something that looks like a branch solidifies into your arm, limp hand floating in a slack reach skyward. Leon grabs your wrist, hauling your dead weight towards himself, hooking his arms underneath your shoulders and swimming up for the gap in the ice.
He heaves in air when your heads breach the surface.
You do not.
“Don’t you dare,” he growls through gritted teeth, and manages to slide you up onto the ice pack, pushing you clear as he kicks his legs up behind himself and drags flat onto the ice beside you. He moves you onto a thick, uncracked stretch of ice and pushes you onto your back, plugging your nose and forcing air into your mouth.
You choke, spurting dirty lake water, rolling onto your side and spitting up more, coughing and heaving. You try to prop yourself up on your elbow, your throat raw and tight, nose stinging and burning. Your eyes are blurry when you open them, your ears are waterlogged. You squeeze your eyes shut and blink them clear enough to see what keeps pulling at you.
It’s Leon, wet and pale, saying something to you, his eyes intense. You squint at his mouth, trying to read his lips because your ears might as well have been left underwater for all the good they’re doing you.
Get up
We need to move
Can you “hear me? We have to go, now!”
As if to punctuate his statement, the ice below you jerks, a crack scything underneath your body like a bolt of lightning. You recoil onto your hip and Leon pulls at your arm, pulls you up, the ice creaking and popping under your shoes.
“Run!”
It’s a bit much to ask.
You do your best, stumbling after Leon, short on breath and coughing. You’d impacted the ice with your left shoulder, the force ramming your curled arm into your ribs, hard. That side is tight and painful, and you know you’re too frozen to feel the full extent of it yet. It’s really not gonna be pretty.
Your foot catches on a rising gap in the ice and trips you; you slide and weakly scramble back to your feet. Ahead of you, Leon’s almost to the shore.
You’re almost there.
You hit the bank on your hands and knees, gasping. Your fingers, clawing into the crumbling dirt, are pale, the nail beds blue. You can barely feel the dry grit of the cold earth under your hands.
Leon grabs the collar of your jacket and yanks you to standing.
“Keep moving. Keep moving, come on.” He grabs your hand, already running, pulling you after him.
You half-register the scattered bullet clips, weaponry, and leather jacket on the bank as you run in Leon’s wake. You pass the fuckass hydra; it’s nothing but a gelatinous stinking puddle that you quickly leave behind.
The thin, brittle air razors through your lungs, freezing and metallic. The bitter wind axes at you. You can’t feel your extremities; you keep stumbling and it’s slowing you down. Leon looks back just in time to watch you actually fall, tripping in a rut, knees slamming into the ground. He runs back to you and helps you up. You’re both breathing shallow, wracked with tremors, teeth chattering and skin close to blue.
“Almost there. Come on.”
Leon’s car is half-hidden behind a broken fence and an overgrown shrub, parked haphazard on the dry, patchy grass. He hits the driver’s side door with more momentum than he meant to, pressing his thumb to the door handle; it unlocks and he yanks it open. You hear the whole car unlock, the lights flashing, and he slaps the driver’s door shut in favor of the backseat.
“Get in. Get in!”
You slip in the back passenger’s door just as he slides in on the other side, the both of you slamming the doors on the freezing wind. Leon immediately grabs the hem of his soaked shirt, peeling it over his head and dumping it over the headrests into the trunk. It lands with a wet plap.
“Wet stuff in the back,” he says, twisting over the seats to grab something out of the trunk. It’s a duffel; he grunts in frustration when his numb fingers fail at first to catch the handle but then he drags it into the backseat while you’re struggling out of your soaked jacket and shoving it over the backrests. It lands with an even wetter plorp.
You’re still wearing your chest rig; your numb, stiff fingers can’t get the fucking plastic buckles to open.
“Fuck!”
There’s a sharp snk noise; Leon shoves your hands clear and slips a folding knife under the nylon webbing of your rig. The straps pull taut and dig into your injured side, but then he’s cut clean through the belts and he’s helping untangle it from your arms. The buckles clatter against the back windshield as you throw it in the trunk. Leon uses the knife to make quick work of his shoelaces, kicking his soaked and muddy shoes into the footwell, then he leans across and holds your ankles steady, cutting your bootlaces while you peel your shirt up over your head. Your side screams at the stretch and you rasp out a cry of pain.
Your left side is already violently bruised, livid and dark against the pale blanch of your goosepimpled skin. You’re caught for a moment by the horrible picture it makes, trying to remember to breathe.
“Jesus,” Leon says in agreement. In your periphery, he’s struggling with his waterlogged skinny jeans and there’s suddenly a lot more skin above the line of his waistband; the denim sucked his boxer briefs halfway down his hips before he managed to shove the jeans to his knees and off. He throws the jeans in the back, pulls the waistband of his underwear up, and again he’s in your space undoing your useless fucking tac belt that your frozen fingers can’t open. His hands are just as cold and numb as your own, why the fuck do they work better than yours?
Wind gusts against the outside of the car, scratching the scraggly branches of the nearby shrub against the doors. You feel a draft even through the sealed door. Your teeth are clacking uncontrollably.
“Can we get the fucking heat running?” You shove your pants and boots into the trunk, smearing mud on the leather seat. Leon’s rooting through the duffel again.
“No.”
“No?”
“The keys are in my coat.”
“The fuck kind of agent are you? Hotwire the car.”
“Smart, when I can’t feel my hands,” he says, and shoves the duffel into the footwell, tearing open a passport-sized plastic package with his teeth and turning towards you on the seat. “Come here.”
He shakes out the mylar safety blanket and you realize exactly what’s going to have to happen, here. It’s a thought you’ve had triaged as a last-resort solution while stripping semi-nude in the backseat of his car; now it turns out it’s your only solution. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat and you’re going to have to get on top of him. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat in nothing but wet cotton boxer briefs and you’re going to have to get on top of him in nothing but a wet bra and panties, and then he’s going to close you both in under the mylar blanket to trap heat like you’re a fucking turkey in a roasting pan.
Fuck.
You clench your jaw against your chattering teeth and don’t let yourself hesitate. There’s no can or can’t here – you’re both freezing, this is life or death. So you climb up over him in the limited space available, helping to pull the mylar blanket around you and tuck it in under your shins, under his head and shoulders, sealing you together into a lumpy, creased foil bubble.
It’s not pitch black like you'd hoped. The mylar filters the grey daylight into a dim, intimate dusk. You can still see Leon’s face clearly, on your hands and knees above him; you could count his eyelashes if you could bear to look him in the eyes. You keep your head down and focus on the uncontrollable chatter of your teeth, the way your whole body is shivering unpleasantly, and not the way his knees are framing your hips. He’s too tall for the backseat.
Your disloyal stomach flutters when you feel his hand brush your darkened side.
“How are your ribs?” He presses his thumb carefully against the darkest patch, low on your ribcage, where your elbow impacted. You hiss and jerk away.
“Tenderized, Leon. Ow."
“How bad?”
“I don’t… think anything’s broken.”
“Deep breath in.”
You oblige, slow and careful, your ribs expanding over your lungs. It stings horribly, your skin feels too tight, but nothing stabs you. His hand rides the motion of your ribs, feeling for telltale hitches or jerks. It’s nothing but clinical.
“Alright,” he says, quiet. He eases his touch but doesn’t drop it away. You’re staring at your hand in the crumpled landscape of the mylar blanket over Leon’s shoulder, because everything else is his naked skin.
His hand moves from your side to your arm, fingers close to the bend in your elbow like he means to fold it.
“You gotta get down on me."
You want to laugh but your side only lets you make a pained huff through your chattering teeth.
"Nice one, icebrain. Lemme loop HR in real quick."
“The air pocket only works if one of us is warm,” he says, steamrolling the comment. And he’s right.
Fuck.
"I don't know where you think my knees are going."
You have to play some strange and painful backseat Twister, the foil blanket complicating shit by clinging to your damp skin and hair, but then you’ve puzzled yourselves together so you can drop onto him with a put-upon huff.
He hisses and pushes you back up by the shoulders.
“Fuck, how much water is in that thing?”
You both look down at your high-impact bra. Squeezed between the two of you, it's now weeping drops of frigid water down your stomach. It's also left an imprint across Leon's chest, wet enough to bead up and roll towards his armpits.
“You can’t be wearing that.”
“Leon–“
"No, this isn't an argument. That's over your heart."
Yes, but. It's also over your breasts. Preventing them from being all over Leon. All over Leon's naked skin.
"Do you trust me?"
You don't even hesitate, because that's the easy question.
"Yes."
It's a zip-front bra. His fingers touch the zipper.
"Okay?" His gaze is holding yours, strong, a promise to keep his eyes up.
It’s taking all your energy to appear calm and unaffected right now.
“Yeah. Fine."
It’s a relief, actually, the compression easing as he pulls the zipper down, releasing entirely when the sides come apart. It’s easier to breathe. He pushes the straps from your shoulders, brushes them down your arms until you can drop the soaked bra into the footwell, tucking the foil blanket back in place. His chest, still cold, feels warm against your freezing breasts.
He rubs the damp, freezing skin of your back, paying special attention to the deep impressions left by the bra seams like he can smooth them out, putty under his fingers.
“Do you know you're doing that.”
He stops. You shift, shoulderblades rolling under his hands.
“I didn't tell you to stop,” you say.
“Yes ma'am.”
Your head is turned away from his, because otherwise your nose would be right against his cheek. You have to maintain at least one boundary in the smoking ruin of all the others. He keeps stroking your back; the gentle flats of his palms, the firm pads of his fingers. You’re starting to feel like putty.
Your eyelids are heavy.
“Is it bad to fall asleep?”
He pinches you hard and you jolt away from it, knocking against the seatback. Your injured side flares with pain.
“Fuck! You ass,” you gasp, poking him hard between the ribs. He jerks under you, cursing, and you brace for retaliation, but he’s gone still.
And you register why.
His face is right under yours, noses almost touching. You’re sharing breath.
And something else is different.
“…Where are your hands?”
You know where they are. He moves them from your hips up to your back again.
“Good boy.”
You don’t know what fucking possessed you. It sounded like a joke in your head, but released into the narrow space between your faces it’s far more charged than that, because of course it is. You’re hearing it now, where it’s too late to take it back. You still have a brain like a frozen chicken cutlet, fucking cold and smooth, he has to understand–
He’s breathing out hot against your mouth, pushing his hands down to the small of your back, pressing your body tighter against his, and it ignites something sharp and fervid in your belly.
“Shit,” you whisper, and kiss him.
He meets it. He kisses you back like he’s just been waiting, gathering the damp hair at your nape with one hand, blunt nails scraping the skin of your neck. His other hand goes lower, the heel of his palm digging in, fingers gripping your ass. You gasp and roll your hips, body lighting up.
“Fuck,” he says into your mouth. “Careful with your side.”
“You be careful with my side.”
“Damn.”
“Shut up.” You fist his hair and pull his head back, kissing the taut line of his neck under his ear, scraping your teeth against the skin. He’s got both hands on your ass now, sliding his fingers under the sides of your panties to gather the fabric into a thong, palming the cool skin of your bared cheeks. You hum, rolling your hips again.
“You’ve got a fixation.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, unashamed. He smooths his hands down your thighs where they’re framing his sides, his fingertips digging in. You’re sitting on his pelvis, grinding on nothing but the flat of his low abdomen, his thighs closed behind your ass, his knees pressed to the car door. You kiss his mouth, open and loose, and speak against it.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you that cold?”
“Don’t be rude.”
You stop moving, pushing up to stare down at him. “Are you serious?”
“No.” He opens his legs, shifting his hips, and you gasp when you feel him against your ass. You shift back, rubbing yourself against the hardening length of his dick, the lake-wet fabric of your underwear dragging together, no longer cold and clammy where you’re touching. His breath tumbles hot from his open mouth, hips rolling to meet you.
“Fuck, Leon.” If this is him with shrinkage, how the hell has he been packing all that into skinny jeans all these years?
He’s watching you, his eyes half-lidded, hands on your naked waist. You sit up more, tipping your head back, running your hands along his forearms as you drag your wet pussy along the firm heat of his cock.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he tells you, molten. You groan, arching.
“Jesus. Keep talking like that.”
“Yeah?” He tugs you by the arms to bring you lower, kissing your neck with an open mouth, his scruff lightly scratching your skin and making you shiver. His hands find your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and your breath hitches. “Fuck, I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”
You laugh, just a teasing exhale against his lips. “What, cold and injured?”
He’s pulling the fabric of your panties to one side, holding it there, out of the way. You moan when he rubs his fingers through your drenched folds, slow.
“Naked and wet,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. You whimper and thread your fingers into his hair, gripping, gasping when he circles your clit. Your hips jerk erratically; he’s mouthing kisses up the side of your neck, nipping lightly, then speaking against your skin, his voice subterranean.
“What do you want?”
Holy shit. You don’t remember what it feels like to be cold, anymore. Your body’s on fire. You’ve maybe never been this turned on in your life, and all this after a fucking ice bath.
“Take yourself out," you tell him. "I wanna feel you.”
The first drag of your wet cunt along the satin heat of his naked cock has him groaning, his hips rocking helplessly. You glide on him like that, wetting his dick, feeling it jump and throb between your pussy lips. You prop yourself up on his shoulders, pressing him down into the seat, grinding your clit firm against the head of his cock with little gyrations of your hips. He’s gripping your waist, mouth open, just watching you.
“I’ve never seen you so speechless,” you tell him.
“I’ve – shit – never seen you riding me.”
“Mm. Lucky day.”
“I know.”
“Any last words?”
“What?”
You cant your hips back, reaching down to guide the glistening head of Leon’s cock to your entrance. His fingers tighten on your sides, breathing in sharp.
“Be careful,” he says.
“You’re sweet,” you tell him, bearing down with little adjustments, caging his dick in place with your fingers. The tip of him presses into your tight wet heat and Leon gasps, head thumping back against the seat. You stare at the display of his body below you; the taut stretch of his neck, the flush of his chest, the tight muscles of his stomach as he works to keep his hips still, letting you control this. You take him into you in increments, the burning stretch of him blurring into white-hot pleasure, the length of him making your thighs shake before you’re finally fully seated, the throbbing heat of him bottomed out inside of you, filling you deep. You drop forward, hands on his shoulders, panting.
“Are you okay?”
You manage a nod. “God, Leon.”
He moves his hips, just a small adjustment, experimental. You gasp, lifting to half-mast him, sliding back down. He’s so thick.
Your thighs are shaking too much and you don’t exactly have the room to adjust. You lean down, desperate.
“Fuck me.”
He doesn’t need telling twice. He grips your ass, pushing you down into every thrust of his hips, long and slow at first so you can feel every inch, grinding tight against you when he bottoms out. He uses your breath by his ear as a barometer, picking up the pace, the wet glide turning into a wet slap, and turns his head to catch your moans in his mouth.
“Think you can come like this?”
“Limited menu of options, garçon,” you pant. There’s no fucking space back here.
“Tip your hips down,” he says.
You do; he slams in deep, grinding, putting delicious pressure on your clit. You cry out.
“Fuck, like that Leon!”
He pulls your earlobe into his mouth, sucking lightly, resuming the faster slap of his hips.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, filthy, and jesus christ, he is going to get an orgasm out of you. Almost just did.
“Shit,” you gasp. “Are you close?”
“Do you want me to be?”
You clench around him and he groans, hips stuttering.
“Fuck. I am if you do that,” he gasps. You do it again and he buries deep to grind on you, like he’s warring you, fighting to set you off first.
“Fuck, I’m close, I’m close,” you whimper, bouncing on him, stalling for time. He’s got you right on the edge and you don’t wanna go over yet. “With me. Come with me.”
He curses, fucking into you hard and fast, thrusts starting to go erratic. You keep a litany of babble going in his ear, obscene, feeling him catching up, drawing tight; and then he’s bottoming out hard against you, groaning brokenly as he pulses deep inside of you, your walls convulsing as the final slap of his hips sends you tumbling over the edge with him.
When you come back down to earth, the foil blanket is askew, his leg sticking out in the passenger’s side footwell, your forearm dangling in the driver’s side footwell. You’re lying bonelessly on top of Leon, riding the heaving of his chest as you both catch your breath. He pulls the mylar down to the middle of your back and the cold air raises new goosebumps on your flushed skin.
"I think that did the trick,” he says.
You hum, your eyes closed, face pressed to the side of Leon’s neck. He runs his thumb lightly along the dewy column of your spine.
“How’s your side?”
“Stings.”
He’s still inside you, starting to slip free as he softens. He gently pulls out and your forehead creases, a grumpy noise escaping you.
“Hey,” he says, soft. You don’t lift your head, it feels like too much effort. He shifts under you and you grumble your displeasure, but he’s just resettling you so you’re not leaning your bruised side so heavily against the seatback. He cards his fingers through your hair, pulling it back from your sweaty temple.
“I’m going to sleep,” you murmur. “Try to pinch me again and see what happens.”
He laughs, just a short rumble low in his chest.
“Worked out fine the first time.”
You smile, eyes closed, and tuck your arm in under his body.
“Beginner’s luck.”
There’s a lot of shit to do. There’s kit to grab from the beach, samples to take from the hydra, clothes to dry, reports to fill out, bruises to heal, complex developments to talk through with your partner.
But right now, there’s just Leon’s heartbeat and steady breathing beneath you, his fingers combing lazily through your hair, and you’re pretty sure it’s all gonna work out okay.
On AO3
Guys quick tip don’t take survival advice from a gratuitous x reader they probably died lmao
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you mentioned a tummy buldge in ur last post? well i raise you maul x reader with tummy buldge AND a breeding kink hihihihi (bonus points if you sprinkle in some praise n possessiveness), thank youu💋💋
Maul x reader: Give Me All Your Pain
IT'S DONE!!! (after nearly 6 weeks um...) This took ages but I worked hard on this delicious meal.
You 🫵 are legally obligated to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoy. GIVE ME FEEDBACK PLEASE (but if you see a typo, no you don't)
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Rating: 18+
Warnings: Maul has a mental breakdown and goes into a nesting, crotch-nuzzling, cyber-knotting, mating-marathon-frenzy. Sad Maul^tm, yearning, Zabrak mating cycle, robo-cock-knot, crying, desperate, and painfully horny. He needs someone and misses his brother.
(Thinking about his cycle triggering Icarus and Scorns…ahem…4some anyone?)
WC: 7,505
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It had been a long time coming. Maul had his new legs, a new mind, and a new purpose. Many of his years had been spent fighting tooth and nail to survive. He had come back from death more times than he could remember, but he always succeeded. Even with the loneliness he so often endured, he was still here. That had to count for something, right? He thought it did. Planet after planet, team after team, Maul traversed the galaxy for something he could not name. The force connected him to all sorts of strange things and he found more foe than friend. But one thing was certain, Maul was no stranger to ghosts. The dead latched onto him like a parasite-feasting on his sanity at their own will, leaving him void of all he cared for. He began to find peace in the dark. Not by any choice of his own, of course. The former Sith-lord had little keeping him afloat. But time moves on, and the universe keeps on expanding. Decisions after decisions, even the ones that appear so tiny, so insignificant, ripple through space and reach those on the other side. The moment you came into his life, he felt the currents of fate changing way.
The day you joined the team, Maul felt the shift. Your spark lit up everything around you, carrying that tiny flame closer to him, sharing a bit of your warmth. Naturally, he was weary. Trust was a hard thing for him to come by. Betrayal had been woven so tightly into everything he knew. Everyone but you. You were too good. Too honest. Too Kind. You should not have survived here. And yet, you did. Each daybreak you were hard at work, keeping your head down and doing as you were told. It was rather easy to keep to yourself since no one really bothered you. You took breaks and ate on your own schedule, which on the outside looked like you were avoiding your leader entirely. It was not intentional. You just assumed he was not the type of person to inquire about his team's personal lives. Although it worked for a while, Maul needed to ensure all of his unit was compatible. That would not work if you never spoke with him. So, starting that day, he made more of an effort to include you. The man talked a lot and valued your input, so warming up to him was hardly difficult, at least on your end. You jumped at the opportunity to get to know the man.
He pulled away at first, assuming you had less than honorable intentions. You were just another team member after all. The first sign of genuine interest in him had his eyebrows raising. The feint blush of your cheeks, averting eyes, playing with the hem of your shirt, he took it all for nerves until it continued on for far longer than would be normal. The idea of manipulation popped into his head. You were trying to get close to him, find out information through his guard lowering. While you came to him in earnest attempt to get close, he mistook you for a threat. Maul could not conceptualize anyone having a genuine interest in him. But you were so…open. He would find you sitting by yourself, as you often were, observing your as you busied yourself with watching the others at work. Perhaps you were lonely. Though the force, he reached out to search your mind. He could feel the desire emanating from your form, but you would not be the first person in the galaxy looking for someone to warm their bed; although he doubted he could help you there. They all led harsh lives, but you did like him. The ache in his hearts was instantaneous. Why would you of all people fall for him? What did he have to offer you besides suffering and pain? These thoughts plagued him, becoming his new company during those long nights.
You never brought it up directly, but you were there for him when he needed it. Maul began to allow himself to endure your presence. Any time he needed something, you were the one he tasked. Spare parts for his legs, mending his weapons, he entrusted you with those things. Everyone else kept their mental guard up, but never you. It was naive. Dangerous. You were too easy to take advantage of. He watched your nimble fingers patch him up. He could not recall the last time someone touched him without the intention of harm.
“Tell me, what brought you to our team?” He watched you flinch as the wire spark grazed your hand.
“…” you took a breath. “I guess I was looking for a place. You know, somewhere where my skills were needed.” A soft chuckle passes your lips. “Not every day you get to fix up a Sith.” You bit your inner cheek the moment those words escaped. It was not your brightest moment; bringing up his past while sitting in close enough range to get your ribs kicked in. The weight of his gaze doubled, and you fought hard not to look up.
“So…you joined to fix me?” Venom seeped from his words. He had every right to feel offense, but he did not miss the hint of guilt on your face. He knew well enough the comment was not ill-intended, but it still stung.
“I, no, I only meant that I…uh-” You curled into yourself, knowing that whatever you said next would likely make things worse. You quickly listed all your options. Sure, you could lie- if you were quick enough to come up with one. Whether or not it would be believable was another thing. He watched you struggle, expression falling a bit at your distress. He leaned back in his seat with a low sigh.
“How long have you worked with cybernetics?”
You exhaled. “A while.” You thanked the stars he was letting it go. “When I was little, I used to work on any scrap metal I could find. All the kids in the junkyard would bring me things to make. Toys, simple navigation systems, I took to it pretty quickly. But for cybernetics, around a few years.” You finished stripping the damaged wire, grabbing a pair of pliers to adhere the new ones.
He nodded softly. “You are good with them. Far better than some of the others here.” He thought to his Zabrak brothers, who occasionally helped, the pain of one’s loss still deep in the recesses of his mind. “They will need a tune-up again in the coming weeks. Be ready.” Maul knew he was likely to take a lot of damage during this next mission. At least he was kind enough to give you a heads up. The chances that he would be in a volatile mood were high. You nodded and finished your work.
Dinner time arrived, and you joined the table. A few feet down sat Scorn and Icarus. The two brothers scowled, turning to one another in quiet voices. A pang of unease crept up your neck. From the corner of your eye, you took in their makings and horns, internally comparing them each to Maul’s.
“You need something?” Scorn jeered.
You went stiff, offering a small shake of your head. “No.” Turning back to you food, the meal suddenly looking like it would taste a whole lot better in your room. A figure slid in front of you, settling his arms on the table.
“Stay away from him,” Icarus declared. His tone was sharp enough to make the warning well felt. Did he mean Maul? Your mind went to your past conversations with the Zabrak. Perhaps you had offended him more than you realized. You were too anxious to ask for more information and the others soon joined. Every spot of the table was filled except for the head. You looked around the area, investigating for that lean figure.
“Don’t bother. He’s not coming.” Rook interrupted your thoughts as she took her seat next to you.
Surprise passed your face: “Is everything alright?” You couldn’t miss the glare Scorn was giving her. Her eyes shifted, voice quieting.
“He’s…tired.” She refused to say any more. In fact, no one seemed to bring it up. It was as if everyone was in on some big secret and didn’t plan to let you in on it. You finished your meal in silence. The following days passed and you watched as the team finally began to depart. It would be a week or more before your saw them again.
As the sun began to set, the image of Maul boarding the ship was all sorts of wrong: his figure slightly hunched, his legs moving in sluggish pace. The light reveled a thin sheen of sweat over his skin, heated and flushed. Your gut twisted unpleasantly and anxiety seeped in like mist-a cold dread that came in the night, threatening to overtake you. All you could do was hope for his safe return. which came far sooner than expected. For only three days later the ship came back. The air lock descended along with two Zabraks holding up their leader. Maul was in terrible shape. In and out of consciousness, he was sweating like a beast. You only caught a glimpse of him before he was put into his room. You turned to Rook, mouth open in question.
“He’s ill,” she frowned. “I have no idea what’s wrong with him. One moment he was standing, the next he just collapsed. He’s in a lot of pain.” She led you inside. Even Spybot followed, saddened by his inability to go see his creator.
“But Maul doesn’t get sick,” you grimaced, seeing his figure disappear behind the doors. “What could he possibly have?”
She sighed. “I have a feeling those two know.” She nodded to the brothers. “Good luck trying to get it out of them. They aren’t letting anyone inside.”
Both Zabraks were stationed outside Maul’s chamber, looking on edge. That made you feel even worse. If they were worried, how bad was he? As much as you wanted to march right up to them and demand answers, their hostility was palpable. No one would be going in or out while they were here.
Then the night came. With the dark, all sorts of horrible things were brought out. Maul’s pained cries resounded through the base. Everyone was up, accepting they will get no rest tonight. You split from the group, heading down the hall. The dull and flickering lights seemed a cruel addition the sounds that came from behind that door.
“Make it stop! Please make it stop…it burns, I…I cannot go on…” Maul’s mind twisted with terrors long suppressed. He caught his own reflection. “Brother? Is that you?” He quieted down as his eyes took in his own shadow. “No, I am alone… There is only-ah!” A sharp pain in his loins sent him coiling over. Features twisted, sweat dripped from his skin as his fingers curled into the sheets beneath him. All sorts of figures passed in front of his eyelids. There was nothing to ground him.
“What’s going on?” You demanded. Icarus stepped in the way.
“Leave. Now.”
“He’s hurting! Why won’t you tell me what’s-” Your back met the ground and the air left your lungs. It took you a full minute to recover from the shock. Did he really just push you? Dusting yourself off, you tried again. This time, the pain in his expression was clear.
“Please…I just want to help.”
He looked to his brother for a moment, noting the subtle nod.
“Maul is…sick.”
“With what?” You pushed.
“It’s…a Zabrak thing.”
Your mind went through every possible fact you knew about their species, but nothing came up.
“When a Zabrak male comes of age, he gets… urges. You understand what I’m saying?” His eyes narrowed on you. Urges? He couldn’t possibly mean-
“They typically subside with age. But it seems someone has triggered it.” He glared at you. “It will be a good week before he’s back to normal, and that’s if he’s lucky. We’ve never seen a rut so bad before.”
“But…how? He doesn’t even have a-” You cut yourself off. The guy survived being cut in half, for kriffs sake. A Zabrak mating cycle was the least surprising thing at this point. Scorn interrupted before you could say anything else.
“It’s your fault, you know. You should have let him be.”
You huffed. “How? We’re not, I mean, we never… Sure I admire him, but it’s not like that!” You searched for some excuse, some way to rationalize this mess.
“It doesn’t matter. Ruts run on hormones and pheromones. Besides, he’s strong with the force. If he, on some level, feels a pull towards you, instinct will take over. Consciously or not. It’s in our blood; to protect and care for our mates, and to father children.”
“Maul would have been a strong leader in his clan. It’s a shame what happened,” Icarus stepped closer, “but you really need to go. If he gets a whiff of your scent, he’ll be in more agony than even he can handle.”
Your shoulders dropped. The very thought of leaving him alone to endure the pain made seemed impossible. What could you do? You were no healer or expert on his people. It was better to leave it up to the nightbrothers and let them take care of their own. You retreated to your room, contenting yourself with the knowledge that his rut would soon pass.
It was not easy to fall asleep. Your mind flashed with images of him-dark and wet. His body heaving with hormones. Up and down and up and down, the hypnotic rhythm of his breathing, groans and moans, hips gyrating in primal motion. Between wakefulness and sleep, your fingers slipped below your waistband, easing the ache. You were woken up to a dampness between your legs. It left a spot on the sheets. The next day comes and goes, and then one more. The flashes of him only continued. Scorn and Icarus were exhausted. They have been guarding Maul’s doors for three days straight and have hardly had a break. Rook finally talked them into taking shifts and getting some rest.
You could not stand it any longer. Joining some of the others, you went out to stock up on some items. Hydration liquids and non-perishables were a necessity for this line of work. You got enough to last you a few weeks. Even with the much-needed outing, your mind could not be free from what you had learned. Had you really trigged something so… You shook your head to clear the thought away. Now was not the time to let your mind wander to more perverted things. Upon your return in the evening, the brothers were in a panic. You ran to them in haste.
“What’s going on?” Your voice shook. Their marked faces were pulled down in worry as they blocked your way. “Hey!-let me through!”
“I’m sorry…We couldn’t stop him.”
“Stop him? From what??” Your eyes found the doors of Maul’s chambers: metal dented and torn from their hinges. Your eyes widened. He did that?
“He’s looking for your scent. He’s not himself right now. It’s dangerous for you to be here.”
You stepped back. “O-Okay. I’ll go somewhere. I’ll get my things-”
“No, he’s…sort of taken over your room.”
“He what?” Your heart sank.
“It’s where your sent is strongest, he-”
You didn’t give him a chance to finish his sentence before you were running to find him. Each step closer to Maul felt more difficult, like a weight in your body. Standing outside your own door, heat washed over you. When did you get so…wet? The ache bloomed between your legs, slippery. A deep breath filed your lungs and-Kriff…what was that smell? Your slick doubled in response to it. The feint pressure in your head brought it all to you: the force.
Maul was everywhere. His scent, his presence, it was all you could think about. Your feet carried you inside and you paused a moment to let your eyes adjust to the dark. Taking a tentative step inside, you hardly registered the sound of the doors closing behind you.
“Maul?” You spoke in soft tone. A low rumble filled your ears as your bed came into view. Furniture was broken and scattered about the place, and your clothes were piled high, creating a wall around the mattress. In the center, Maul’s bare form lay curled around your pillows. His face buried into it.
It was a pitiful sight; the once strong Sith Lord now reduced to baser instincts. You took him in, tracing the lines of his body: from the muscles of his arms, down his back, the soft gentle slopes of his ass. His body shook with tremors, unaware of your presence climbing over the barrier and onto the bed beside him. But at the feel of your hand brushing his temple, his eyes shot open: wide and afraid. He lurched away, curling himself against the backboard, marking the distance between you two.
“Leave! Leave me! I can’t-” His chest heaved from the effort it took to form a coherent sentence. The member between his legs was dripping with need, red and heavy.
The sight of it had you restless. You approached him slowly, reaching out to take his hand. He allowed it, immediately relaxing into your touch, curling his form into your lap.
“Oh Maul, why didn’t you tell me?” Your thumb brushed over his cheekbone. His face buried in you, not wanting you to see him in such a state.
“How could I? Reduced to…this. I should be darkness. I should be FEAR! I am half the man you deserve.” His voice broke, unable to stop the flow of tears. The pain in your chest spread with every word that passed through his lips, so you did the one thing you knew would help. You touched him. His body stiffened as your warm grasp enveloped his cock. It was so heavy in your hand, the flushed and swollen flesh soft against your palm. The tip felt like velvet as you ran you thumb over the slit.
“It’s okay, I’m all yours.” Your voice softened in hopes it would sooth him. Those words seemed to switch something inside his brain. You gasped as the ceiling suddenly came into view. Flipping you onto your back, he moved down your body and began spreading your legs apart. You had no times to register what you were seeing before your felt his nose press firmly into your crotch, inhaling the scent. He held you firm in his grasp, teeth bared in a hungry snarl as he ripped away every layer of fabric, leaving your lower half bare before him. It was certainly a shock, seeing him so feral and unreserved. He gave you no time to blush before he buried his face into his alter, huffing the musky aphrodisiac to fill his lungs as much as he could. It was not enough.
“I cannot stop,” he shuddered, going in for more. The tears from his eyes never ceased, and instead fell upon your skin as his lips latched onto you. Your stomach tightened in response.
“Please don’t make me stop…” He begged, licking and lapping, moaning with such spirit he might very well have been more machine than man. Digging into your thighs, the tip of his horns left small dents. There would probably be cuts in the morning, but that was a problem for future you. His tongue writhed rigorously to part your folds, searching for your dripping hole. The wet thing was quickly successful, and it slid inward, curling around inside your walls.
“Divine…absolutely divine…” His muffled words reached your ears. Nothing could pull him out of this: no enemy and certainly not you.
“M-Maul…” You cried out in a squeal. He had your face scrunched, toes curling, and back arching. His act gave such pleasure you thought you might die. Maul gave no words of encouragement, nor any comment at all. His entire purpose was to feast on your cunt. In his trance, his hips worked against the mattress, grinding the sensitive tip back and forth against the fabric. The sweet fragrance of your arousal made his entire being buzz. He felt you begin to tighten on his tongue.
“I- I’m gonna-” As your hand flew to his head, gripping his horns for support, he only sucked harder. One orgasm rolled into another, and another after that. The only image became the back of your eyelids. Such unyielding pleasure was only something you could dream of until this very moment. Every sound of his slurping was more obscene than the last.
It all happened rather quickly. You were not sure what moment your top disappeared, or when his face became level with yours. Your breath caught the moment his head push against your entrance. It was just as warm as the rest of him. Stretching your walls one inch at a time. He watched your face, enraptured as your eyes rolled back into your head, the full weight of his cock settling in your belly.
“You feel that?” He panted.
You nodded, forcing yourself to focus on him, taking in the image of him above you. A terrifying, beautiful creature he was. The line between real and synthetic blurred. Where did Maul begin, and where did he end? You clenched around him, softly moaning as his hand traced your skin. His palm pressed into your lower belly.
“You feel me there, inside of you? I have waited and wondered how you would take me.” He took a long moment to admire the outline of himself, tracing his thumb along the length: “I am going to enjoy this lovely cunt of yours, and you are going to thank me for it.”
Maul leaned forward, hoisting your legs up and letting his instincts lead you into a mating press. His arms hooked underneath your own, keeping your torso tight against his. His cock took all breath from your body, and he wasted to time in setting a steady pace. He hardly pulled out before sliding in again.
“Shit-” Your eyes filled with tears immediately. His lips pressed firmly to yours. He wanted you to taste yourself. More than anything, he needed you to understand how much he liked it. Whimpers and whines were the only thing you had energy for. How could you possibly survive this? Before any doubt could enter your mind, the tip of his cock nudged into your core at just the right angle, kissing that special spot over and over and over again. Your grip on him loosened, and his tightened in response. It was the kind of mind-numbing pleasure that took all your strength away. He could feel it. Position after position, you had no sense of where you were. Maul’s face was constantly buried into your neck. He must have been letting his canines grow out, given the sharp pinch every time he bit down onto your shoulder. He was wracked with sobs and moans, his own body unable to let up as he lost himself in the feel of you. He could not, for anything, describe what he felt. No torture, no salvation, could bring him such glorious agony as the feel of your sopping went cunt sucking him in.
“Unghh,” he snarled, pounding away. “Yes, YES, just like that!” His eyes were rolled back into his head as his drool coated you. “So beautiful…so good for me.”
The heat was becoming uncomfortable, sweat coating your back and soaking into the sheets.
“I can’t-Maul! S-slow down,” you cried out.
He did not let up. Just as your vision started to go, he seized up. The mass of his cock inside you seemed to double as you felt something much larger pressing against your entrance, the heated base seemed to swell: his knot. It expanded, locking him up inside you. Those small whimpers and movements of his finally came to an end and it was minutes until his mind cleared.
You stayed there, pressed to him and lying in the aftermath of what just occurred. How long had it been? Had it all ended already? You thought to yourself, resting your eyes. Part of you was a bit disappointed thinking that was all you would get; that he would retreat into himself and never look at you again. It was his nature to be closed off. That’s all you ever knew him as.
His breath began to ease against your neck, and he finally lifted himself to look at you. He stilled. Every action crashed down on him as he took in your form; overheated skin drenched in sweat-his or yours, definitely both-a spread of his saliva on your jaw, neck, and shoulder. The bruises began to flourish. You could feel him staring and opened your eyes. For a moment, he looked as if he were going to cry again, but no tears came. His lips parted, but he struggled to find the right words. A first for him, truly. You must have known what would happen coming here. He was so lost in is rut. Had he ruined everything? He knew very well what judgement felt like-he had Sidious to thank for that. But he did not want your judgment. His eyes fell to his hand, feeling your own take it in a firm grasp. Bringing it to your breast, you pressed it closer, just over your heart. The slowing beat brought a heavy sigh from his chest. Contentment: That is what he felt from you.
“Why did you come here? I could have hurt you.” Maul battled with his own desires, struggling to accept that you enjoyed this as much as he did. The guilt would have eaten him up if it were not for your very clear enjoyment. He rolled to his side, bringing you with him. The adjustment produced a shift to his cock. The swell felt different on your side. You whined softly at the feeling.
“I wanted to, Maul. I couldn’t let you suffer like this.” Curling into his chest was a welcome respite from the strenuous activity. “It was awful, hearing you in pain. I didn’t mean to cause it. If I had known that, well…I’m not sorry we did this.” Your head tilted up to take in his expression. Those tired eyes, soft and satiated, stared back.
“You understand, then.” He spoke more to himself than to you. “My rut will last another four days at best. I am not sure how long of a break I can give you.” His brows furrowed, tone darkening: “I will have you at every hour, each day. You will not get much sleep.” The low rumble of his voice vibrated down into his chest and against your cheek. Your eyes fluttered shut, trying to add some reasoning and calm his worries.
“I’ll be fine. I just need water, and a refresher.” A tired smirk tugged at your lip. “There is no reason we can’t bathe and help you at the same time.” He was far from amused. The Zabrak gripped your chin, forcing your gaze back onto him.
“I am serious. I will not see you in pain just to ease my discomfort. I cannot ask that of you. I should have done better at hiding it.” His hold softened and fell to your arm, tracing over the damp skin, feeling the goosebumps rise.
“You aren’t asking. I’m offering.” You stated decidedly. Any chance you could get to have him again must be taken How many chances would you get to have him like this? Your hips shifted, core squeezing his knot. “…How long will it take to go down?”
“Mmm…” He purred, muzzling his head against yours. He breathed in your scent, enjoying the sweat and mess. “It may take fifteen minutes, maybe longer if you don’t keep still.” His mind was quiet for now.
“Fifteen minutes!?” The idea was tortuous; being held together so intimately for so long. But it was not unpleasant by any means. Maul’s expression softened: he looked young for a moment, almost nervous. It passed as soon as you noticed. “How long have you felt like this?” You quietly asked.
“I’m not sure. I do not think I realized it until my rut began.” His mind reached out to yours. “You should take better care to guard your mind. I could see your desires far too easily.” You felt his smirk and heat lit up your face.
“Oh.”
“Yes, Oh.” He mused. “You have quite the imagination. Very creative, I must say.” He chuckled and you buried your face further into him, your voice muffled.
“Don’t tease me…” You were sure your cheeks were as red as his skin. “What now? We…do this for a week, and then what?”
“Then,” he paused, “I would like this to continue. Not just in this room, but outside of it.” Maul knew what he was suggesting-that you see each other beyond a professional setting. There was a clear like there. But at this point, the two of you were far past it. Still, he hoped for your approval.
“I’d like that.” You told him with ease. While it would be a big change, the idea of it excited you. What would he be like courting you?
The time passed, and after settling down long enough, his knot softened enough to slip out. You bit your lip at the sudden loss of him, feeling a bit colder and emptier. Down below, your core was puffy and well-used. It pulsed with a heartbeat of its own, knowing it would soon go through the same event. Maul’s rough palm contrasted his mild touch as his hand hooked under your knee and spread your legs apart, inspecting his work. His eyes tracked the trail of his seed as it began to trickle out of your stretched hole. The sight was very beautiful, he thought; physical evidence of your devotion to him, of your willingness to endure. Your cheeks flushed at his examination, not knowing what was going through his mind. He let go, saying nothing. Gathering some strength, he went collect some water for you two in the far area of the room. The supply box still had some rations, and you recalled your most recent purchases dropped at the doors. He would find them easily.
For now, that nasty fever of his had quelled. Maul had never been more thankful for his mechanical legs. They could hold his tired form, unlike your real ones. He returned holding a glass.
“What time is it?” You asked as he kneeled at your side.
“Midday. We’ve been at it for nearly thirteen hours.” His hand came to support the back of your head as you drank, droplets spilling down your neck as you swallowed. He licked his lips, watching as the water raced down the peak of your breasts. Setting the glass aside, his thumb collected the liquid, running the pad over the peak of your nipple to feel it stiffen under his touch. His pointer joined, giving it a firm tug.
“Sss…” You inhaled sharply, neck stretching back and eyes fluttering at the jolt. He watched, enthralled by the response. The weight between his legs grew heavy once more; pained heat growing below. He let his hand drop and stood to full height. His cock became the center of your attention. You took in the sight of it, hard and bobbing slightly from the movement, leaking at the tip. His balls were just as heavy, full and firm under the base.
“Again? Already?” Only minutes ago it was limp.
“You are surprised.” He commented. “It seems you underestimate what you do to me.”
“I didn’t know Zabrak’s had such fast turnaround time,” you joked, but he seemed less amused.
“Does it hurt?” You ask lightly. It looked the same as before: heavy and aching. He nodded, taking a deep breath.
“It does. More than I thought it would.” His eyes fell to his member. For years he had separated all desires from his mind-forced to endure his natural cycle alone, denying himself release. As a young Sith in training, there were many times he thought it would kill him. “It has been a long time since I felt like this,” his hand gently pet over your hair, “but you have brought it out in me. You have brought me back to life.” A shudder ran through him as he watched you wet your lips, leaning up to catch the tip in your mouth, just missing.
“You can try harder than that,” Maul chuckled. With each attempt, his length seemed to jump away at the last second. The control he had over his cybernetic attachment was impressive, if not annoying. Your eyes snapped to his. He was doing it on purpose. How delicious it was for him to watch your poor attempts at securing his length, chasing after it like a rare prize. Had he been any other Zabrak, he would have been at your mercy entirely. A thought passed through his mind: would Savage had teased you so? Would Scorn or Icarus make you beg? But Maul was no ordinary Zabrak. His pain ran deep, and his pleasures twisted to tightly so that even his most primal state could not escape the change.
“So close, my dear. You can do it.” He gave a sharp-toothed grinned, the mocking of his tone and heavy gaze was the immediate cause for burning humiliation to wash over you. It felt wonderful. Just one look from him and you were gone. Upon that comment, you finally had enough. You grasped his length, guiding it to you mouth and latching into it. His hand found a home in your hair, tugging the roots with firm handling.
“Mmm, that’s it, my dear.” His lip curled back as he guided your mouth, watching himself disappear. Up and down you went, hypnotizing him with your skills. The salty essence bloomed on your tastebuds, a flavor you would soon get familiar with. His chest heaved as your tongue flicked the underside.
“It seems you are the tease.” He forced himself to calm down. That wild creature inside of him threated to claw his way out, but Maul took care to stay in control. Never before had he been tested in this manner. As good as it felt, his desire urged him towards other things. He pulled back, the dim lights catching on the long strand of saliva which attached itself from his tip to your bottom lip. He moaned at the sight, wiping it away.
“On your hands and knees. I want to see what is mine.” He brought you in position at the center of the bed, grabbing a handful of your buttocks to spread you open. He fixed his gaze upon your second hole, watching it twitch. “Mm, you present yourself so well for me.” He admired your secret places, memorizing every angle, curve, fold, and hair. Here you were, this innocent creature; vulnerable under his care and yet so willing to take anything he gave you. Maul felt pride welling up in his chest.
The fever returned now, more intense than before. His palms were clammy on your rear, and he could feel the precipitation gathering along the seams where flesh met metal. He could feel the chafing, but he had more important things to think about. The fever he knew would linger around much longer this time. His hearts pounded in his chest, and his mouth watered. The urge to mount you swept over him. Suddenly, his wad of warm spit collided with its puckered target, gradually dripping downwards between your folds and onto the bed. You went ridged.
“Maul?” You tensed, voice shaky.
His palm soothed over your backside: “Do not worry, my dear. I plan to take your pretty cunt only…for this week, at least.” He lined up and started to push inside. His last release was still thick and warm inside of you, and the saliva provided enough lubrication for an easy round two.
“Ohhh stars,” he hissed. All the breath in his lungs caught still as he sank inside completely. A wave of heat raced up his back. He knew you felt it: the cybernetic sack between his legs was full of his love for you. Leaning over, his chest came into full contact with your back, hooking his head in the junction of your soft shoulder, lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. “Comfortable?” He lingered a moment to let you adjust.
You inhaled. What could you say to that? The man was as deep as he could get. Like the gentleman he could be, Maul reached for another pillow, sliding it under you for support. He was, at the very least, aware enough to take your comfort into consideration. You pushed back against him in confirmation to begin.
He was far more tentative this time, his hips moving in gentle pace. Snaking around your front, his palm pressed into your belly, feeling for the bulge he knew would be there. Sure enough, the outline of his member filled his hand entirely. There was no part of you that was not his. Maul’s languid pace lasted no more than five minutes before he began picking up speed. The wet squelch of your loins colliding would have echoed if not for the wall of items around the bed. Surely it would be broken by the end of this. Your ears were filled with a symphony of sounds: grunts and growls. Some came from him, but Maul ripped noises from your throat you had no idea could be produced. Pressed between him and the mattress, his arm snaked up between your breasts and his fingers slipped inside of your mouth, urging you to suck on them.
“Mmph…” Your eyes rolled back, drool slipping from your lips. He felt around your mouth, tracing over your molars and tongue. His voice rumbled against your cheek.
“Look at you, filthy thing.” He trembled at the feel of your mouth and hole tightening around him. “You come here, you-ahh, you fantasize about me: “How large is he,” you wonder. “What position would he fuck me in,” yes, my dear, I know all your thoughts. You cannot hide your wants from me.” The dark timber of Maul’s voice reverberated in your head. Every taunting remark brought a new wave of slick from your cunt. His thrusts deepened, and the beads of sweat continue to pour from his skin. He grits his teeth.
“You touch yourself every night, hoping I might hear you-” your body rocked with his, unable to keep your head up: “Oh I hear you loud and clear. Are you truly so desperate for me, soaking for a man with more blood on his hands than you could imagine?” His fingers slipped from your mouth, reaching for that sacred spot between your shaking legs. It is hot and pulsating against his fingertips.
“Maul!” You sobbed as the pleasure built up. His mouth pressed against the back of your neck, leaving moist kisses. How different he was once he got inside you… The sensation was larger than any ocean, pushing and pulling him further under the tides of bliss, a crescendo of emotions. Every bit of reserve shattered.
“You are so warm, so very warm…” Maul cried. The tears flowed freely from his eyes, carrying years of pain within them. The drive of his hips commanded a new man to come forth, one who’s only option was to reveal himself completely. “You have all of me. Tell me I am yours…I don’t want to let you go… never letting you go… Please don’t leave me!” Each declaration of sympathy was paired with his erratic pounding. There was nothing but feeling left in him. The Zabrak’s ecstatic motions blurred into primal heaven; atonement that could only be found when his cock drilled into you.
“Don’t stop, Maul…” It took all your strength to be able to speak. The hurting in his voice touched something deep inside your heart. “Give it to me, give me everything.” Your begging spurred him on. He wants to please you, to bring you to great heights, and greater yet. He lost himself in your scent and skin, feeling everywhere he could. His throat was raw from his sobs. Your body tremored under the force of him. His sexual agony was felt with each sharp thrust of his hips, leaving you in a state of delight; the lines between pain and pleasure blurring in perfect harmony-a selfless servitude: Everything is just how it should be. He brought you closer, if possible, and his hold on you never loosened. Part of him feared you might turn to ash under his touch-that he might burn every part of you away with his lust. In that hormone-fueled delusion, Maul came. Hard. The force of his orgasm triggered your own, and for that moment, like each before, your souls merged as one. His length was producing more seed than he knew he could make. It was as if his body instinctually knew to take over-to give you everything it had. Although he was aching and exhausted, he could not stop. Outside, the sun raised and set, a natural cycle running against his own. He had years to make up for, and you only had minutes between each knotting to recover: using the refresher, hydrating, or wiping the fluids from you, but the fever eventually broke.
A knock at the door brought Maul out of his mind. Who would dare to interrupt him at a time like this? He angered at the scent of his Zabrak brothers lingering outside of the doors. He is quick to bring up the flat sheet, covering your forms with it. Those once clean sheets were ripped in various spots and soaked through in others. No one would see you like this. They had no right. The timing was all the worse, considering his knot was still firmly locked inside you.
“What do you want?” His voice boomed.
“Are you…finished?” Scorn cringed at the wording. He and Icarus could smell the sex from the streets. It was a heady scent. Meanwhile, the others were getting worried. Judging by the vivid noises, and the fact that you had been in there for a good few days by this point, they had no clue what shape you were in.
He sighed internally: “Bring sustenance,” Maul replied, knowing his kind understood what would be needed. The retreating steps eased his anxiety, and he turned back to you.
“You are to stay here. Understand?” His lips brushed against your ear, then pressed a soft kiss to your damp hairline.
“Can I not even stretch my legs?” You teased, curling around his form. He hummed in satisfaction at your closeness. “Fine… I suppose I can stay here. Not like I can walk anyways.” You refused to look at the state of your lower half, feeling perfectly well what it looked like. It was a good thing Maul was talented with his hands-he would have no issue fixing you up. Well over a week ago you were kneeling before him, working on his body, and now he would soon do the same for you.
His eyes shifted to the door, listening to the items being set outside.
“It’s a territorial thing for your kind, right? Keeping me safe?” Your lips press to his jaw. He swallows.
“Yes,” Maul’s eyes fell shut. “They know well enough to stay away from you. Traditionally, a male creates a nest for his mate-a comfortable place to breed her.” The idea of it had your mind whirling. “I will make a nest for us; a better one than this…something more secure.” His fingers traced the length of your spine, pressing around, feeling for any tension.
“Ah-” you gasped, the pressure was just enough to uncover the reality of your state. He frowned and eased his hold on you.
“You are sore. You should have told me earlier.” He scolded himself internally for allowing himself to cause you injury. A promise was made that his next cycle would be far less needy-if he was lucky.
“I didn’t want to worry you. Besides, I was too busy cumming.” You grin to yourself, feeling well enough to be cheeky.
His eyes narrowed at your blatant response. “You will tell me whenever you feel pain.” Your smile softened him.
“This is the last of it,” He referred to his knot. “You will drink, and eat, and I will bathe you. Then you will sleep.” He left no room for argument.
Not even a coma would be enough rest for you after this.
Synopsis. 8010—DOKI-DOKI-GF: Are you a complete n’ utter nerd that just can’t seem to find a girlfriend? Have you lied to your family and told them that you’re seeing someone (when you really aren’t)? Do you need to save face at the next family dinner before your uncle makes fun of you until the end of time? Well, call our hotline NOW to access Tokyo’s #1 rent-a-girlfriend service!
Choso Kamo, unfortunately, is all of the above.
Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!rentaI girIfriend!reader, nerd!Choso Itadori family shenanigans, meeting the family, fake dating, UncIe Kuna is MEAN, they’re onto you…, getting kicked out of restaurants, Iove hotels, vírgin!Choso, first times (his), PÚSSYDRÚNK CHOSO, making him crawI, oraI (f + m), fíngering, spítting, bíting, p taIking, scientific taIk HAHA, commands (from you), créaming his pants, making him cúm earIy, multiple o’s (him), MAJOR overstím, pánty-sníffing, ríding, making him whímper, making him cry, somewhat gágging (him), teaching him, creampíes, sIight cùmfIation, implied marathon, getting together, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 12.0k
A/N. HEHEHEH-
“—I’m so happy you’ve found your person, Cho…” Itadori Jin coos- tearing up.
“P-papa, people are staring.” Choso huffs, spooning the syrupy-sweet cherries on his sundae over to Yuji’s.
“I know, I know.” Jin bats a hand, not-so-discreetly dabbing underneath his eyes using his sweater. “It’s just- your uncle and I were getting so worried, y’know?” He gestures at his younger twin brother next to him—looking comically buff in that pretty pink ice cream parlor seat. Jin had chosen this place. “And although we didn’t lose hope-”
“Who’s we?” Sukuna snorts.
“I uh…well.” Jin adjusts his glasses and looks over at Itadori Wasuke - currently scooping out his own cherries to flick into the neighboring table’s cups when they weren’t looking. “Father and I didn’t lose-”
“I did.” Wasuke looks squarely at his oldest grandson, “No offense, kid- but I bet ¥400 that you’d die alone.”
Sukuna nods seriously, “I bet ¥20,000.”
To which you’re finally…reaching over to intertwine your fingers with Choso’s.
…Choso drops his cherries.
And you’re letting out such a sweet, sweet giggle - even sweeter than the linger of cherries on his tongue - before you duck underneath the table to help him pick them up.
Choso was already on his knees crawling after those damn cherries- and all it takes is a single glance at your face oh-so-close to his, in such short proximity, for him to jolt—and bang his head against the underside of the table. So hard that the glasses clink against one another, and Wasuke groans as he misses in his valiant cherry canons.
So loud that half the parlor stares at your little table.
“Oh no.” You’re reaching out in concern as Choso rubs his achin’ head. “Honey, are you-”
“I-I’m fine—!” Choso turns his face away - and the only things you could make out were the frames of his chunky glasses…and the burning red on the tips of his ears. Blushing. Though you’re not convinced, and once you get a little closer- he’s waving you off more fervently than ever. “I promise, I promise! I can handle it…babe.”
You quirk a brow - “If you say so, sugarplum.”
He almost jolts once more- too much…?
However, before you’re thrusting yourself once more into the stratosphere of emotional fathers (at least, one of them) and glowering uncles, you inch yourself closer to the nerve-wracked man - as quick as a flash. And then you’re pressing your lips to his right cheek—just a graze, just a peck.
But it’s enough for Choso to yelp-
And bang his head against the table once again.
“Easy there, tiger.” You’re giggling at him, “I need you in one piece.”
“N-need me…” Choso whispers to himself- perhaps thinking that you won’t hear.
And it’s a small mercy that you’re handing to him - pretending that you didn’t hear that. Instead, you’re throwing yourself back into your seat, and presenting your most-practiced smile at Choso’s eavesdropping family members.
In little-to-no time, Choso’s popping back up and plopping all those floor cherries into Sukuna’s black coffee. The older man swears.
Jin covers the seven-year-old Yuji’s ears.
And then your boyfriend’s excusing himself hastily to the bathroom. Leaving you alone with them.
Unsure how to proceed, there’s a few minutes of silence before you’re speaking first. “Quite the lovely place, isn’t it?”
“Yes- yes.” Jin snaps out of his little reverie—he’d been watching over your interaction with such unabashed pride. Such loving nosiness. Out of all the fathers of clients that you’d happened to meet, you think he might just be your favorite…He beams. “I’m so glad you like it, dear. I mean- the first girl that Cho’s introducing us to-”
“The only one.” Sukuna coughs.
“-I just knew I had to impress. I picked this one specifically because it advertised itself as a place that’s both family-friendly and open to coup-”
“So you met the wimp…how again?” Sukuna interrupts. And he ignores the look that Jin throws at him.
“Six months ago at university.” Choso’s finally finished up at the bathroom, within earshot of the table. He takes his seat right next to you.
“I hope you washed your hands.” You whisper to him.
“Of course, I did.”
The two of you had already repeated this tried and true story at the very start of your introductions. And it was clear that Sukuna was fishing for something…more.
You make a show of reaching for Choso’s hand on top of the table—intertwining your fingers with his. They were fingers much longer and thicker than yours- that you might not have expected. The most sensual calluses from what you assume to be turning pages of books. The softest touch nevertheless.
You squeeze his hand and shoot him a simpering smile.
Itadori Jin just about faints.
Sukuna scoffs at his overdramatic older brother, “S’that so…?” He then crosses his tattooed arms, “You don’t seem like the type to like ah- biology and hemorrhages.”
“It’s biology and hematology, uncle Ryo.” Choso answers crossly, “And no- we met in the campus library.”
Then you’re the one to pipe up. “Cho here- oh, sorry, Choso-”
“Call him whatever you like—!” Jin cries.
As his brother attempts to wrangle him back into his seat, you smile appreciatively and continue. “Cho here was the one that helped me find a textbook I’d been searching for for weeks.” Just to add a little flare to it, you’re squeezing his hand once more and staring deeply into his big, beautiful brown eyes when you speak. “He knew even better than the librarian! And he was just so nervous- stuttering and- and did I tell you that he almost tripped over himself handing me that book?”
Jin, so very interested in your story, shakes his head aggressively.
Meanwhile Sukuna merely rolls his eyes- though you note that he and Wasuke don’t interrupt you for a second.
“Yeah…that was when I knew.” You conclude. Patting lovingly at his arm, “And of course, it did take a few weeks of being friends for Cho here to finally build up the courage. But he did manage to ask me out in the end—”
Sukuna raises one mean, coral-pink brow.
And you’re elbowing your boyfriend.
“-didn’t you, honey?”
It was rather difficult to convince your boyfriend’s family of the story of you two meeting- especially when your boyfriend himself looked as though this was his first time hearing it…Choso kept an expression of sweet euphoria—something soft. Like he was watching a romantic movie play out.
One that was starring in- and you needed him to say something…
“Huh? Yes?” Choso blinks- sense coming back to him. “O-oh, yes.”
And then he straightens up.
Possessively placing his hand on top of yours, “I saw her and I just…knew she had to be mine-”
“See now, that where yer lying.” Sukuna leans over the table with a devilish smile- pointedly ignoring his brother’s swatting. “There’s no world in which Kamo Ultimate Loser Choso—had his first kiss with a biology textbook, asked out the high school lab skeleton before any real person - would be the one asking you out.”
You’re stiffening as he points at you.
“Are you just someone he’s paying to lie? Because whatever he’s paying, it surely can’t be enough-”
You’re plastering on your smile, “If by ‘pay’ you mean love and cherish me then-”
“Then I know my nephew would no sooner woo a damn lab rat than a real person.” Sukuna scoffs, crossing his arms and falling back into his seat. “Especially one so pretty.”
Jin looked tense- and he’d forgone swatting at Sukuna underneath the table to now openly pinching his bicep. Still, the pain seems to do nothing to bate his suspicion.
“More sundaes, everyone? More sundaes?” Jin asks in a strangely high tone.
The only ones unaffected at the table was Yuji currently plucking at his sundae cherries, and Wasuke who stared at them with the internal debate as to whether or not he should fling those at the neighboring table, too. You almost wanted him to—anything to distract from the terseness that had suddenly taken over.
And to your surprise - it’s Choso who’s the first one to speak. “Why, uncle Ryo…” Those doe-like eyes of his narrow into an expression you’ve never seen made by the sweet, sweet boy thus far. “-jealous?”
Sukuna startles- “The hell did you s-”
“Dagnabbit I almost had it this time-” Wasuke gives up on considering and swipes one of Yuji’s overabundance of cherries to throw into their neighboring tables glass. It’s a hole in one.
“Grandma, do that again—!” Yuji squeals and claps his hands.
“Huh, where? I’m grandpa-”
“Everybody silence!” Jin’s voice raises above than the rest - and into every corner of the ice cream parlor. Echoing. He hadn’t realized it in the heat of the moment, but he found himself standing as he stopped the chaos—and rushed to sit down after some apologetic bows at the wider population being subjected to the catastrophe that was…their family.
And his next apology is directed at you. “My dear, I cannot tell you how sorry I am-” Now instead of pinching Sukuna, he outright gives the man a brotherly smack upside the head. Unafraid of doing so; Jin makes it hard enough that even Ryomen Sukuna winces. Now you understand how he kept his title shining as older brother…“-that I am related to a bunch of buffoons, and Yuji.”
“Yuji has been quite the distinguished gentleman.” You’re nodding at Yuji and his ice-cream-covered grin. “But it’s alright, Mr. Itadori. Honestly- promise I wasn’t offended by anything said.”
Your hands have seemed to find a permanent home in Choso’s - at least for the time being - and you squeeze his.
“I understand that you’re just ah- cautious as the first girl to meet you like this but…I get it. Really.” Jin’s expression just seems to melt as you keep speaking. “Cho really is someone special to me. And I want to protect him, too.”
Next to you, you hear Choso suck in a shaky breath.
“Really? And you truly promise that it hasn’t been too much?” He probes with shining eyes. “Ryo here can get a little too mouthy-”
“Hey!” Sukuna starts—then immediately winces as Jin’s fingers twitch towards him again.
“Please do forgive him- it’s in his nature.”
“Absolutely promise. And I don’t hold anything against Mr. Sukuna, either.” You knew to hit juuuust where it mattered - and referring to Sukuna using such a title made the man straighten in his chair a little. “Choso did warn me that his family might be a little…excited. But to be honest with you, I always have had a soft spot for big, loud families.”
“Well…” Jin blushes happily, before reaching across the table and shaking your hand. “You may call me Jin, if you’d like. And I’d like to welcome you into our big, loud family.”
“I’m so honored- thank you.”
“The honor is all ours.”
“Oh no, it’s ours.”
Sukuna glances at Choso and scoffs. Underneath his breath, “That’s as long as that wimp has paid for-”
The table rattles as Jin kicks him underneath it. “The honor is all ours. Isn’t it…younger brother?”
“Ye-yes—” Sukuna wheezes. His large hand comes slamming down- merely something to hold onto his dear life for. “Welcome to the family, girl.”
You beam like it’s the happiest day of your life.
Head rested on Choso’s shoulder, and your head nodding at the flow of conversation. “This is cooler than the Turritopsis dohrnii.” He breathes.
Save for the brief hiccup earlier- you’d consider your first meeting with Choso’s family to have gone swimmingly. And sure, perhaps Sukuna held the faintest inkling of suspicion that what the two of you had was a ruse—but he’d been shot down almost immediately by Jin.
And thank goodness for that.
“Let’s celebrate by getting the double double heart-shaped cones- oh, I wonder how they get them into that shape?” Jin hums. “And then I want chocolate chips, dipped in the bubblegum drizzle and- oh, hello.”
He beams as their server nears the table.
“I would like-”
“Sir, we’ve been getting complaints of cherries being flung into people’s glasses and we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Oh.”
Because of course…Ryomen Sukuna had been completely correct.
As the group gets up to leave - perhaps to another diner downtown or so - you’re refusing to let Jin apologize. And you’re still holding onto Choso as though he was the dreamiest boyfriend in the whole wide world, and you were the luckiest girlfriend—as dreamy as he may be…you weren’t the girlfriend he’d been dating for the past five months.
In fact, you weren’t his girlfriend at all.
In fact, you’d only met two hours prior.
You were #1 Rental Girlfriend in all of Tokyo. And this time, you’d been hired to save face at a family get-together.
Of course, it wasn’t the first time that you’ve had to pretend your way through such a predicament - more people than one would think had less and less time for love. Especially not in this day and age. Especially not when work and responsibilities latched onto you like a starving tick, and though its blood supply might be modest at first, it only grows hungrier and hungrier—greedier, until you’re bone-dry. Bone-dry. Bone-dry. And it still feeds- what’s next? The bones and all?
And society still looks at you with the same standards—yes, the parasite’s gotten bigger, but why are you so frail?
And before you know it, you’re hiring a rental girlfriend to prove to your parents that yes- you can still be a functional and well-balanced adult still!
This was exactly why you continued being a rental girlfriend.
It’d started out as a side-job during your first year of university—your friends were all getting partners or throwing themselves into their studies. And you needed something fulfilling to pass the time.
Then, your best friend suggested getting a part-time job.
You’re sure she didn’t mean as a rental girlfriend.
But you couldn’t help it - it’d been the first advertisement for Hiring that’d popped up once you’d searched online!
And it was meant to be for a few weeks initially- really, you hadn’t planned on continuing this career for so long. Let alone making it a sort of career.
That morning, you’d opened up your approved application for Doki-Doki-Girlfriend and determinedly made your way to the interview section - promising yourself that you’d run at the first sign of anything off. The interview was being held at the Doki-Doki headquarters: this pretty pink-colored building in downtown Akihabara that had formerly been a host club. It’d been dimly-lit and draped in old perfume and even older sex.
Though you’d been nervous the first time you entered, you’d been quickly taken by the Doki-Doki owner—Tsukumo Yuki.
The first thing she asked you was what your type in men was.
And when you’d answered - through your shock - that it was the shy, stuttering type- she laughed that that was about 95% of their clientele. So you’d be lucky, perhaps.
Yuki, as she insisted you call her, explained to you the ins and outs of being a rental girlfriend. To smile. To simper. To be sweet but not overly so.
To never let them pressure you into anything. They weren’t the type of rental business that offered other sorts of services.
What people were searching for above all was a connection- for at least this brief moment in time. And the both of you would understand this transaction: it was the fantasy of a human bond that you were selling, and they were buying. It was your time. It was your emotional investment.
But later…you would come to genuinely connect with most of those you worked with.
After that interview—which you passed with flying colors, you spoke with some of the other girls working there and decided to continue with the job opportunity. Much to Yuki’s delight, who’d taken a liking to you almost immediately. After that was the training period - during which you accompanied some of the other rental girlfriends on their dates.
You were introduced to some as their friend—and as many guys as expected were actually flattered to be seen with two ‘girlfriends’ in public.
You took notes on conversation topics. You watched their behaviours.
You understood how they’d change their approaches according to the needs of their clients, and you absorbed it all.
After a few weeks of observation, you were finally added to the roster of rental girlfriends to go on your own dates.
You just didn’t expect to shoot to the top of the ranks.
#1 in Tokyo.
Perhaps one of the Top 5 in the entire country—only three years after starting, in your fourth year of university.
The clients adored you.
They draped you in gifts. They went on repeat dates - spending extra just for a minute of your time, though you often refused the additional amounts. Of course, there would be no funny business (and this was something you made quite clear within the first few minutes of meeting a new client). And excluding one or two unsavory clients that were quickly blacklisted from Doki Doki, you’d grown rather fond of your regulars.
There was the older woman who’d practice speaking to women through you- for when she planned on getting her first girlfriend. There was the excitable college student who tested out date spots with you. There was the pensioner who wished to take a monthly stroll through the park, simply talking about their day.
It was the feeling of belonging amongst strangers. Connecting with people you never could have imagined finding common ground with before.
And you believe, through this line of work, you began to understand humans better.
Humans were all just…really, really lonely.
Choso had been the same when he came to you.
It had been a working day like any other - you’d been called to the front desk of Doki Doki in order to be given a briefing of your next date. It was all standard processes, really.
Name: Kamo Choso
Age: 23
Occupation: Student
Prior appointments: None.
Prior love life: None.
Purpose: Client seeks a rental girlfriend to sit through a family dinner with his family, pretending to be his girlfriend. Prior backstory required to be able to maintain the conversation and create the illusion of a loving relationship (5 months). Flirting and mild physical affection.
Extra notes: Client says to please be wary of his extra ‘rowdy’ family.
And so, you’d accepted.
You met up with the aforementioned Choso—and found yourself a little taken aback at just how…cute he was.
Nerdy. Nervous.
Pushing his glasses up as he frantically introduced himself - that, too, messing his name up a few times before actually telling you.
Exactly your type. Yuki had been right.
He was your age, and went to - it turns out - the same university as you. Though the two of you hadn’t seen each other before, Choso confessed that that might be because he was cooped up in the library most of the time.
He bowed at least a dozen times through apologies for the trouble- even though you assured him that meeting a family wasn’t anything out of your way. And then he insisted on paying extra, on coming up with a code should you want to leave, on—you shook your head and grabbed his hand. “So, how did we meet, boyfriend?”
You always did enjoy the ones where big families were involved - sure, they might be more awkward in the long run…but those types of dates always did manage to make you feel so warm inside. Big families. Big emotions.
And the biggest, perhaps, of all had been meeting the Itadori family.
They’d been unlike any other family you’ve ever met.
And that was saying a lot.
Thus, you’re letting out a prolonged sigh the moment you’re stepping outside—it was some downtown diner that the six of you had ended up at after your less-than-ceremonious exit at the ice cream parlor. Sukuna had been craving something hearty after living through that introduction on just sweets and coffee - and Jin had suggested one of their favorite ramen places.
It was only after you’d sat down with them at one of the booths - the one they called their ‘usual’ - that Jin had revealed that when they referred to it as ‘their’ ramen place—they really meant the their.
In everything but ownership.
This was the first restaurant they’d gone to celebrate Choso’s first birthday, this was the first restaurant they’d gone to after Jin’s mother had passed, this was the first restaurant they’d gone to after Yuji was born and Jin was granted full custody.
And you couldn’t help but feel a strange sinking feeling at the pit of your stomach. What was that you said about family-oriented dates being the most awkward in the long term?
At least the ramen had been the best you’d ever tasted- and the conversation flowed freely. Even Sukuna seemed to forgo his initial suspicion to make some conversation with you on Akihabara’s best spots.
And in the end, you were walking out of that ramen restaurant with a full stomach and an even more full heart.
Waving to the retreating backs of Jin, Sukuna, Wasuke, and a sleeping Yuji—you’re turning to Choso once they were completely out of sight. “Your family is…”
“Abhorrent?” He pushes his glasses up with a crooked smile. Choso had eased up around you significantly compared to your initial meeting outside the Doki Doki building, stammering through an adequate backstory for your faux-relationship, though he still seemed to be the nerve-wracked type.
“No…” You pretend to think.
“Overbearing?”
“No.”
“Savages?”
“Certainly not.”
“The servers at that ice cream parlor would disagree.” Choso mutters, “How about aneurysm-causing?”
“No.” You’re shaking your head once again, before turning to him with a smile. “They’re loving.”
Choso says nothing, but the tips of his ears burn.
“They care about you a lot- even your uncle was making sure I wasn’t some stranger just taking your money.” Well…
The long-haired man pushes his glasses up with a sputter of confirmation- or at least something that sounds like it. “I-I suppose ah- in their own…ways they’re rather…” Choso swallows a few times, and you’re watching his face as he does so—the Sun was dipping past the horizon now, and cracking its golden yolk over the grooves of his worried face. Handsome. Choso Kamo was just so handsome.
With his lashes dark and draping over his cheekbones. With his lips pouty and bitten whenever he was thinking deeply about something. With his stature so tantalizingly tall—though he didn’t even seem to be aware of it, as he navigated the world like a newly-birthed fawn.
He was the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen - glasses and all.
“—caring.” Choso finally finishes his sentence.
You’re letting a smile stretch across your lips- and before you can think twice, you’re clasping Choso’s hand once more. You’d been doing it so often over the course of the date that it almost feels- natural now.
“You know…you paid for five hours of my time, Choso. Do you know how much more time we have left?”
“Two hours, fourteen minutes and—” He grows ever-redder as he stares down at you. Were you…leaning in? Pressing yourself against him? Fuck. “-f-fifteen seconds.”
“Mmmm, I do love a smart boy.” Beginning to tug him in another direction from the path to the Doki Doki building - though you leave enough leeway that he can stop should he want to. Choso follows you like a dog on a leash. “I don’t usually do this, but if you want to spend the rest of your time with me then…I know this ah- other place we can go to?”
“Like you want me to c-call my family back for another family dinner?” Choso asks, eyes bulging.
“Oh no, no.” You laugh. “This place isn’t family friendly at all.”
.
.
.
“A-a love hotel-”
“One room, please. Standard.” Interrupting Choso, you smile at the receptionist.
“Will that be for an allocated time or overnight?”
“Hmm…” You glance sidelong at the gawking Choso next to you- looking around the hotel lobby as though it was some sort of attraction. “Overnight, please.”
As the woman behind the desk continued tap-tap-tapping away at her keyboard, you take a moment to look at Choso - now adjusting his glasses to make sure that he was seeing right. That really was a bowl of condoms sitting on the front desk. As the heat rushes up the back of his neck, you’re wrapping your arms around one of his own—and pressing your body against his. “Everything alright, Cho?”
He’d been like this ever since you started heading him in the direction of the glitzy love establishment. Pink walls. Fluorescent lights. He’d agreed to going…elsewhere to continue your date- but he’d expected your apartment or something! Choso had been stunned but allowed you to lead him in front of the love hotel, and once outside you turned towards him once more. It was the first time you yourself was doing this with who was supposed to be a client. “And you’re really su-”
“Yes.”
And that was that.
The lobby was quiet…too quiet. In a way that made your spine tingle with anticipation.
“That’s a…a real bowl of condoms.” He exclaims- earning a look from the receptionist.
“That is. Is this your way of saying that we don’t need any?” You joke…mostly. Then the key gets slid over to you - Room 143 - and you’re nodding at the receptionist. “Thank you.”
The two of you make your way down the lust-pink corridor and take the elevator up to your room - jamming in the key to open up a space that looked as if a honeymoon threw up all over it. Rose petals on the floor. Faux candles flickerin’ on the beside cabinet. Rows upon rows of even more condoms lined on the middle of the queen-sized bed.
If you looked at it from the right angle, it formed a few hearts.
“I didn’t mean we shouldn’t use them…” Choso’s the first one to speak- and he visibly gulps as you close the door behind you two. “It’s just…I-I’ve never done this before.”
Your eyes widen—you’d been suspecting this ever since you entered. But to have it actually confirmed…“No fooling around before finals or anything? Nothing to de-stress?”
He shakes his head n’ bites his lower lip. “Nothing. I haven’t even had my first kiss, to be honest…” Choso looks up at you with those nervous eyes. “Is that okay?”
“Okay?” You smile. Walking over to twist your hands into his lapels- and tug him to you. “It’s perfect. And since you’ve shared a secret with me, I’m gonna share one with you, okay?”
He nods.
And so you’re leaning in so that your lips are grazing - just grazing - his pretty, blushing ears. “It turned me on more than it should’ve, seeing you on your knees in that parlor.”
Choso gasps-
And then your lips are on his.
Then you’re tucking his cute, shivering bottom lip into your mouth—and sucking softly. Choso lets out the most guttural groan at the act- and his hands tremble in mid-air not knowing what to do.
“Don’t be shy.” You’re cooing at him - reaching up and guiding one of his hands to be on the back of your neck—the other one on your ass. You lean into his surprisingly firm chest, “Although…I find it really cute when you’re shy.”
His involuntary whimper gets swallowed up by your own lips.
You’re the one that’s guiding him through the sensual motions of your mouth. Kissing and kissing him till he’s senseless.
Till those thick glasses of him have been knocked ever-so-slightly askew.
Till you’ve left him weak in the knees - literally.
Choso Kamo is melting into you—he’s letting his hands grasp your body as though a forgetting man holding onto his last memory, a drowning sailor holding onto a lifeboat. It doesn’t even feel real to him. And he can’t stop himself as his hands, his body, his knees buckle n’ he’s sliding doooooown the expanse of your body- lips breaking contact with yours with a pained grunt.
Before he knows it, his knees are hitting the floor.
And he’s peering up at you with a desperate expression; brows pinched, mouth kiss-bitten and trembling. Expression something of dazed awe. It makes your pussy clench at just how utterly pathetic he looks. “Everything alright, baby?”
“Ngh- yes.” You watch as one of his hands automatically shoots to cover his crotch - he was rock-fucking-hard already.
“You suuuuure?” Teasing. There’s a devilish twinkle in your eyes that’s reflected through his as utter indigence.
And without saying anything more, you step backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Bouncing a few times. You’re sitting yourself down on the plush bedsprings, crossing your legs- and watching him through half-lidded eyes. Not a single word comes out of you.
But it doesn’t take a single word for Choso to realize what you wanted with a jolt—
He crawls to you.
He crawls to you.
Choso’s letting his features twist into something akin to embarrassment - with the tips of his ears so red that they were practically radiating heat - as he edges closer. As he shifts on his knees. As he crawls just as he had been doing in the ice cream parlor—except this time, the only cherry he was searching for was that cute lil’ wet spot between your legs.
Your dress was short and already hiked up to reveal those pale pink panties.
Was that a little bow on top?
Though it seems like an age before he’s finally able to reach close enough to affirm that- yes, that was a little bow on top. Choso finally manages to without combusting, and looks up at you with wide, pleading eyes.
“Please…” He begs.
You’re softly caressing his cheek- almost lovingly. And Choso’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into the touch in an almost feline manner.
Moving to his jawline. Moving to the back of his sweaty scalp.
And then you’re shoving his pretty face between your legs—and Choso’s letting himself gladly be shoved. Manhandled. His chin sticks against the foamy mess of your panties, so wet with all your leaking juices. His nose digs between the plushest parts of your swollen pussylips. And Choso lets out a hallowed breath as he gapes his mouth ever-so-slightly wider-
“Awww, why so shy, baby?” You’re cooing down at him.
With your hand clasped onto the back of his head- you’re guiding Choso’s mouth to better plaster against your pussy. For him to find his balance.
“S-s’like a second kiss.” Choso sputters out. And you’re grinning.
“Naughty, are we?” You had a feeling that this was going to be a loooooot of fun…
Choso’s mouth was parted. And his lips were rubbin’ incessantly up and down the outline of your cunt—up and down, up and down.
That flimsy fabric of your panties was just glued to your sopping wet pussy, and he’s able to slot his lips over your folds perfectly. Managing to string down a line of hot wet kisses where you needed him the most- “Mmmm…” You’re arching your back with a deep groan as his nose fits between your pussylips—the pointed tip pressing on your clit. “Just like that, Cho. You can go deeper if you like, y’know that?”
“H-how, baby?” He rasps. Those pleading eyes of his were just so cute- and Choso can’t last too long speaking without pressing a few more open-mouthed kisses on your cunt.
“You want me to teach you?” You’re asking him, to which he nods. “Mmm, well open your mouth a little wider- just a little wider-”
And he does- his cute canines snaggin’ against the top of your pussylips.
“You can just start off by kissing lightly, baby. Remember how we did all that kissing earlier?” Nodding once more. “Yeah- just try to replicate that.”
“M’gonna do my best, baby…” He’s starting off soft at first- slow. Almost timid in his movements as he properly slots his mouth over your pussy - over your panties - and kisses n’ sucks lightly.
“Fuck- you study biology, so you know where the good spots are, hm?”
“The glans clitoris a-and the…” Kitten kisses. “-the labia minora contain an immense number of nerve endings.” Chaste pecks—but every single droplet of your pussy’s juices splashed onto his tongue seems to leave Choso Kamo reeling.
Eyes drawing to the back of his head. Ragged pants emanating from the back of his throat.
And he’s pushing himself deeper, deeper, deeper - making out with your pussy so desperately, depravedly that his glasses were crushing against your pelvis—“Easy there, baby. Easy.” The only way to even get him to take a breath is to tug him back using his hair. “We have more than ‘nough time, okay?”
“Mhmmmm…” He nods through a pout- lips sucking off the juices seeped into your panties. “All night.”
“Eager boy. Next, I want you to use your tongue, okay?” His expression turns into something startled. “What? Not scared are you, Cho?”
Choso shakes his head furiously—as though he couldn’t stand the mere thought of it. “N-no.” He hisses, hot breath gluing to your leaking core - the way he was just so…greedy to lavish your pussy left you even wetter. And he was gladly allowing the excess residue to land all over his face and end up sliding off, “No no no- not at all. This pretty labia- Mmmpf—”
Whatever else was on the tip of his tongue gets muffled-
For then Choso’s flattening his tastebuds on top of your pussy. Those swollen pussylips. Movin’ his muscle siiiiiiide to the siiiiiide and then up and down the line of your slit.
You whine, “Oh- just fuck me with it.” Tugging on his locks, “Fuck me with your tongue- ngh, the way I know you’ve been wantin’ to since we met. Don’t think I didn’t see the way you were looking at me…”
“I was…” He pleads. He prays between your legs. Zig-zagging his tongue wildly.
And then after he’s sucked off your panties all clean - Choso reaches one of his hands upwards to try and take off those useless undergarments-
But you’re faster than him.
And you’re stopping him with a searing pull at his scalp. The nerdy man lets out a sudden yelp and looks at you with the prettiest doe-eyes. “Ah ah—” It almost ached your heart to act so mean to him, not giving him exactly what he wanted. But more than your heart- it was your pussy that was throbbing. “Now who said you’ve earned the right to take them off, hm?”
“B-but…” Choso’s peripherals widen - they were glazed-over with lust. “How can I reach the tunica mucosa if I don’t take off—”
“You don’t have to take it off, right?” You hum. “Eat me out through my panties-”
Just the mere sound of that sentence makes Choso moan.
“-and…” And you’re cocking your head to get a better look at where his hips were starting to rut. Against the rickety frame of the love hotel’s bed, he was grindin’ and crushing what seemed to be an aching erection. “-don’t touch yourself, either.”
Choso’s free hand immediately halts in its tracks.
He’s shooting you a pained look- but more than that, it was flooded with pure, unabashed need.
Something dark. Something primal.
Choso’s tipping his head back and letting you plough your pussy against his mouth- in rough, rapid grinds. You don’t wait a single moment for him to catch his breath—and that seems far from his main priority in the first place. He’s merely flopping his lengthy tongue out - so pinkish n’ pretty - and slithering it past your panties.
Riiiiiight underneath, after a few tries he manages to ease it past the rim of your puckered entrance.
You’re letting out a semi-shocked gasp once you feel your convulsing walls streeeeetching at the girth of him. He was thicker than you’d expected- with the ridges of his tastebuds melding to your inner channel. And without any experience, Choso doesn’t know how to ease into it - which works just as well for you as he’s expanding his thick tongue inside of you. And then thrashing n’ thrashing away. “Sh-shit, keep going, Cho.”
“What- hck! what do I have to do?” He manages to somehow ask between heavy gulps. And even that amount of time spent parted with your pussy means that he’s letting out loooong, luxurious licks inside your velvety walls to make up for it.
“H-huh?” You blink down at him through your bleary eyes. “Keep going, ngh- faster, baby.”
“No, I just meant…” Choso blinks those big, beautiful peripherals at you. He kept both hands on your thighs to press himself ever-deeper—he couldn’t get enough. “-what do I have to do t-to take off your panties? I wish to see all of you…that pretty vulva like a flower, the- ngh, prepuce…”
The mere thought has him ruttin’ away against the bed once more.
“How about you make me- haaaah, cum, baby? Hm?” You smile down at the desperate man, “And you have to do it before cumming yourself, m’kay?”
He can’t remove your panties.
He can’t touch himself.
He can’t cum before stuffin’ his face between your legs and making you cum first—
Choso was in heaven.
Even through the obscurement of his now-fogged glasses, Choso’s features twist into something primal- and he lets out a looooow whine before drag-drag-dragging his tongue into your clingy walls again. Thrusting in and out at a frenzied pace—the nerd was eating you out like a man starved.
Almost wolfish.
Choso was suckin’ and biting and snarling deep into your cunt. His glasses stick against your clit, and every single time he was forced to part with your pussy in order to breathe felt like fucking torture to him. “The clitoral nerve network consists of about 8000 to- ngh, over 10000 nerve endings-” Before you know it, he’s spitting. Letting it smear down your panties. Then dragging one of his calloused thumbs down that buttony nub. “-and baby, I need you to feel every single one.”
“Ohhhhh, fuck.” Your back arches deeper into him. Hands planting against the mattress in order to steady yourself, “A man that knows anatomy is dangerous.”
“And then the tunica mucosa…those spots there are also-” Such a priggish smile spreads across Choso’s mouth - one that you’re feeling on your cunt - as he swabs his tongue inside and stimulates some of those sweet nerve endings he was talking about. The hooked end of his muscle pushes apart your clingy walls, and somehow manages to find those sensitive areas so easily- “-effective…”
“Shut up and eat me out.” Pushing him deeper between your legs.
“A-and that’s not to mention—” But of course, you should’ve known that it isn’t easy to shut a STEM major up when it comes to their subject of interest. Choso most of all. And that nerdy man is babbling away whilst he’s slipping his tongue in and out, in and out, of you at a furious pace- until it was nothing but a pinkish blur squeezing away between your pussylips. “-the Gräfenberg spot-”
“You mean the g-spot?!” You’re wailing out.
“My favorite.” Choso nods, with your clit sucked into his mouth. Holding your panties to the side. He now alternates between rolling his tongue over your sensitive nub, and pushing it deep into your hole—stretchin’ you out juuuuust enough for his fingers to slip n’ squelch their way inside.
You’re letting out the shrillest keen as two of his fingers scissor apart your cunt’s walls, pushing up into their spongy surroundings to mold his sheer size into you. He’s softer on the tips of his digits, and rougher against the sides - “Easy there. Fuck, easy…” Choso’s sucking in a harrowed breath.
“I should be the one saying that to you.” You huff. Because Choso wasn’t dry-humping the foot of the bed whilst eating you out anymore - he was way past that.
Now solely keeping himself pushed- wedged in one place because just a little more friction and he’s bound to be cumming. “I-I’m alright, baby.” He tells you, “The Gräfenberg spot is located on the anterior wall, so right…up…”
Just a single press up into the roof of your cunt makes you buck - not having pressed on your sweetest spot just yet but-
“And then about two- three inches deeeeeep—” The loudest, sloppiest squelch! echoes across all four corners of the love hotel room as he eases inside. Roverin’ about inside your tight, wet channel for a few strokes before an explosion of pleasure runs right through you. “-right- there-”
“Fuuuuuuuck, oh.” You simper out. “There- right there- ngh.”
And then he’s thump-thumping his perfect fingers inside your cunt- accurately pinpointing that one spot inside you with his digits like a searchlight. Again and again. And don’t think that his mouth wasn’t working overtime—Choso kept his maw permanently gaped on top of your clit and had his lips hollowed with a constant suctioning motion.
Letting out broken moans off into your cunt all the while-
Choso manages to slip in a third finger- though those damn panties kept getting in the way. “Baby…” There’s a rasping, almost guttural tone to his words that you don’t recognize at first- you’re even raising onto your elbows to make sure that this was the same Choso Kamo.
But it sure was.
Glasses pressed up against your cunt—getting wetter by the second. “Baby, you’re experiencing vaginal contractions and tremors. Your pulse is faster. Your transudate is leaking even more- you’re getting wetter. And your clitoris is growing even, mmm-” He savors the feeling of your nub being pulled n’ dragged into his mouth. “-more swollen.”
“A-and that means…?” Though you already have an inkling of it.
“You’re going to orgasm, baby.” He never sounded more confident than when he was speaking science between your pussylips. “And I need you to cum aaaaaall over my mouth, okay?”
“Was planning to.” You whisper-
And it’s with a few more strokes, with a few more gashes of your pussy against his face, that the pressure that’d been building in your pelvic region finally explodes.
It thrums through your body faster than you can announce it—making every single vein, artery, and axiom within you vibrate until they’re sizzling at the sheer pressure. It felt as though your body was on fire. And the hottest it could get was at your sopping core- shoved against Choso’s pretty plush mouth and getting draaaagged through the violent peaks of your high.
The best you’ve ever had.
Choso manages to locate your g-spot right when the pleasure was hitting you the most - and you’re getting the faint suspicion that he was counting your throb-throb-throbs until he’d timed it just right. “One…two…”
Thrashing his fingers deepest.
Damn-near tearing your panties.
Shoving his erection against the bed.
And his tongue would move over your clit in an almost soothing motion- “Your vasocongestion m-means you’re sucking me up even- ngh, more. Fucking tight.” He spits. “Myotonia and contractions. Your orgasm’s strong, baby.”
“Didn’t need science to tell me that.” You comment.
Thrown through your orgasm.
It’s a crescendo then a plateau, and then when you’re finally done - Choso keeps jabbing his greedy fingers into you just for a few seconds longer. Fucking you through it. Fucking you past it.
You’re so sensitive by this point that you’re sobbing- pushing on his sweaty forehead. “Baby—oh, baby I’m done.”
“Done…?” He rasps. Eyes bleary as he raises them up, seeing you on your elbows. “Oh.”
“And you did as I wanted.” It takes much more effort than you expected to detach him from your quivering pussy - still a little sensitive from your previous orgasm. It was incredible. A part of you almost couldn’t believe that it’d been poor, inexperienced Choso Kamo that pulled that out of you.
He’s setting your cunt free with a whimper n’ a loooooud slurp!
Watching slack-jawed as you peel off your soaked-through panties and throw it right at him- it makes you gasp when Choso catches it with one hand…
Then brings that flimsy fabric riiiiight up to his face to sniff, to suck off the remnants of your syrupy sap. Not a speck of regret.
“Filthy.” You leer.
And then you’re tightening your hold on him—merely than sound was enough to wrench out a yearning croon from him. Preventing Choso from chasing after your cunt once more, “Now now…you don’t want to continue losing that virginity of yours, baby?”
“I-I do.” He eagerly nods.
“Good. Then get on the bed f’me.” You’re patting at the space beside you.
Soon enough, your positions are somewhat flipped - Choso finds himself lumbering onto the bed. Back against the mattress. Skin searing at the heat that your body had left behind.
He lies where you did- and you’re making quick work of discarding his graphic t-shirt (proudly claiming ‘I found this humerus’ next to a picture of a bone) and his trousers. The tent in his boxers was jaw-dropping—Choso stood proudly erect, thick and looking heavy between his legs, his bulbous tip kept trickling out more n’ more precum the longer you stared.
And had he just…
Taking off his boxers to make sure—you’re revealing his cock. Long and rock-hard.
It slaps against his soft core, and leaves a heart-shaped mark of sap. Just about seven or so inches in length- though the longer your gaze lingers on him…the longer he seems to look. Shit, was he about nine inches, maybe? And he wasn’t too thick - just flared enough at the tip that he’s sure to make your walls feel it.
But Choso had an abundance of pretty, long veins decorating down the shaft—underneath the tip, creating patterns down to his base. One which had a few sparse tufts of curly brown - almost black - hair.
Yet what you’re interested in the most was how Choso was so damn hard that his blushin’ red tip looked just about ready to fall off—
“I c-couldn’t help myself, baby.” Choso admits shyly. His hands reach downwards to try and cover his mess- but you’re waving him off. “Having you cum aaaaall over my mouth made me- ngh, want to cum as well.”
“I can see that.” You smirk.
“I didn’t mean to.” He insists, voice growing urgent as the silence stretches - fearing that you’d perhaps refuse to continue as he somewhat broke his promise. “P-promise, I didn’t mean to! It’s just that your tunica mucosa was squeezing me so tight- and your vaginal lubrication just tasted so sweet-”
“Choso?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Shush.”
“I- oh.”
Because, initially, you’d planned on riding the man senseless. But now you were leering yourself closer—almost sake-like in motion.
Staring deep into Choso’s widening eyes once you’re hovering yourself over his shivering legs. His long abdomen. And pressing a cute peck right on the top of his frothing tip—the splashes of his precum were syrupy-sweet. And they were combining with Choso’s cum from earlier to add a salty tint-
“So messy.” You’re whispering as you run your tongue ‘round and ‘round the top of his shaft. Cleaning him off until he was shining. “Are you gonna make a mess like this inside me too, hm?”
“D-don’t say something like that…s’gonna make me cum again.” Choso pleads.
And he really was serious - his words were on the verge of shattering.
You’re letting out a giggle- right into his aching hot cock. The vibrations sprint through his body and make him buck up into you—body before his mind, he doesn’t even realize until he’s doing so with a startled yelp. “My apologies-”
“Mmm, keep going. Get some practice in before the real deal.” You hum once more.
Choso seems as though he’s about to sob - this was too good for him - as he fucks his cock into your mouth a few more times. You relax your throat to take down most of him, and the parts that you can’t get milked with one hand.
Once. Twice. Thrice and quadruple before his flared tip starts twitchin’ wildly—draaaaagging up the soft insides of your throat, he leaves a salty aftertaste behind that makes you realize…
You’re pulling off of his cock with an emanating pop! “But you’ve got to save that up for inside, got it?”
He’s nodding so hard you idly wonder whether he might get whiplash. “Yes, baby. Anything for you, baby.”
“Mmm…” Climbing up the expanse of his body, you’re kissing Choso squarely with the same lips. “Just how I like it.”
And then your knees straddle Choso’s slender hips, your thighs press against his sweltering skin - you reach behind you to grab ahold of his cock’s base—and the sudden squeeze is enough to make him jolt. Bodily. He’s letting out a visceral shiver, “B-baby…”
You guide his ruddied tip to you—and just the barest, briefest smooch of your sweet pussy makes him jolt. Just feelin’ his hardness press up against your softness.
It makes him drive his hips off the mattress suddenly.
“Ah ah-” You warn. “Take it easy, baby. We have all night, don’t we?”
“But…” Choso’s eyes flicker between your face n’ where the two of you were about to connect. Something in him seems to almost break. So close. So close- “That’s so unfair. Your pussy feels like this and you’re expecting me to take it easy?”
A hand claws down your arched spine.
“Not even the textbooks could replicate how good it feels- m’not even inside you yet and I feel like I’m going insane.”
You swipe a thumb down his throbbing tip—catching a bead of white that was threatening to pour out. “I told you. As long as you keep it inside, Cho.”
And then you’re letting your hips lower - aiming to seat yourself down on that toned pelvis of his. “Ohhhh, fuck.” Your back bends, your head tips backwards as you’re taking in the inches of him. It’s a slow process - given that Choso was much larger than average - and you’re wrenching out primal moans as his thick length invades your core. A sweet prodding vein down the side of him was already massaging your insides—“You’re so big, baby. It’s always the quiet ones, huh?”
If he heard you, then he doesn’t make a show of it.
Choso’s handsome features scrunch up into something of pure ecstasy as he dives his cock deeper into you. Hands flying to your waist. Bottom lip stuck between his teeth. “Inside-” He whispers.
“Hmmm?”
“Inside- inside.” Choso gets out through heated pants. His mouth was moving a mile a minute- fuck, even his mind was. But he couldn’t possibly juggle any single coherent thought when his cock was sucked between your soft, soft pussylips and getting practically drained already. “A-am I really going inside? Or is this just a dream, baby?”
Without waiting around for an answer- he’s pinching his arm.
It leaves an angry red mark that proves to him that no…life really was this sweet.
“I am?” As though still in disbelief.
As though this in and of itself would be enough to make him cum and- oh, shit.
He really was cumming.
It seems to take the both of you by surprise, and Choso’s lunging his hips completely off the mattress - slamming his cockhead into the springy back of your cunt.
Bouncin’ off at the sheer force for a few seconds- it isn’t long before he’s then scouring deep into your walls and letting his bawling divot run free. Cumming in less than a single stroke inside you. “Oh- oh, shit.” Choso’s mouth waters, a single line of spittle running from the corner of his lips. “I’m sorry I…”
But he doesn’t have an answer.
He really, truly doesn’t.
“Pussy got your tongue?” You giggle.
This was his first time - and your pussy just felt that good all wrapped ‘round him and keeping him hostage.
His cum’s flooding you with a warmth, spreadin’ from the in-betweens of your legs and then right upwards. The satiny tresses of it rush uuuuup your walls n’ then right back down—those goopy layers then getting fucked back in by his desperate semi-thrusts.
Squelch after squelch as he accumulates the cum like frosting on top of his swirling tip. Shoving.
Choso scrunches his eyes shut and tears start to well up behind- now he was crying, too? Crying just by putting it in?! Buried like this, he feels like he’d do anything for you right now. He feels like he could lay his life on the line for you right now. He feels like—like—he could really truly ask you to become his real girlfriend now…
“Baby, I think I love you.” Choso blubbers up. “Do you want to marry me?”
“Let’s get dinner first.” You giggle, lovingly patting his cheek.
“Oh…”
If you could feel the way his ruddied tip twitches inside you (and you could) then you’re not teasing him for it…much. Simply a smirk before you’re veering your hips down until he’s bottomed-out.
Clit massaging against the scruff of his happy trail. Pussylips struggling to squeeze around his sheer size. “Fuck.” You’re groaning, starting up a lecherous pace that keeps Choso’s toes curled - his head thrown back into the pillows, his skin blushing. He was flustered.
But more than that- he wanted more.
And sending a silent word of gratitude to the chance of the universe and science itself, Choso slithers that same right hand of his between your sultry legs. Sheened with slick.
You were making such a mess fucking him whilst you’re still keeping his cum inside you—he scrapes his calloused thumb up, up, uuuup the few inches of his cock still left to fit inside. Collecting the slimy layers of slick up until the folds of your pussy. Reaching it up to his mouth-
“Now, now.” You tut. “Are we just going to waste that, hm?”
“Oh…you’re right.” With a quiver of his lips, he then plunges it back inside. Then repeats the motion again and again until you’re feeling stuffed to the brim—with both his cock n’ his sappy fluid. Like you said before, it all deserved to stay inside.
And you better keep it.
The rickety bedsprings creeeeeeak—! as he meets your pace.
Choso continues, “Not just cum.” His curvaceous thumb swipes your inner folds again, “But that bulbourethral fluid deserves to stay inside, too. How else m’I gonna fill you up, baby?”
“Oh, of course.” You coo, something sensual. “But don’t think that that’s going to be your last time cumming tonight, Cho.”
His eyes damn-near bulge out of their skull. “E-excuse me?”
“It’s not even your last time cumming in this hour.” Oblivious - or so you pretend to be - to his growing concern n’ his gaping mouth. You’re bowing your body into his—manoeuvring your hips in somewhat of a circular motion, the slightest figure-eights and curves, that drag his tunneling cock juuuuuust right against every nook and cranny of your walls. Every hidden spot. “You’re gonna cum for me at least twice more, right?”
“I-I—I don’t know if that’s even possible!” Choso sputters, pushing his glasses up with his free hand- it was glossy with the excess of your slick from earlier.
And without warning, you’re leaning down to lightly lick off a bit of that glittering sheen.
Choso moans n’ feels his overly-stimulated length jolting away inside of you. “Baby, just consider the refractory period. Has it even been a few minutes since I last…?”
“Just about.” You’re smile. “Should be enough, no?”
“Though it varies based on age and health- when I can cum next depends on the blood redistribution, and how long prolactin and serotonin lasts in the body.” Choso admits then, albeit a bit sheepishly. “And I’m still fuh-feeling so goooood, baby- fuck I can’t—”
“But my smart boy’s gonna find a way, right?” Even if he couldn’t cum again, however - it was just too cute to watch Choso squirm like this. “When I said I wanted it inside, I wanted it stuffed inside, Cho.”
“S-stuffed…” He breathes - almost hypnotized by your pussy.
You’re grinding and swervin’ and clenching around his vein-loaded length in ways he could’ve only ever dreamed about before…“Mhm. Need it pouring out of me.” You beg, putting your best pleading expression on. “Need it up until…”
Hands scouring up his front to press down on your stomach- almost up to your chest.
“-here.”
You pout.
“If m’not bloated with your cum, Cho, is there even a point?”
“No there isn’t.” Choso’s jaw drops—as though the epiphany had just dropped on him. And no sooner are the words leaving his worry-bitten lips, he finds himself pumping wispy ropes of cum deep past your entrance.
He doesn’t even know how he did it.
His body just seems to listen to you more than himself - and Choso jerks his pelvis up in synchronization with the faintish strings of cum that escape him. Thoroughly into your cunt. Thoroughly coating it on top of your womb.
You’re shivering as you feel the thin excess thwack! against your deepest innards. Such a lecherous feeling that cannot be replicated.
Every time he strikes your spongy cervix, Choso lets out a sudden whimper. He sobs. He groooans. He’s fighting to clamor onto your body in any possible way that he could - your waist, your legs, your tits. It doesn’t matter where, Choso just needed to grab ahold of you and perhaps try to get you to fucking slow down—
“Please.” Every single letter in that word is botched with a cry, “P-please. Baby, keep riding me like this and you’re going to make me cum again-”
“Isn’t that the point? Third time’s the charm?” You ask.
“Oh…” It’s then that he remembers that you’d said twice more- he has to cum twice more. Hiccuping, “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Cocking your head with a smile, “And would you like to stop?”
“Not at all.”
Then you’re planting one hand in the middle of his defined chest for balance. Throwing your head back and ridin’ him silly.
Choso cries beneath you. Choso babbles. Torn between the pleasure of having those sweet, sopping lips wrapped ‘round him- and the insanity of his orgasm just barely bating before you’re attempting to hurtle him into another one. This was almost too much for his just recently-lost virginity, but Choso begs for more, more, more. “Please- please- that anterior wall of yours is so clo-”
With your other set of fingers then shoved into Choso’s pretty mouth- spit splashes from the sides of his lips. But he’s taking you so happily—“No no, keep going.” You tell him once his brows raise in surprise, “I just wanna watch my poor boyfriend struggle just a bit.”
“Mmmmpf- soooo good.” He lets out an agonized moan, muffled through the intrusion of your digits. You’re swirling them ‘round his mouth and watching him lightly choke on them. “I need to c-cum just once more, huh?”
Choso’s tears were enough to wash off the fog from his glasses lens.
And he blinks those teary eyes up at you - a few times before one of his hands slithers between your legs. Almost difficult, considering how the space between your two sweaty, crashing bodies was practically non-existant—but his long fingers find a way to thumb apart your puffy pussylips. Nearly swollen shut.
He runs the doughy tips of his digits across your clit, “Around it…just light kisses.” Choso murmurs to himself. “Juuust a little- ngh.”
A single squeeze of your fluttering walls leaves him reeling.
“And then the good spots-” Peering down at your glossy cunt through his glasses, his half-lidded eyes. “The primary erogenous zones are the clitoris and introitus. Then the periurethral surrounding the urethra is also…oh…” Alternating between bashin’ his swollen cocktip against your g-spot, and thoroughly massaging every good spot he’d memorized.
“Shit…” You suddenly clench around him. “Keep going.”
He was seeing stars at the mere action. “And then the- hngh, even the perineum…” Fingers dipping just a liiiittle downwards to roll over that spot. He was unabashed - not in the state to be as he usually would. “And then fucking- at least as much as I can…here…” Slack-jawed, gaze unfocused. “My favorite is the clitoris.” The nerd presses the crescent pad of his thumb down on that knob.
Your hips are stutterin’ at the sheer amount of pleasure overwhelming you. Choso has taken up stimulating your clit in constant circular motions now. “I th-thought you said your favorite was the g-spot?”
“Both.”
As if on cue, he’s banging his thick tip against that ooooone spot.
Choso was stimulating you almost too well. Leaving you the one speechless as he drills his hips into you at a relentless pace—almost painfully desperate.
“Good boy.” You whisper.
“Just need to make you- mmm, cum soon.” He states. “Because if you cum…then I’m sure to cum, too.”
Shoving a third finger in his mouth, he moans as he sucks. You hum, “And you’re sure you’re a virgin?”
“S’just everything you t-taught me.” He insists, mouth full yet listening to every word you said - if you expected an answer, then he was giving you an answer. “And sometimes…I’d search up…things online…”
“Online? Poor, innocent Choso Kamo watches porn?”
“Not that, I get too shy.” Choso responds. He blushes all the way down to the roots of his hair, “But using my textbooks, I’d- hah, read through them…study them…look at all the diagrams…”
You smirk. “Ever jerked off to a textbook, Choso?”
His jaw drops. “No…” Although you remain rather suspicious of the ever-deepening blush that seems to invade his cheeks—all the way down to his collarbones. “But I did jerk off just today.”
“Today?” One of your brows raise, “Don’t tell me this was- hah, before we met or…?”
He shakes his head. “After. After.” Big, bulbous tears make their way down his cheeks - and Choso tastes the salt on them as they splosh across his lips. You do too, as you kiss him. “S-snuck right into the bathroom at that ice cream parlor and- oh—”
“And what for? Saw a pretty someone at the neighboring table?”
Shaking his head even harder- “It was…you.”
“Me?”
“You said that thing- fuck, you said you needed me.” Choso’s dark chocolate-brown eyes glaze over as if he’s reminiscing the very moment. Living in it. “Under that table. And I couldn’t run to the bathroom faster to r-relieve myself.” Ah, this was that time then…
Your faux-boyfriend’s brows are then knitting.
His cock tunnels into you at an even more accelerated pace - one that leaves your head dizzy. Flinching at every run of his thumb down your pulsing clit.
Choso finishes, “But I only lasted two pumps- the thought of you, ngh—” Thrusting in so deep that it felt as though, if he could go past your gooey cervix, then he long since would have. Choso thumps against the back of your cervix and remains there, “-wrapped around my cock and usin’ me to make your anterior- pussy feel pleasure was just too good of a fantasy for me.”
It’s a lewd admission.
It’s almost startling to hear this from Choso above all.
And it’s exactly what’s making you cum—just in time that he is. Your orgasm is prolonged and has been building up ever since he tickled your g-spot for the first time- “C-cumming—!” Belatedly, the announcement leaves your lips.
But Choso already knows.
He can already feel the rhythmic clenches of your sopping wet walls - the soft thing he’s ever felt. They’re tightening around him and tuggin’ on his pistoning cock like you didn’t fucking want him to leave.
Toes curling. Back arching.
The bang after bang after bang right on that target of your g-spot meant that your orgasm was being intensified. Every peak left your thighs clenching around his waist, and you bounce your hips up n’ down furiously. Up n’ down. Up n’ down. “Yes- yes, yes, yes—and you’re c-cumming too, Cho.”
“I am?” Choso blinks his teary eyes down at your lower halves. The smacking of skin-against-skin was deafening, and Choso’s pelvis was rawly red due to the sheer friction.
But more than that…he was feeling his even redder tip twitch a few times. Once. Twice. Thrice- before the warmth of bliss takes over his body. It’s a wave of euphoria even stronger than the last few, and it makes the nerdy boy flinch his hips up into yours- agonizingly good. He was hammering into you so animalistically- jabbing short, sloppy semi-thrusts. “I am.” Choso gasps out. “I’m cumming-”
He’d predicted as much earlier, but it actually worked?!
“M’filling you up, aren’t I?” Choso blabbers, a crazed smile on his face. “This virgin…I was able to stuff this pussy full.”
Lovingly patting your cunt.
“So much so that- hah, look she’s even struggling to- ngh, take me. That cervix uteri is all flooded, huh? All drenched in me?” Through the waves of your high, you’re feeling your orgasm fizzle and pop as he rolls his thumb doooown your clit a few more times. “And these pretty labia of yours are all swollen- bloated with my cum, hm?”
“Mhm…” Before you blink a few times. “Oh- this one was shorter than the last though, wasn’t it? Maybe we need to go again- heh.”
“S’it already done? I…but I’m still…” Choso jabs out numerous more thrusts before he’s pulling out.
And whilst you’re interested in the squelch! and the feeling of hot, wet cum splashin’ out of you and onto his toned hips—Choso himself is more interested in the way his cock twitched n’ feels like he’s cumming…but nothing is actually coming out.
“Orgasmic anejaculation?” He states in shock. “Baby, you’ve made me cum dry—”
“Oh.” Lips parting, you look down to watch as his pretty reddened tip jolts about irritatedly as though he was in the throes of his orgasm - and he was. It’s just that nothing was coming out.
“I-it’s likely that this is due to the lack of semen replenishment. Thus, if there’s none left to-”
“So fourth time’s the charm, right?” You cock your head down at him with a smile.
Another time?!
His half-hard length twitches in interest.
“You really are going to be the death of me.”
Choso really, really needed to ask you out after this.
.
.
.
Ryomen Sukuna knew that the two of you weren’t dating.
He knew it.
He just had no way to prove it.
That is…until one day, just a week after that initial introduction to you, Jin had bothered Sukuna into visiting his nephew. He’d made some cookies—some of your favorites that you’d briefly mentioned at the ramen place, and Jin had immediately gotten to work scouring through his recipes. Flipping through some of grandma’s old cookbooks - he really did get his love for cooking and baking from her.
And then trialing batch after batch of cookies in order to make the perfect one.
And Sukuna hadn’t minded, of course - no one in the house had. They each got to scarf down the ones that Jin deemed as ‘failed’ and they turned out as great as ever. Sukuna honestly didn’t know what more perfection Jin was searching for—especially not for someone he knew Choso was surely paying you in some manner…
There was no conceivable world in which his nephew - as much as Sukuna respected him, for the sole reason that he was related to him (and anyone in some proximity to the great Ryomen Sukuna can’t be all that bad…) - would ever have enough courage to ask a real person out. Let alone someone as electric as you?
Let alone have you say yes?!
Something was up. And Sukuna was on the case.
At least after he finishes this mountain of cookies…
Either way, it took an entire week for Jin to perfect his cookies. And once completed, he’d thumped Sukuna over the head with a couch cushion and told him to go deliver them to Choso.
Unfortunately they hadn’t managed to catch your address or anything of the sort - and there was no telling when Choso would have enough time between his studies and library-haunting to visit. Thus, it’d be easier to just have Sukuna (who was far too busy doing a whole load of nothing) drop the cookies off at Choso’s apartment and let him give it to you.
Jin could trust Choso with handing them to you safe n’ sound.
He couldn’t trust Sukuna not to swallow them whole on the way, however…
So it was with a tonne of brotherly intimidation and threatening brandishes of that cushion that Jin waved Sukuna off—‘you better not eat those cookies, Ryo.’
But Sukuna promised. He promised.
He had other, more important, things on his mind - like cornering Choso into admitting that the two of you actually weren’t dating. Maybe if he didn’t relent so easily, he’d even look around the apartment to check for signs of you or anything you’d left behind—after five months of dating, surely, there’d be some evidence, wouldn’t there?
And then maybe he’d eat the cookies- hah!
The perfect plan.
Ryomen Sukuna what a genius you were, what a mastermind—who said that Jin was the smarter brother?! It was Sukuna that liked literature and poetry (wait, was nerdiness genetic?) No one should underestimate the sheer underappreciated brilliance of a prodigy like-
“Choso’s uncle?” He gapes as you answer the door- and you’re just as beautiful as he remembered you. And oh, alright—Sukuna admits you’re beautiful. Gorgeous, actually.
Which is also why he found it hard to believe that Choso could ever manage to bag you- sure, he wasn’t bad looking…but that’s only because Choso was related to him.
Then again, he wasn’t any Ryomen Sukuna.
A Ryomen Sukuna that was feeling rather…a lot…small as he looks at you.
Your eyes widen as you recognize who your visitor was, though your smile never falters.
“Oh, Cho should be right out. Please come in, have you eaten breakfast yet? You should join us!”
Opening the door even wider, though he stands as still as a statue.
“Is…everything alright.”
No movement once more. No answer, either.
“Ummm, maybe it’s more comfortable there then?” You’re awkwardly smiling at his lack of a response - this certainly wasn’t the Ryomen Sukuna that you’d met at the family dinner…And perhaps at the same time, you’re realizing why.
Because you weren’t just answering Choso’s apartment door—you were doing so in nothing but sleep shorts and a humerus-related t-shirt that was most definitely not yours. And above the hem of that ratty t-shirt were a series of bite marks, nail marks down your neck…such an obscene display that makes you immediately yelp and tug your neckline upwards.
Though Sukuna remains gawking. “I uh…”
“I am so sorry.” You’re blubbering away, and when your neckline fails to cover you adequately without showing off the similar marks on your midriff- you’re reaching your hands up instead. “We’d just been making breakfast, and I’d completely forgot-”
“No, that’s fine uh…” Goodness, when has the rough n’ tough Sukuna ever floundered like this? “It’s my fault for coming unannounced um…”
“What’s this?” Another voice sounds from inside the apartment.
Soon enough, Choso’s joining the two of you at the door—he’s in JBA sweatpants and pulling on a t-shirt as he walks. With whatever mercy that the universe had granted Sukuna, Choso sneaks up behind you, so he doesn’t see whatever similar markings might have been left on him as Choso finally wears his t-shirt properly.
There’s amusement in Choso’s tone as he adjusts his glasses and speaks, “I never thought I’d see the day that you apologize to anyone, uncle Ryo.”
Choso throws an arm over your shoulder - the intimacy was palpable. Something far more different than at the ice cream parlor, and yet…Sukuna should’ve recognized the same admiring glint in Choso’s eyes back then, too.
The apartment behind was messy in that domestic way. There were eggs frying on the stove.
“Sh-shut it.” Sukuna spits. “This is all your…girlfriend’s fault.”
Ah, you really were his girlfriend. The great Ryomen Sukuna has been wrong. How could this be? How could he fathom such a thing?
Summary: An attack during an attack leaves Leon injured and increasingly delirious. After extraction, he’s whisked away, and nobody’s fucking telling you what’s going on.
Finally, you get a phone call.
It changes everything.
WC: ~5k
CW: NSFW, like REALLY NSFW, you and Leon are partnered DSO agents, Leon is injured, fuck or die, sex pollen, sex venom, shaky safety practices, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, first time (together), friends to lovers, technically coworkers to lovers, handjob, unprotected p in v, creampies, multiple orgasms (Leon), he's a hopeless romantic at heart, happy ending
Notes: MINORS DNI
“You say you saw the suits.”
“Yeah, in passing.”
“You didn’t think they were important?”
“It’s a fucking lab. Labs are rife with hazmat suits. We’ve never had to equip them before.”
“There were warnings posted all over the exit.”
“There were zombies all up on our ass.”
The splattering offspray from Leon’s last-minute shot paints your back like a gory Jackson Pollock. The infected hits the floor, tripping two more.
It would be more helpful if there weren’t about a thousand of them closing in.
You’re running side by side with Leon, shoes eating up the sterile white floors, trying to divine an exit through the branching arteries of the lab. He has to veto a turn into a side hall when more shambling figures lunge forward; he grabs your arm to tug you away with him, but it’s an unnecessary precaution. You’ve already matched his footwork.
He glances behind as you run.
“Where the fuck are they coming from?”
You’d like to fucking know.
“And why are they all runners?”
You’ve dealt with your fair share of speed-boosted infected; limbs windmilling, clawing and careening, all bursting energy and no finesse.
These aren’t blisterheads. They have stamina. They’re keeping up.
You twist and shoot one whose fingers are uncomfortably close to swiping the back of Leon’s shirt. The nearby white paneled wall goes bright, splotchy red.
“Intel’s getting a new one ripped if we make it out of this,” you pant, breath dry and ragged in your throat. Your lungs are burning.
“We’re making it out,” Leon tells you. Conclusive, no room for argument. He dodges left, hand once again grazing your arm to pull you with, but you’re already there, a perfect shadow.
This hall is wider, brightly lit with glass cases set in between the wall panels.
You’ve only got eyes on one thing as you run.
EXIT
It’s a final sprint.
You grit your teeth, breath loud in your ears, arms and legs pumping hard, trying to build a gap that allows for a sudden smack into the double doors, a loss of momentum and reversal of motion to slam the barrier closed.
‘Slam’ turns out to be optimistic. It’s a hydraulic close. Glacially fucking slow.
“Fuck! Force it!”
You almost bash heads with Leon, throwing your combined weight against the doors as the calamitous wall of infected catch up, arms reaching through the diminishing gap, scratching and clawing at you.
With a roar of effort, the doors finally give way under pressure and close with a crunch. An arm, hand, and various fingers fall onto the concrete.
“Bar it! Bar it!” Leon’s braced against both doors, his body a wedge, jarred by the furious thumping from the other side.
There are massive pneumatic rod locks on either side of the door. The control panel is dark.
“There’s no power!”
“You’re armed!”
Oh, right.
BANG T-SHUNK
Smoke curls from the barrel of your gun. The blasted hole in the control panel sparks weakly, fizzes, then goes dark.
Leon pushes away from the secured doors, rubbing at his ear. Your head’s ringing like a struck bell and you’d been back at arm’s length, not parallel with the barrel.
“Say something?”
“Something.”
“Yeah, can’t hear shit.”
"You only look like it.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
He’s flipping you off.
You grab it like a pinky promise, linking middle fingers, and he rolls his eyes.
“Alright. Let’s bounce,” you say.
He pulls you back. Urgent, abrupt. It bumps you against him.
“Wait.”
You’re in a greenhouse.
Rows and rows of lush, overgrown plants stretch unfamiliar leaves towards a glass-paneled sky. The walkways between rows are made of industrial metal grating, a stale funk rising from the darkness underneath.
No breeze is stirring the air. The back of your neck starts prickling; your animal brain tugging on your metaphorical hem and pointing.
The plants are rustling lightly.
Leon half-turns his head towards you, keeping his eyes on the jungle ahead.
“What’s the sitrep on the door?”
It’s still thumping against the locks, battered by the relentless undead. You glance at the panel you’d shot, burst and gutted, the wall above it blackened.
“Fucked.”
“Other doors?”
It’s just wall. Wall, and wall, and wall, smooth and inhospitable.
“Negative.”
“How long can you hold your breath?”
“I don’t think that’s the concern.”
You’re playing back the last hallway. White walls broken by glass panels, streaking by as you run. Behind every glass panel, a bright orange suit, thick like leather.
Bite-proof.
“Fuck.”
“So you tried to bypass it underground.”
“So we tried to bypass it underground,” you confirm. You watch the man nod, taking notes. He’s a leftie.
“Good thinking.”
“Yeah, well. Apparently not.”
The metal grating isn’t light. Thankfully, you and Leon aren’t weak.
The daylight sits like oil on top of water, only greasing weakly off of the reflective metal of more walkways below; descending levels disappearing into the dark.
“Oh, good. Can’t see the bottom.”
“Endless possibilities,” Leon says. “Cover me.”
The first level is an eight foot drop. Leon swings his legs into the gap, scoots forward, and eases himself down slowly, like he’s waiting for something to file a violent complaint. When nothing does, he drops onto the walkway, the metal clanging despite his rubber soles.
He shines his flashlight forward.
“Ugh.”
“What?”
“Love what they’ve done with the space.” He pockets the flashlight, reaching up to you. “It’s a charm you have to see in person.”
His hands are firm on your sides, your shirt riding up a little as he supports you down onto the platform with him. He absently fixes your rucked hem as you shine your flashlight into the gloom.
“Ugh,” you agree.
Roots.
Long, white, spidery roots hang from the ceiling in lengthy clumps and bundles, like massive, cobwebby chandeliers.
Leon’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing.
“Hey. Look.”
He steps forward, reaching into the nearest nest of gauzy filaments. He pulls his hand out, fingers curled around a narrow, dark plastic tube.
You come closer with the flashlight.
The dark color is red.
“It’s warm,” Leon adds, horribly.
The tube snakes off into the darkness below. You point your flashlight down and catch a glint off of something flat, circular, and shiny.
Leon’s separating more tubes from the leggy mass of roots. Only the one is red, but the others don’t look any less… organic.
“God. Which way do you think they run?”
He glances at you. “Three guesses.”
“Plants don’t bleed red.”
“Not typically.”
You share a resigned look, then he brushes past you, face set.
You turn to find him making quick work of the stairs down to the lower levels, hand on his gun.
You check your pistol's chamber and follow.
“A line of tanks.”
“Life support tanks, yes. Dozens.”
“Which way were the tubes running?”
“Both ways.”
“So…”
“The tanks were feeding the plants, and the plants were feeding the tanks.”
“Life support, you said. So there were … humans? Inside the tanks?”
“Yeah,” you say, looking away. “Used to be.”
There’s a thick film of slime on the tank, like growing snot. Your flashlight can’t make out anything coherent inside.
Leon shines his flashlight down the row; cylinder after cylinder, standing like a row of human-sized batteries, all mucky with slime and tickled by the trailing ends of roots from the massive bundles overhead.
Somewhere ahead, a steady dripping, echoing. You don’t appreciate the cliche.
“When was the initial outbreak?” Now that you’re on solid ground, your voice seems to suck right into the floor.
“All the lab logs and entries stop around six months ago.”
“So no one’s been down here for half a year.”
“Yeah.”
Leon shares a long look with you, mouth tight. Then, hesitant, he wipes a window through the muck on the nearest tank.
The beam of his flashlight illuminates the chamber. You can see a vague shadow suspended inside, like a bug in rough, raw amber.
He steps back, jaw tight.
“Dare I even ask?”
He shakes his head. “It’ll put you off soup.”
You shine your flashlight upwards; the root balls catch it and glow, high overhead.
“What was so wrong with good ol’ hydroponics?”
“Let’s just get out of here,” Leon says, heading off down the line of tanks.
“Twist my arm.”
“You didn't see it?”
“It was behind one of the tanks. In the dark.”
“You didn't hear it?”
“It was a little noisy at the time,” you say, annoyed.
Third tank from the last, everything goes spectacularly tits up.
Glass shatters outward, slimy and wet as it ricochets off your defensively raised arms. The body in the tank falls forward and swipes for Leon’s legs.
It’s not like the infected you’re used to, desiccated and dry as jerky.
This one is wet. This one is dissolving, skin sloughing from muscle sloughing from bone. Entrails spill from its body cavity, slippery, spreading across the hoary concrete as the disgusting thing writhes for a claim on your partner’s ankle.
Leon stumbles out of reach, gun aiming at the mucky skull. It explodes like a sixpack in a hot car and you’re shouting, ducking behind your arm again—
That’s when the other thing strikes.
Leon shouts in pain and tries to tear free. The pale, rubbery thing keeps hold of his shoulder like an overexcited dog with a rope toy.
“Leon!”
It’s too close to his head and he’s thrashing, you don’t have a clear shot. Something glints in the shadows behind his hip.
The hatchet. He’s already grabbed it.
A roar, a swing, the song of a sharp blade slicing clean through something organic.
The pale thing hits the ground with a sound like a rotting squash, the vine swinging empty into the darkness behind the tanks.
Leon falls to one knee with a grunt, the hatchet clattering onto the concrete.
“Leon! Leon,” you’re touching his back, crouching down with him. He’s breathing hard through his nose, clutching his shoulder. The fabric is darkening under his hand.
“Let me see. Leon.”
You shove his hand clear, unzipping his collar and yanking it aside.
His skin is patterned with circular rows of bleeding dashes. Lots of them.
“What the fuck.”
The pale, rubbery thing lies flaccid on the floor behind Leon. At first glance, it looks like a starfish collapsed on itself.
At second glance, you start to see the teeth, fine and triangular, in diminishing rows like a shark.
Pink with blood.
“Shit. Hey.”
Leon’s still on one knee, head down. You push his hair back, leaving a bloody streak on his skin, and tip his face up. There’s sweat on his forehead.
It takes him a moment to focus on you.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
He grunts. His pupils are a little too big, even for the dim lighting, and they’re not reacting right when you pass your flashlight closer.
You’re trying not to panic.
“Can you get up? Can you walk?”
He lets you haul him to his feet but shoves you off when you go to duck under his arm. You don’t take offense; it’s a good sign. He’s steady enough on his own.
“Grab that,” he tells you, voice rough. He’s holding his shoulder again, pointing down at the beheaded plant. You pick it up by the little stem of vine, grab his hatchet, and follow him close, ascending fast while he calls for extraction.
You don’t wait for your debrief to finish writing.
“What did the labs say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What did Medical say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What, with a potato? Where's the sense of urgency, here?”
“At last report, Mr. Kennedy was stable,” he says, capping his pen.
“He was half delirious coming off that chopper!”
“They’ve determined he’s in no immediate danger.”
“How can they know if they’re still running fucking tests?”
You get your name in an admonishing tone. You stand up, your chair screeching against the floor.
“I wanna see him.”
“He’s in precautionary isolation.”
“I was exposed to the same bullshit he was. I wanna see him.”
“You weren't bitten.”
“What, you think he’s gonna bite me?”
Your debrief just looks back at you, calm and level, his hands folded prim over the closed folder containing your account of the whole goddamn shit-spackled mission.
“He’s in precautionary isolation,” he repeats.
Your teeth grind, a muscle in your jaw jumping.
“Are we done here?”
“Yes. You are free to go.”
Medical stops you at the door. They aren’t fooled by your purposeful stride, your bored but intent expression. They hook your arm and yank you away like it’s goddamn Looney Tunes.
“We were told you might try that.”
Fucking debrief.
So now you’re sitting at home, dialing the Medical desk every fifteen minutes, certain from the complete non-activity of the past four hours that they’ve filtered your number as spam.
Assholes.
You should go to bed. Medical’s kept you both alive thus far, through hell and high water. Leon’s in good hands. Stable. No immediate danger, they said.
You rotate your phone in your hand, over and over. Upside-down, rightside-up. Staring at nothing.
You call the labs.
Some poor idiot actually picks up.
“I-I-I can’t give you that information,” he stammers, when you demand an update on Leon. On the biting plant. On fucking anything.
“I’m his partner! I was ground zero when it happened!”
“I-I can’t verify that over the phone.”
“Then I’m coming in,” you say, prim. You hang up on more panicked stammering, tossing your phone aside on the couch.
You’ve barely made it to your feet when your phone starts ringing.
Incoming Call
Leonnedy
You stub your toe on the couch in your scramble to pick up.
“Leon! Are you okay?”
Immediately you can tell he’s not.
“I need help,” he says. Croaks.
Cold sweat breaks on your skin.
“Where are you? What’s wrong?”
“I’m… I can’t…” He gasps.
You’re a whirl of activity. You’re grabbing your wallet, your keys, pulling a jacket on over your pajamas. There’s no fucking time to change.
“Leon, where are you.”
“Home.”
“What?” You stop cold in your mad dashing, gripping the phone too hard. “They sent you home like this?”
“They said I could take care of it.”
“Take care of what? They won’t tell me fucking anything, Leon–“
He groans through clenched teeth and oh boy, Medical’s gonna find out just how creative you can be when it comes to revenge. You shove your feet ungracefully into some shoes and grab for the door handle.
“The venom,” Leon’s panting in your ear, and then he gets to the zinger. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
You feel it like lightning, a surge throughout your entire body. Your visual of his situation, based on the noises he’s making, takes a dramatic turn.
“Leon.”
“It’s been six goddamn hours,” he grits out.
“Jesus christ, can’t you just–”
“I’ve tried,” he says. “I’m just goddamn edging myself.”
“Did you call Medical? There’s gotta be something they can–”
“Fucking useless,” Leon says, confirming your hypothesis. “They told me to hire an escort.”
“What?”
“I’m not— fuck— fucking doing that.”
You thump your forehead against your front door, your grip on the doorknob tight enough to crush.
“Leon, if you… there’s no shame. They’re professio–”
“No,” he cuts in. “I don’t…” He breaks off, breath hissing through his teeth, and then fails to elaborate.
That’s alright; you’ve got a pressing question.
“Why’d you call me?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. You just have to listen to him breathe like this.
Your vivid imagination is a fucking curse.
"I trust you,” he finally tells you. “I know how this… I don’t have… I trust you.”
You’re partners.
No, you’re coworkers. What he’s asking is… can he ask this? What happens to your partnership in the aftermath? Can you go back to–
“Please,” he breathes in your ear, and tops it with your name.
You wrench the door open.
Before you hang up, he gives you the code for the garage door, and fair warning.
You’re still not prepared.
As partners, you’ve seen each other in various states of undress. Usually partial. Usually because you’re bleeding somehow. Always clinical.
This doesn’t feel like the far end of the same spectrum. This feels like a g-force journey into a different dimension.
Leon’s on his couch, head back, knees wide. Taut like a bowstring.
Completely, stark, buck-ass naked.
His shoulder looks like a bisected watermelon, his skin dewy and pink, dotted with the dark little toothmarks from the venomous plant.
His chest is heaving, his hips restless.
His cock is flushed dark, painfully engorged, thick and pulsing against his stomach. There’s a wet smear on his skin; when his cock lifts, straining, it trails a sticky little string of precum.
“Christ,” you rasp, tossing your jacket aside.
He lifts his head and his eyes can barely focus on you. He looks on the verge of passing out, but he reaches out, reaches for you. You shove a bottle of lube out of the way on the couch cushions and take his outstretched hand.
“I’m here. What do you–“
“Touch,” he pants, barely coherent. “Touch me.”
And here you are in the deep end, no time to brace, no time to breathe. You’re touching him, chamois soft skin, hot and unyielding. His hips jerk on a gasp, a groan dragging from somewhere deep within as he lets his head fall back on the couch.
The hot, swooping sensation in your stomach physically bends you, punches your breath out.
You’ve never handled a dick this hard in your entire life.
You’ve maybe never handled a dick this big in your entire life. He’s long and thick, the head flared, cerise and glistening. You pass your thumb over his slit, smearing through the precum, and his stomach tautens as he pushes up into your hand, his breath rushing out hot, hissing back in. He’s desperate.
He breathes your name. His ass keeps flexing with the helpless motion of his hips and his eyes are closed, forehead knotted.
It’s intense concentration. His world narrowed down, only as wide as the circle of your fist.
Six goddamn hours.
You tighten your grip, trail your other hand up the lightly furred inside of his thigh, teasing his balls before stacking your fists and starting to pump him in a steady rhythm that answers the flex of his body.
His hand lands on your thigh, searing, his fingertips firm on your flesh and pulling. Your knee presses tighter against his leg.
He’s just grappling for a hold on something, for an anchor. His other hand is doing the same thing to the arm of the couch. You just hope he doesn’t move his hand any further to the left on you or he’s gonna find you a little too slippery to hold onto.
Fuck, you’re only goddamn human.
You jerk him faster, his hips starting to meet you in earnest, his body rolling as he chases his disobliging release.
And why couldn’t he get there himself?
What if… what if you can’t get him there, either? You don’t know anything about the venom, they’re still running tests. Maybe this is the result. Maybe he’s just… stuck like this, heightening, exacerbating, until he, what, pops?
What a fucking epitaph that would be.
No, you’re not scripting headstones. That’s not happening.
You start to twist on the upstroke, a flick of the wrist, and Leon moans loud.
“That’s it. Come on, Leon.”
His balls are tightening, drawing up, his forehead beaded with sweat, his mouth open. He’s right on the edge.
“Look at me.”
He opens his eyes, glassy as they are. You make sure he can see you, and then you bend low.
His skin is velvety soft around the firm rounds of his balls. You fit your lips to one of the shapes, touch your tongue to it, tasting the salt of him.
He cries out, thick ropes of cum hitting his chest, his stomach, spurting and spilling down his shaft, smeared by your hand as you milk him through it, relieved.
You can’t stop your breathy laugh, almost lost under his aereous groans. He just keeps going.
“A little pent up?”
He doesn’t quip back. The situation is dire.
His dick gives one last pulse, the final beads of his release dribbling down the head of his cock. You rub it away with your thumb.
There’s a very noticeable issue.
He’s still incredibly hard.
When you meet his eyes, they’re a little clearer. He’s still sunset pink and breathing hard – messy, now, too – but he can track your face better.
“Do you feel any different?”
“Fuck. Barely.”
"What if you're stuck like this?"
“Don't say that," he says. You’re still stroking him, slow, like an afterthought. He drags his hands through his damp hair, hissing when it stretches the scabs on his chewed shoulder.
"It was venom, do you need some sort of antivenom?"
He doesn’t appear to be listening. His hands grip the back of the couch, his hips rolling, cock pushing through your sticky fist.
You grab his hips and force them down.
“Leon.”
He bucks hard against you, bratty.
"You think I know?”
“Don’t give me an attitude.”
“Don’t fuckin tease me,” he snaps, unwisely.
You move fast.
A whump, a gasp, the silence of breath caught in the shadow of a predator.
His breath fans out over your face; slow, tremulous.
“I’m doing you a favor,” you remind him, low, your face inches from his. “I could just leave.”
He’s not moving, trapped under you.
You’re straddling him, your fist tight at the base of his cock.
“What do you say?”
“Fuck.”
“Leon.”
“I love you.”
It rattles you like a gunshot, strikes you and spreads.
It takes your advantage, crumples it up, and throws it in a trash compactor. And then it lights that trash compactor on fire.
“That’s not fair,” you breathe.
“Sorry,” he whispers, and kisses you.
He’s upgraded your permissions. You kiss him back, heated, and let go of your leash.
He breaks from your mouth to gasp when you sit on his hips, his hands catching your waist and gripping.
“Shit.”
“So we’ve learned that I’m not a monk,” you say, a verbal roll of the eyes.
It’s not just a few tepid inches of water in your basement. At this point, your flood’s halfway up the damn walls.
He rocks his hips, rubbing himself against the soaked fabric of your pajama shorts. You keen and pick up the motion on your own.
God, you’re aching.
“You should have said something,” he says, breathless.
“That wasn’t on the invitation.”
“Aren’t you a saint.”
“Yeah. Because when you said ‘I trust you’, I heard ‘take advantage of my compromising situation’.”
“Fair,” he says, then pulls you down to speak in your ear, his scruff a ticklish rasp against your skin. “Fuck me.”
Well don’t you make the perfect pair. He’s hard as granite and you’re wet enough to sink a dinghy.
Taking off your clothes is too much fucking bother. You just shove the wet fabric to the side.
He doesn't watch where you’re taking his cock into your body, the hot, hard length of him sliding in tight past your pussy lips.
He’s watching your face. You don’t know it until you’ve got him in to the hilt, your mouth falling open on a sigh, your forehead smoothing out as you gyrate your hips, a delicious little circle, fully seated on his lap.
"Oh my god, Leon."
He comes.
Your name is somewhere in the long groan sieved through his clenched teeth before his mouth drops open, diced breaths tumbling free as he pulses inside of you, so deep, so hot and thick.
He’s still looking directly at you.
You watch his eyes clear just a little more; sharpening, focusing. Smoke becoming a mist.
“Can I tease you about premature ejaculation.”
“No.” He starts unbuttoning your pajama top. The fabric is wrinkled at your sides where he’d been gripping, almost hard enough to bruise.
“Why, because you’re still hard?” He is, but it’s different. You couldn’t bend steel around him anymore.
“Yeah,” he says simply, and grips your open collar, pulling you down into a kiss.
You arch your back, easing him to just the tip, bottoming him out again, cycling his affected breath through your own lungs. He runs his hands down your chest, grazing your nipples, his tongue reaching into your mouth to taste your sigh.
His hips press up into you, lifting you, a gentle swell. You ride it; start to rock your hips.
The fabric of your shirt whispers down your arms, chased by the skim of Leon’s palms. Goosebumps raise on your skin.
You brace your arms on the back of the couch, riding him faster. He trails his lips down the column of your neck, his scruff a pleasant scratch, his humid breaths printing your skin.
He runs the fan of his fingers over your nipples.
“Leon.”
“Lean back,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “Let me see you.”
You sit back on his hips, brushing your hands over the caps of his knees. He scratches lightly down the flex of your thighs as you start slapping down on him harder, dropping your head back, gasping.
“Fuck, gorgeous, just like that.”
“God, Leon.”
Your thighs are burning. He starts meeting you, hips snapping, and you look down.
It almost does you in.
Those broad shoulders, that flushed chest. Muscles rolling and bunching under his glistening skin. Hair sticking to his forehead, wet pink lips, blown eyes hooded, watching you, too.
His hands fall to your hips and he growls, fingers bunching in your pajama shorts. Feral. Like he’s going to tear them.
He hooks his arm around your back and surges up, laying you out on the sofa. You whine when he slips out of you, but he’s lifting your hips to yank your shorts and panties down, surprisingly coordinated for the way he’s wound up.
A small part of you expects them to hit the floor with a wet slap. The rest of you is reaching for Leon, impatient, empty.
He brings your knee up, hooks your leg around his hip and pushes back in, one long thrust, his breath a humid narration. You keen, head falling back against the cushions, feeling his lips at your jaw.
He digs his arms under your shoulders, his body rocking you, fluid motions pushing and pulling as he fucks you slow, deep. You grip his back, obsessed with the animal flex of his body.
You can feel every inch of him, stroking your walls. In, out, a steady tide. You arch your back, your stomach pressing to the rippling heat of his abs.
He’s still sticky. You don’t fucking care.
“Score’s two to zero,” he tells you, breath hot against your cheek. “You gonna catch up?”
“I’m not the medical concern.”
He brings your other leg up onto his hip, adjusting. Seeking.
He finds it. You groan loud, raw, and feel him smile against your neck.
“There you are.”
Your jaw hinges open, your vision glazing over as he rubs the head of his cock against the bundle of nerves inside you. He snaps his hips, jolting a gasp out of you, then goes right back to massaging your g-spot.
“You’re not real,” you pant. He nips your skin, sharp.
“River in Egypt, sweetheart.”
You dig your heels into his glutes, pressing in like spurs, urging him faster.
“Come on, cowboy– ah!”
He pushes up onto his hands, skin slapping loud as he starts pounding into you hard and fast. You were already tightening, coil building, and he’s hit your fucking warp drive.
“Fuck, fuck, like that, Leon!”
“Shit, you better hurry,” he says through gritted teeth. His hips are stuttering, rhythm starting to fall apart.
“I told you–“
His thumb circles your clit, just one rotation, and that’s it. The bastard’s got you. Screaming, even.
You come apart beneath him, your foundation shaking, walls clenching around him, wracked by seismic waves. He gasps your name, watching you climax on his dick, then slams in deep and comes with a long, stuttering groan.
The third time, it seems, is the charm.
When his phone starts ringing, you don’t hear it at first. His head is blocking your nearest ear.
“Leon.”
“Mm.”
“Your phone.”
“Mmph.”
You shift like you’re going to try to reach for it yourself, but he’s beautifully heavy on top of you, so you don’t try very hard.
You nuzzle your face into his hair and bring your arms around him instead, closing your eyes. He hums, content.
The ringtone stops, bending to your private moment.
Five seconds later, it starts up again.
“Fuck.”
You grouse when Leon shifts up, but his reach is longer than yours and he doesn’t go far.
“Huh. Medical,” he says.
“Oh,” you say, with mock optimism.
He hits answer, settling back on top of you. You run your hand up and down his back, petting him.
“Kennedy.”
He doesn’t have his volume turned up very high. You get vague shapes of words, spoken quickly, and then Leon’s short responses, felt as much as heard, his voice thrumming through you.
“Yeah. … No. … Don’t need it. … I know. … I know. … No, I’m fine. … Sure. Bye.”
“Fucking useless,” he mutters, his phone clattering onto the coffee table. “Antivenom’s ready.”
You start giggling.
“They want me in for reassessment in the morning.”
It turns into laughter, smothered into his shoulder, and he rolls into the couch crease so he can look at you.
“What?”
“All their overtime hours,” you say. “No match for your partner’s Magical Healing Vagina.”
He laughs, a real one, his hand pulling at your hip to twist you towards him, pressing you against his body. You’re both a fucking mess, and the couch might be a write-off.
It was an emergency.
“Should get you certified,” he says. You make a skeptical noise.
“There’d be a demand.”
His arm tightens around you, minuscule. Almost imperceptible. Might’ve been completely imperceptible, if his arms weren’t so big.
“Mm. We’re sticking to best-kept-secret.”
“How selfish.”
He nuzzles your mouth with his, sharing breath.
“Yeah.”
“Hey,” you mention, to his invading tongue. He retreats and lets you speak. "Did you mean what you said, or was it just self-defense?"
"What I said?"
"Don't be obtuse.”
He brushes his lips against yours, just a snag of soft, moist skin.
"I've never lied to you," he says.
"There's a first time for everything," you say. "You're skirting the question."
He brushes your hair back, studying your face. Content to take forever, it seems.
"If it helps," you say, "I can put you back under duress."
You slide your hand to the front of his hip, laughing when he flinches away.
"Ass," he says, and rolls you onto your back again, dipping to kiss you.
"Yeah. I love you," he says, and maybe it's a little gruff. "And isn't that just a shitload of complications."
"A metric fuckton," you agree, stroking his cheek. His stubble rasps against your fingertips.
His eyes are completely clear, gaze steady looking back at you.
“But maybe it helps that I love you, too,” you murmur.
It's not a kiss this gets you. He's been dishing out all manner of kisses tonight, their significance has shifted. No.
Instead, he nuzzles his face against your neck, wraps his arms around you, and holds you. Holds you like he intends to for a very long time, like you're the only thing that matters, like your beating hearts need to carry out a close and personal conversation.
Good. They can work out the details. You're just gonna lay here and pet the hair of the man you trust most – the man you can finally admit that you love – glowingly content in his arms.
On AO3
Y'all mind if I just give our man a bad good time real quick
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“-I’ve spent every bloody briefing picturing’ ye bouncing on my cock in that goddamn conference chair, legs spread wide, skirt rucked up- oh, fuck, I can hear myself, please someone gag me-“
You almost trip over your own feet. Soap’s weight is all muscle and dramatic regret, arm slung around your shoulders as you half carry, half drag him out of the interrogation cell. Gaz is behind you, already losing it, shoulders shaking with laughter. Ghost is…well, Ghost, arms crossed, blocking every possible exit and holding all the guns out of reach.
“Truth serum’s a bitch, Johnny,” Gaz snickers. “Can’t wait to hear what else you’ve been hiding.”
Soap’s face is red. Not combat red, not out-of-breath red… just “my soul is leaving my body and it’s taking my dignity with it” red.
He stares straight ahead and groans, the words tumbling out like a confessional on speed. “D’you know I’ve had dreams- actual dreams, like REM sleep; where I’m eatin’ you out in the back of the Rover while Price tries not to crash? And then I wake up and gotta hide a boner all through briefing- fuckin’ hell, I hate this!”
Ghost drawls, unapologetic: “Don’t stop on my account, Johnny. Been a slow week.”
Soap turns to you, desperate “You believe me, right? I don’t want to say this! But my mouth’s got a mind of its own and my mind is just screaming ‘don’t mention the thigh thing, don’t mention the thigh thing- ’ oh, brilliant, now I’m thinking about your thighs. Wanna have your legs over my shoulders while I make you beg, want you whimperin’ and sayin’ my name, christ, just- someone gag me, please, before I die of shame.”
You snort, and he’s so loud the medics look up in alarm as you haul him into the clinic.
“Can I get a sedative or a muzzle?” Soap begs. “Maybe just tie me down, but not in the fun way- oh, fuck, now I’m picturing it in the fun way, shit- rope burn on your wrists, my hand in your hair- GAZ, STOP LAUGHING.”
Gaz wipes away tears. “I dunno, mate, I’m learning so much.”
Soap blinks up at the ceiling in despair. “Right, and I’ll never be able to look at any of you again. Especially you, love. Gonna haunt my nightmares, you will. And my daydreams. D’you know how many times I’ve pictured you bendin’ over the conference table? Do you?”
You try to give Soap a dry look but it comes out amused. “Johnny, focus. Stay with me. Try thinking about something else.”
Soap, instantly, blurts out: “I’ve pictured you sittin’ on my face. I’d skip meals for it, I swear. Breakfast, lunch, dinner- just you, right here-” (he actually points to his mouth; Gaz almost collapses.)
Ghost, utterly deadpan: “Medic says you’ll live. Shame about your reputation, though.”
Soap glares. “You wanna help me, Simon? Or just stand there, looking smug?”
“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’. “This is the most fun I’ve had in months.”
“Love, can you at least pretend you’re not enjoyin’ this? Please? I’ve got one brain cell left and it’s losing the will to live.” Soap pleads.
You pat his chest; maybe too gently. “Almost done, Johnny. You’re doing great.”
“You say ‘good boy’ one more time, I’ll embarrass myself right here in the med bay.” Soap whines. “Already halfway there, honestly- hell, I’ve been picturing your hand around my cock since day one, every night, every cold shower, every bloody PT run- oh god, make it STOP-“
Gaz straights and grins. “Price is on comms. Wants to know what you’re confessing to.”
Soap, looking to heaven and squeezes his eyes. He genuinely tries to bite his lip and keep it inside but the truth serum spews out regardless. “Tell him I said sorry. And that if he doesn’t want me sayin’ how he calls out your name in his sleep, he best not leave me alone with this bloody serum-”
There’s a pause before Ghost informs him. “Heard that. He’s gonna kill you.”
Soap sighs, slumping on the gurney, mortified but somehow still going. “Aye. I’ll die as I lived. Horny and surrounded by bastards.”
He looks up at you, all desperate, blue eyes and a prayer. “Seriously. If someone doesn’t knock me out, I swear to god, Simon, if you don’t give me my gun right now-!”
Ghost just grins like the bastard he is. “Negative, Johnny. You’re the entertainment.”
Alternative Part two of the boys getting dosed by Truth Serum but instead of Soap it was Ghost
You met them in the corridor as they hauled Ghost out of the room. He wasn’t fighting. That was the worrying bit. He walked between Gaz and Soap calmly, mask still on, eyes unnervingly clear and focused in a way that made your stomach knot.
“Get him in the side room,” Price ordered. “Door open. I want him where we can see him.”
They plunked Ghost down in a chair in the small debrief room next to observation. Fluorescent light buzzing. Concrete. Chairs that had seen better centuries.
Ghost sat like a very large, very dangerous statue. Hands folded. Boots planted. Every inch of him broadcast: fine, this is fine, I am absolutely fine.
You’d seen him concussed and bleeding and he’d looked more rattled than this.
Price pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Nobody ask him anything not strictly operational.”
“Copy,” you said, and then- because you are a fool- “How you feeling, Lt?”
Ghost looked up, utterly deadpan. “I want to bend you over this table, push your face down, and fuck you until you’re you dripping and needy, taking everything I give you. I’d keep you there- hand on your back, palm round your throat- ‘til you’re sobbing and soaked through. Want to ruin you for anyone else.”
Soap choked. Gaz left his body. Price closed his eyes and saw the war again.
You stared. “I- what?”
Ghost shrugged, that tiny, indifferent lift of his shoulder. “You asked how I’m feelin’. Well, that’s it.” He paused, head tilting to look at your measuring, clinical. “Be a proper fuckin’ picture, you would. Face down on that table, hands flat, tryin’ to hold yourself together. I’d have you arse up, legs wide, spread out for me, beggin’ me to go easy ‘cause you know I won’t. Wouldn’t let up, not till you’re shakin’, voice gone from moanin’ my name, tears on your cheeks from takin’ my cock so deep you feel me in your cunt for days after.”
“Christ on a bike,” Gaz whispered.
“What the hell, Simon?” You asked, gaping at him.
“Can’t lie, love.” His tone was flat, like he was reciting the weather. His gaze slid down your body; slow, clinical, lingering everywhere it shouldn’t. He took his time dragging back up, fixing you with that heavy stare behind the mask. “And seems I can’t shut up either- every time you walk in, I think about how easy it’d be to get you under me. How you’d sound beggin’ with my hand between your legs my fingers buried in your cunt, how good you’d look with your lips wrapped round my cock, droolin’ for it- fuckin’ fantastic. Been wantin’ to say this for ages.”
Soap leaned his hip on the table, grinning like Christmas had come early. “Oh, I like this.”
Gaz pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a safeguarding violation with legs.”
Price ignored them. “Simon, focus. You know who we are?”
“Course I do, sir,” Ghost said. “You’re my captain. Gaz is tryin’ not to laugh. Soap’s havin’ the time of his life. An’ she- ” he jerked his chin at you, “- is three seconds from either swingin’ at me or climbin’ in my lap and bounce on it.” He paused. “Maybe both if I’m lucky.”
You made a strangled, high pitched sound you’d deny on your deathbed. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t need to excuse you, love,” he said. “Just need you to stretch first.”
Silence. Even the lights stopped humming to watch the show.
“Statistically.” He clarified, tapped the table, perfectly calm. “You look at my hands when I’m cleaning weapons and then rub your throat. Pupils dilate point two millimetres when I call you ‘love’. You stand closer when I’m in a bad mood. You want the monster. Preferably on your couch. Cushions are useless, by the way. Won’t help your back when I fold you in half and bury my dick in your cunt.”
Price massaged his temples. “Simon.”
“Sir?”
“Go easy.”
Ghost considered. “Negative.”
He turned back to you, flat as ever, eyes half lidded. “Tonight, I’d put my knee on the chair, you on your stomach. One hand holdin’ you down, other between your legs, rubbing your clit while I fuck you deep, feel your cunt choking my cock. Want to hear you cry for it. Want to feel you fall apart on me while you’re pinned under my hand like you’re made to be there.”
Gaz slapped a hand over his ears. “Nope. No. Absolutely not. Where’s the volume control- ”
He spun toward the observation console, hand shooting for the dial that controlled the mic feed.
In the split second before he got there, Soap clocked his intention and launched.
“Don’t you DARE!” Soap yelled, rugby tackling Gaz away from the controls. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, both swearing.
“MacTavish you bloody bastard!” Gaz wheezed.
“No!,” Soap crowed, trying to pin him. “If you touch that button to drown him out, I’ll bite yer hand off, I’m not missin’ this!”
Price dragged a hand down his face. “Professionalism. I’d like some.”
“Not today, sir,” Soap said from the floor. “Today’s for the lads and he’s about to submit a three point plan.”
Ghost obliged. “Four point plan.” He turned to you again. “One: I eat you until you’re crying. Two: you beg. Three: I pretend I didn’t hear you and keep going. Four: you get stupid enough to say please and I reward good manners. Training matters.”
Your jaw had left its hinges. “You can’t- you don’t talk like this.”
“I do now.” He hummed. “This is nice. We should do this more often.”
Price looked skyward. “I’m instituting a swear jar for any word related to… that.”
“Fucking,” Ghost supplied helpfully.
“Right,” Price snapped. “That’s five quid.”
Ghost nodded. “Worth it.” He turned that blank, laser focus back to you. “Also worth it: you sitting on my face. I would die there. Happy to. Don’t revive me. Leave me. Carve ‘died doing what he loved’ into a cheap pine box and throw me in a canal.”
Soap wheezed, tears leaking. “He’s gone, captain. He’s with the angels.”
You grasped for some kind of footing. “But you’re… You’re always so rude to me.”
“True,” he agreed. “Y’like it.”
“I do not,” you snapped.
“Y’like it,” he repeated calmly. “Your cheeks go pink when I bully you. You clench when I call you a brat. You want me to pin you to the floor and tell you you’re annoying while I make you come on my fingers. Then you want to choke on my cock until you’re drooling down my thighs.”
Your soul tried to escape your body via the ceiling.
Gaz wriggled out from under Soap just far enough to gasp, “I’m loggin’ this as ‘intelligence leak’.”
“Fuckin’ right you are,” Soap laughed. “He’s leaking something.”
You reached for dignity again and came up with a knife. “Say another word and I’ll stab you.”
Ghost nodded, thoughtful as ever, like he was adding notes to your personnel file “Noted. You get off on threatening me. Could’ve guessed, but now I know for sure. Makes things easy, doesn’t it? Because I’ll be honest- not like I have a choice- every time you aim a blade at me, every time you spit and tell me to fuck off, it goes straight to my cock.”
His tone didn’t waver, just that quiet, factual Ghost delivery. “Means we’re well matched. You threaten to stab me, I get hard. I threaten to pin you down and make you beg, you get wet. Could build a relationship off that. Real healthy foundation mutual arousal by violence. Not sayin’ it’s textbook, but it’s honest. You threaten to kill me and I’ll fuck you harder. Win-win.”
“I-!”
He held up a hand, courtroom sober. “For the record, I doubt Price is going to let me rail you right now but since I can’t keep my mouth shut, I’ll just paint you a picture instead: every filthy thing I’m goin’ to do to you once this shit’s out of my system. So you’ve got time to get ready and prepare your affairs.”
“Prepare my-?”
“Wills. Stretching routines. Hydration.” He pointed at your water bottle. “Finish that. You cramp when you’re dehydrated and then you get a headache and make these huffy little annoyed sounds. Cute as fuck. Makes me wanna ruin you.”
Price put his face in his hands. “I’m too old for this.”
Ghost leaned back in his chair, inexorable. “Scenario A: you knock on my door at oh one hundred ‘for a question’. I open it. You pretend to forget the question. I say, ‘Out with it, love.’ You say, ‘I hate you,’ and then try to kiss me to shut me up. I put you against the wall and do not kiss you until you ask properly. Scenario B: stairwell-“
“Stop giving options!” Gaz begged. “Pick one and perish!”
“- Scenario C,” Ghost continued serenely, “gym. You’re doing bench dips. I stand behind you and correct your form. You moan. Pathetic, sweet little sound you pretend is exertion. I call you out. You deny it. Then I- ”
“Simon,” you said through your fingers, “I am literally going to combust.”
“Not literally,” he said. “But later, yes. Screaming and everything.”
Soap slapped the floor. “Actually going to combust.”
You tried one last, limp defense. “You’re mean. All the time. You don’t even like me.”
“Incorrect.” He watched you like you were something he meant to disassemble and polish. “I like you in a way that is both deeply inconvenient and alarmingly structural. If I were a house, you’d be the load bearing wall. I cannot knock you down. I can, however, knock you up- ”
“OUT!” Price barked, pointing at the hallway like an angry dad. “Med bay. Alone. No one talk to him!”
Ghost stood obediently, chair scraping, then paused in the doorway and looked back at you. The tone didn’t change, still that unbothered, sand dry delivery but something hungry flickered behind it.
“Contingency note before I’m banished,” he said. “You keep saying I’m mean. Okay. But you would still let me fuck you.”
You threw the knife. He caught it without looking and set it on the table like a librarian shelving a returned book.
“Also,” he added, the barest tilt to his head, “you’re going to punch me about this later. I endorse it. Normal reasons.”
“What fucking normal-!”
“For the record,” he went on, already turning away, “before any of that? I’m going to make you dinner, wash your hair, kiss your knees, and tell you you did a good job today. Then I’m going to put you on your stomach and- ”
“MED BAY!” Price bellowed, herding him down the hall with both hands like a sheepdog herding a very large, very horny sheep.
The door shut. There was a stunned quiet. Soap rolled over boneless to the floor, giggling into his palms. Gaz sat up and put his head between his knees.
Price exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for ten minutes. “You alright?”
You stared at the empty doorway, brain white noise, thighs pressed together in a way that absolutely wasn’t because of anything he said. “No.”
“Mm.” Price rubbed his face. “He’ll be himself again in a few hours.”
“God,” you said weakly. “You mean worse?”
“Quieter,” Price said. “But he’ll remember. And he’ll mean every word.”
You let that roll through you, catastrophic and warm and terrible.
From down the hall, through the door, came Ghost’s muffled voice with the same implacable calm: “For later documentation: I am going to put my mouth on- ”
“SIMON!” three voices roared in unison.
You mouthed at the ceiling. Then you grabbed your water bottle- hydration, apparently- and took a long drink.
Gaz cheeks pink, eyes wide. “So… gym tomorrow?”
You capped the bottle with shaking hands. “Absolutely not.”
Synopsis: A lot can be said about Sukuna. He’s a true warrior. Beastly. A man fully capable of overthrowing the current regime if he wanted, but chooses not to because he’s lazy. He’s also irritatingly persistent, that much is known with how many times he’s come into the brothel demanding your presence rather than going with all the other courtesans he’s been offered… for free, thanks to the power and status that comes with his name.
It's been years now. You can’t hide from him forever, especially not when your mother, the Madame herself, is starting to grow tired of turning him down.
Cw: explicit smut, profanity, alcohol and tobacco use, historical au, loosely inspired by apothecary diaries and demon slayer, sukuna's a menace, the emperor's afraid of him, readers an oiran (highest rank)
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
notes: lol nvm about the hiatus thing, off we go to delulu land
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The data indicating the average person experiences 3.4 attacks annually is misleading. You- who seem to find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time several times a month- represents a significant deviation from the norm and should not be counted in the dataset.
(Seriously, if there was a punch card for civilian endangerment, you'd have earned a free mug and a commemorative sticker by now)
Or; in which Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
10.7k words
It’s a Tuesday and there’s a gun pressed against your spine.
Tuesday has always been the worst day of the week in your opinion- past the motivation of Monday, too far from the relief of Friday, just existing in this pathetic middle ground of mundane awfulness. And now, apparently, Tuesday has decided to really live up to its terrible reputation.
“Don’t move,” a voice hisses behind you, and you can smell stale cigarettes and alcohol. “Empty your account. All of it.”
You’re at the ATM on the corner of 23rd and Hayes, the one you’ve used a hundred times because it’s on your route home from your soul crushing data entry job. The street is unusually empty for 9 pm, but that’s Bludhaven for you; people have finally started learning not to be out after dark.
Everyone except you, apparently, because you’re an idiot who needed cash for the laundromat.
“I have forty three dollars in checking,” you say flatly, finger hovering over the keypad. “And maybe twelve in savings. You’re really not making out well on this transaction.”
“Just do it!” The gun digs harder into your back, right between your shoulder blades.
Of course this is how you die. Not in some heroic way, not peacefully in your sleep at ninety- no, you’re going to get shot at an ATM on a Tuesday because you needed quarters. The universe has always had a sick sense of humor when it comes to your life.
You press the button for withdrawal from checking. “You know, statistically, you’d make more money just getting a minimum wage job. Even after taxes- ”
“Shut up!”
“I’m just saying, this is really inefficient- ”
You don’t get to finish your observation about the economics of street crime because suddenly the weight of the gun disappears from your back and there’s a crash behind you. You spin around- stupid, you should run, but curiosity has always been your fatal flaw- and watch as a blur of black and blue slams your would be mugger into the brick wall of the bodega next to the ATM.
The man crumples. The gun skitters across the pavement. And standing there, illuminated by the flickering streetlight and the harsh glow of the ATM screen, is Nightwing.
You’ve seen him on the news, obviously. Everyone in Bludhaven has. The cops hate him, the people love him, and the criminals fear him. He’s all lean muscle and acrobatic grace, his suit highlighting a body that’s been honed into a weapon. The blue bird across his chest seems to shimmer as he moves, and his escrima sticks hang from his hands like they’re extensions of his arms.
He turns to you, and even though you can’t see his eyes behind the domino mask, you can feel the weight of his gaze.
“You okay?” His voice is different than you expected; younger, with an edge of genuine concern that seems almost out of place on someone who just took down an armed mugger in three seconds flat.
You blink at him. “That depends on your definition of okay. Physically unharmed? Yes. Emotionally scarred by yet another reminder that the universe is chaotic and uncaring? Also yes.”
There’s a pause. You think you see his lips twitch.
“That’s… pretty specific.”
“I’m a pessimist. We’re detailed oriented.” You glance at the mugger, who’s groaning on the ground. “Is he going to need an ambulance, or just a therapist after you’re done with him?”
Now he definitely smiles. “Little of both, probably. You should get out of here. I’ll wait with him until BCPD shows up.”
“Right. Because the Bludhaven PD is so reliable and not at all corrupt.” But you’re already grabbing your card from the ATM, which, miraculously, still dispensed your pathetic forty dollars. “Thanks for the rescue, I guess. Even though I probably would have just given him the money and filed a police report that would go nowhere.”
“You guess?” He sounds amused now.
You shrug, stuffing the cash in your pocket. “I mean, appreciate the help and all, but let’s be real, I’ll probably be mugged again within six months. This is Bludhaven. Lightning strikes twice here. It’s practically a meteorological certainty.”
“That’s not how lightning works.”
“And yet.” You gesture vaguely at the unconscious mugger, the sketchy street, the flickering streetlight that’s been broken for three weeks. “Here we are.”
You walk away before he can respond, but you can feel his eyes on your back until you turn the corner. You’re not sure if he thinks you’re funny or just deeply disturbed.
Probably both.
Of course, both is good.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You’re hanging from a fire escape.
It’s been two weeks since the ATM incident, and you’d actually started to think that maybe, just maybe, your luck was turning around. You got a fifty cent raise at work. Your landlord didn’t increase your rent. You found a dollar on the sidewalk.
But the universe doesn’t like it when you get comfortable.
You’re not even doing anything weird; you just came out here to water your singular, struggling tomato plant (which refuses to actually produce tomatoes) when the rusted bolts finally gave way. The fire escape tilted, you grabbed for the railing, and now you’re dangling four stories above an alley that definitely contains at least three used needles and a suspicious puddle.
“Help!” You scream, but it’s 11 pm and your neighbors include: one elderly man who’s definitely deaf, two college students who are always high, and a woman who once told you she “doesn’t believe in interference.”
This is exactly how you’d thought you’d die but you’d appreciate it if you weren’t right.
Your fingers are slipping. The metal is cutting into your palms. Below you, the suspicious puddle seems to shimmer with menace.
You’re wearing your nice jeans. The ones without holes. It seems important that someone know this.
“I’M WEARING MY NICE JEANS!” You yell into the void.
“Hold on!” A voice calls back, and you’re so startled you nearly let go.
Then he’s there, like some kind of acrobatic miracle, flipping up from the alley below and landing on the tilted fire escape with perfect balance. Nightwing grabs your wrists and hauls you up with absolutely no effort, pulling you against his chest as the fire escape groans ominously beneath you both.
“We need to move,” he says, and then he’s grappling to the roof, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist.
Your stomach does a complicated flip that has nothing to do with the sudden altitude change.
He sets you down on the roof, hands lingering on your arms to make sure you’re steady. “You okay?”
You’re breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through your system. “You know, you keep asking me that, and the answer keeps being ‘technically yes, but actually no.’”
He tilts his head, and there’s something about the gesture that’s almost bird-like. Fitting, given the whole theme. “Wait. ATM girl?”
“Oh, perfect. I have a nickname now.” You brush off your nice jeans, checking for damage. One knee is torn. Of course it is. “Yes. ATM girl. Also known as ‘that pessimist,’ ‘fire escape failure,’ and ‘person who can’t keep a tomato plant alive.’ Hi. Hello. Thank you for saving me again.”
“You remember me.” He sounds pleased.
“You’re dressed like an exotic bird and you saved me from a mugger. You’re pretty memorable.” You peer over the edge of the roof at your apartment window. The fire escape is completely detached now, hanging by a single bolt. “Great. There goes my security deposit.”
“You’re taking this pretty well.”
“What’s the alternative? Crying? I cried in 2019 and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.” You turn back to him, and in the moonlight, you can see more details; the curve of his jaw, the way his hair sticks up slightly, the almost absurd width of his shoulders. “So, do you just patrol this neighborhood specifically, or am I cosmically marked for disaster and you’re following the trail of chaos?”
He laughs, and it’s a good sound, warm and genuine. “Little of both, maybe. What were you doing on the fire escape?”
“Watering my tomato plant. Which has never produced a single tomato and probably never will, but I’m nothing if not committed to lost causes.” You sigh. “I should call my landlord. He’s going to love this.”
“It’s not your fault the fire escape collapsed.”
“And yet, I guarantee this somehow becomes my problem.” You pull out your phone, then pause. “Thanks. Again. For the rescue. You’re really good at those.”
“It’s kind of my thing.”
“Well, it’s a good thing.” You swallow, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing, how the moonlight catches on the blue of his suit, how he’s looking at you like you’re something interesting instead of just another disaster in motion. “You should probably go stop actual crime instead of babysitting the woman who clearly has a death wish via incompetence.”
“I don’t think you’re incompetent.”
“My fire escape would disagree. Also my tomato plant. Also my general life trajectory.”
He’s smiling again. You’re getting used to that smile, the way it makes something warm unfold in your chest despite your best efforts to remain emotionally neutral about everything.
“Get inside safely,” he says. “And maybe water your plant from the window from now on.”
“Bold of you to assume I’ll keep trying. That plant and I both know it’s a doomed enterprise.”
But you’re smiling too, just a little, as he grapples away into the night, all grace and controlled power.
Your landlord does, in fact, make the fire escape your problem.
Of course he does.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You’re stuck in an elevator.
“I should have taken the stairs,” you say to the ceiling, because talking to the ceiling feels more productive than screaming into the void. “I always take the stairs. But no, today I thought, ‘You know what? Live a little. Take the elevator. What’s the worst that could happen?’”
“To be fair,” Nightwing says from his corner of the surprisingly spacious elevator, “this is more of an inconvenience than a disaster.”
You turn to look at him. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking frustratingly calm for someone who’s been trapped in an elevator for twenty minutes. You, on the other hand, are definitely spiraling.
“We’re stuck in an elevator. In a building that’s scheduled for demolition next week. Because apparently, the city of Bludhaven doesn’t believe in proper notices or functional elevators in condemned buildings.”
“You didn’t see the notices?”
“I saw a flyer for a lost cat named Chairman Meow. I assumed that was more pressing than construction permits.” You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor. “What are you even doing here?”
“Got a tip about some guys using the building as a storage facility for stolen goods.” He nods toward a duffel bag in the corner that you hadn’t noticed. “Found them. They ran when the elevator got stuck.”
“Of course they did. They probably took the stairs like sensible criminals.”
He moves to sit across from you, and even in crisis, he moves like water, all fluid grace. It’s unfair, really, how coordinated some people are. You trip over flat surfaces.
“You know,” he says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice, “most people would be more worried about being stuck.”
“Oh, I’m worried. I’m just also unsurprised. This is exactly the kind of thing that happens to me.” You let your head fall back against the wall. “Last month, I got jury duty for a case that was immediately dismissed. I didn’t even get to feel civically important. The month before that, I found a twenty dollar bill on the street and immediately stepped in gum.”
“The universe has it out for you.”
“The universe has it out for everyone. I’m just aware of it.” You glance at him. “Aren’t you supposed to have some kind of gadget that can fix this? Bat-elevator-escape-tool?”
“I’m Nightwing, not Batman. My utility belt has like, six things.”
“Wow, budget constraints even in vigilantism. That’s so Bludhaven.”
He laughs, and you’re starting to really like that sound. It feels like finding something valuable in a thrift store, unexpected and somehow precious because of it.
“You’re funny,” he says.
“I’m fatalistic. People often confuse the two.”
“No, you’re definitely funny.” He leans forward slightly. “And you’re handling this really well for someone who was hanging from a fire escape two weeks ago.”
“Oh, you think this is me handling it well? This is me disassociating. There’s a difference.” But you’re smiling despite yourself. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck?”
“I already hit the emergency call button. Fire department should be here in ten, fifteen minutes.”
“So enough time for you to tell me why you do this.” You gesture vaguely at his suit, his mask, the duffel bag of stolen goods. “The whole vigilante thing. Is it a rich person hobby? A elaborate form of therapy? A very committed cosplay situation?”
“What makes you think I’m rich?”
“That suit looks expensive. Also, you have incredible teeth. Dental work like that doesn’t come cheap.”
He grins, and yeah, those are really good teeth. “I can’t tell you my origin story while we’re stuck in an elevator. That’s terrible narrative pacing.”
“Fine. Tell me something else then.” You’re not sure why you’re pushing, except that sitting in silence feels worse than potential rejection. “Tell me why you remember me. ATM girl. Fire escape failure. Elevator disaster.”
“Because you’re different.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “Most people I rescue are either terrified or grateful or both. You were critiquing the economics of street crime while there was a gun pointed at you.”
“That was just my anxiety talking. I babble when I’m nervous.”
“And when you’re not nervous?”
“I’m always nervous. We live in Bludhaven.”
“Fair point.” He’s quiet for a moment, and you can feel him looking at you, really looking. “You act like you expect the worst, but you still watered your tomato plant. You still took the elevator instead of the stairs. That’s not pessimism. That’s hope wearing a disguise.”
The words hit something soft inside you, something you thought you’d armored over years ago with sarcasm and emotional distance.
“That’s a very poetic assessment of my character flaws,” you manage.
“I don’t think they’re flaws.”
Before you can figure out how to respond to that, before you can unpack the warm, fluttery feeling in your chest that feels dangerously close to something you can’t take back, there’s a grinding sound and the elevator lurches.
“Fire department?” You ask hopefully.
“Fire department,” he confirms, standing and offering you his hand.
You take it, and his grip is strong and steady, and you let yourself hold on for maybe a second longer than necessary.
The doors pry open to reveal two firefighters who look unsurprised to see Nightwing and very surprised to see you.
“Ma’am,” one of them says, “what were you doing in a condemned building?”
“Looking for Chairman Meow,” you say without missing a beat. “He’s still missing, by the way, if anyone’s seen an orange tabby with delusions of political grandeur.”
Nightwing makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cough.
As the firefighters escort you out (with several safety lectures), you glance back once. Nightwing is watching you go, duffel bag in hand, and even though you can’t see his eyes, you feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
You wave.
He waves back.
You tell yourself the flip in your stomach is just residual adrenaline.
You’re definitely lying to yourself.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
The fourth time you meet Nightwing, you’re not actually in danger.
You’re on your building’s roof (the landlord finally fixed the fire escape, but you’ve developed trust issues), lying on a blanket and looking at the stars. Or trying to. Light pollution in Bludhaven means you can see maybe seven stars on a good night, and most of them are probably planes.
“You know,” a voice says from behind you, “most people would consider this suspicious behavior.”
You don’t even flinch. Of course he would show up. Of course.
“Most people don’t live in my apartment,” you say, not sitting up. “My upstairs neighbor is having extremely loud makeup sex, my downstairs neighbor is learning the drums, and the person across the hall is watching what I think is the entire Fast and Furious franchise at maximum volume. I’m seeking refuge.”
Nightwing moves into your peripheral vision, then sits down on your blanket without asking. The casual intimacy of it makes your breath catch.
“All at once?” He asks.
“The universe coordinated it specifically to drive me to the roof. Where I will probably be struck by lightning or hit by a meteor.”
“Still not how lightning works.”
“And yet, you keep showing up during my disasters. What’s your excuse this time?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and when you finally turn your head to look at him, he’s staring up at the sky with an expression you can’t quite read.
“No excuse,” he admits. “I was patrolling nearby and saw you up here. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Checking on ATM girl? I’m touched. Truly.” But your voice is softer than usual, missing its typical sardonic edge. “I’m fine. Well, as fine as I ever am. No muggers, no collapsing structures, no stuck elevators. Just me and the seven visible stars.”
“Eight,” he says, pointing. “That one’s really faint, but it’s there.”
You look where he’s indicating and squint. “If you say so. I’ll take your word for it, since you seem to have superhuman vision along with superhuman acrobatics.”
“Just good training.”
“Right. Training. That you definitely do as part of your regular person job that’s definitely not related to being a billionaire or anything.”
“I never said I was a billionaire.”
“You also never said you weren’t.”
He laughs, and shifts slightly closer. You can feel the warmth of him now, even through his suit. “You’re very suspicious.”
“I’m very realistic. People don’t become vigilantes because they had a super normal childhood and well adjusted emotional regulation.” You pause. “No offense.”
“None taken. You’re not wrong.” He’s quiet for a beat. “You want to know something?”
“Is it your secret identity? Because I should warn you, I’m terrible at keeping secrets. I once accidentally told my coworker that another coworker was pregnant before she announced it, and I didn’t talk for three months out of shame.”
“Not my secret identity.” He sounds amused. “I was going to say that I actually look forward to running into you.”
Your heart does a complicated somersault. “You look forward to me nearly dying? That’s kind of dark.”
“I look forward to talking to you.” He turns to face you properly, and even in the darkness, you can see the curve of his smile. “You’re real. No filter, no performance. Just genuinely, refreshingly honest about how absurd everything is.”
“That’s just depression with better marketing.”
“It’s not, though.” He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of color in his mask, the slight stubble on his jaw. “You keep showing up. You keep trying. You’re watering that terrible tomato plant and taking elevators and lying on roofs looking for stars. That’s not giving up. That’s the opposite of giving up.”
You swallow hard. “You’re doing the poetic assessment thing again.”
“Is it working?”
“I’m not sure. My emotional processing system has been out of order since 2016.”
But you’re not pulling away. Neither is he.
“Can I tell you something?” You hear yourself say. “And you can’t make fun of me.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would, but I’m going to tell you anyway.” You take a breath. “I think I’m starting to actually look forward to the disasters. Because at least then I get to see you.”
The silence that follows feels enormous, stretching between you like something physical. You’re about to take it back, laugh it off, blame it on the drums and the makeup sex and the Fast and Furious franchise-
“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’ve been taking extra patrols through this neighborhood for two weeks hoping to run into you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“That’s very inefficient crime fighting,” you whisper.
“I’m okay with that.”
He’s so close now. You can see the way his chest rises and falls, the slight curve of his lips, the angle of his jaw. Your hand moves without permission, reaching up to trace the edge of his mask.
“Can I-”
“Not yet,” he says, but he catches your hand and holds it against his cheek. “Soon. I promise. But not yet.”
“Okay.” And it is, somehow. Okay. “This is insane. You know that, right? I don’t even know your name.”
“You know me, though.” His thumb traces circles on your wrist. “You know the important parts.”
“I know you have good teeth and a concerning habit of showing up during my worst moments.”
“Your most interesting moments.”
“Same thing, in my life.”
He laughs, and then he’s leaning in, and you’re leaning in, and-
An alarm goes off somewhere in the distance. Police sirens. Something that sounds like gunshots.
He pulls back with a sigh that sounds genuinely regretful. “I have to go.”
“Of course you do. Crime never sleeps, and neither does my terrible luck with timing.”
But he’s standing, getting ready to grapple away, and you’re standing too, and before he goes he turns back and cups your face with one gloved hand.
“Same time next week?” He asks. “Same roof?”
“You’re scheduling our coincidental meetings now? That seems very organized for a spontaneous vigilante.”
“Call it hope wearing a disguise.”
He’s gone before you can respond, flipping off the roof with that impossible grace, and you’re left standing there with your hand pressed to your cheek where he touched you, smiling like an idiot at the seven- no, eight- stars.
This is dangerous, you think.
This is terrifying.
This is exactly the kind of thing that will definitely end in disaster.
You can’t wait.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You're getting mugged again.
"I told you," you say to Nightwing as he drops from the fire escape above, landing between you and the two men who'd cornered you outside the 24-hour bodega. "I told you lightning strikes twice in Bludhaven. It's been exactly three months."
One of the muggers makes a run for it immediately. The other one pulls out a knife, which seems optimistic given that Nightwing was in the news for taking down an entire robbery crew last week with what you're pretty sure was just a pair of escrima sticks and audacity.
"You were counting?" Nightwing asks, disarming the guy with a move so fast you barely see it. The knife clatters into a storm drain. The mugger wisely chooses to follow his friend's lead and runs.
"I have a very specific relationship with probability and disaster." You hold up the energy drink you'd been buying. "I was just getting caffeine for my night shift. Is that too much to ask? One energy drink without a felony?"
He turns to you, and even though it's been three months of scheduled roof meetings (and several unscheduled disaster interventions), your stomach still does that stupid flip when he looks at you.
"You okay?" He asks, like always.
"Physically fine. Emotionally processing the fact that you either have a tracker on me or the universe is actively coordinating our meet-cutes through crime." You pause. "Wait. You don't have a tracker on me, right?"
"No tracker. I was two blocks away when I heard yelling."
"My yelling specifically, or just general Bludhaven yelling? Because there's a lot of ambient yelling in this city."
He steps closer, does that thing where he checks you over for injuries even though you've told him you're fine. His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching. "Your yelling has a specific quality."
"Is it the desperation? The resignation? The underlying notes of 'I knew this would happen'?"
"It's distinctive." His lips twitch. "You want me to walk you home?"
"Nightwing, it's three blocks. Surely there's actual crime happening somewhere that needs your attention more than my tragic walk of shame back to my apartment."
"Humor me."
So you do, because you're weak and he's looking at you like that, and honestly, your Tuesday (of course it's a fucking Tuesday) is already so absurd that adding a vigilante escort service barely registers.
You walk in silence for half a block before he speaks. "How's the tomato plant?"
"Dying. Finally gave up last week. I'm weirdly proud of it for lasting eight months though. That's longer than most of my relationships."
"You're in a relationship with your tomato plant?"
"Was. It's complicated. We wanted different things. It wanted proper drainage and sunlight. I wanted it to not be a metaphor for my inability to nurture living things."
He's laughing now, that warm sound you've become maybe slightly addicted to over the past few months. Your roof meetings have become the highlight of your week, even though you're both pretending they're casual. Even though you're both pretending that the almost-kiss from that first night didn't fundamentally alter something in the space between you.
"I got a new plant," you admit. "A cactus. The guy at the store said it was indestructible."
"How long has it been?"
"Four days."
"And?"
"It's looking suspicious. I think it's plotting something."
You've reached your building. The one with the formerly broken fire escape, the drum learning neighbor, and the upstairs couple who have apparently decided that their relationship drama is a communal experience.
You should go inside. He should go stop crime. This is where the night should end.
"So," you say instead, because you're bad at good decisions. "Thursday. Roof. Same time?"
"Wouldn't miss it." But he's not leaving. He's standing there, closer than necessary, and the streetlight is flickering (because of course it is), and something in his posture has shifted.
"What?" You ask.
"Nothing. Just..." He reaches up, almost touches your face, then drops his hand. "Be careful. Please."
"Careful? You do remember who you're talking to, right? I'm the fire escape girl. The elevator disaster. The woman who gets mugged on a schedule."
"Exactly." And there's something in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch. "So be careful. Because I..." He stops, shakes his head. "Thursday. Don't be late."
He's gone before you can ask what he was going to say, grappling up into the darkness, and you're left standing there wondering if it's possible to have your heart broken by someone whose real name you don't even know.
(It is. You're pretty sure it is.)
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
Thursday arrives with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment.
You're on the roof at 10 pm sharp, because apparently you're the kind of person who's punctual for secret meetings with a masked vigilante now. The blanket is spread out. You've brought snacks this time- chips, because you're not fancy, and two cans of the fancy lemonade from the bodega that doesn't get robbed as frequently.
He's late.
By 10:15, you're starting to worry, which is a new and uncomfortable feeling. Usually you're worried about yourself and your own impending disasters. Worrying about someone else requires emotional bandwidth you're not sure you have.
By 10:30, you're pacing.
By 10:45, you're googling "Bludhaven crime news" on your phone, which is probably exactly what you shouldn't be doing but your anxiety brain has never been good at following directions.
At 11:07, he lands on the roof, and you're on your feet immediately.
"You're late," you say, and it comes out more scared than annoyed. "You're never late."
"I know. I'm sorry. There was a thin- " He stops, and even in the darkness you can see something's wrong. He's favoring his left side. There's a tear in his suit near his ribs.
"You're hurt." It's not a question.
"It's nothing. Just- "
"Sit down." You're already moving toward him, hands hovering uselessly because you have no idea what to do with an injured vigilante but you need to do something. "Sit down right now or I swear I'll- I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be annoying."
He sits, probably more from surprise than actual obedience. You kneel beside him, trying to assess the damage through the suit.
"It's really not that bad," he says, but his voice is tight with pain. "I've had worse."
"That's not as comforting as you think it is." Your hands are shaking. When did your hands start shaking? "What do I do? Do you have a first aid kit? Do you need a hospital? Should I call Batman?"
"Please don't call Batman."
"I don't even know how to call Batman. That was an empty threat." You're rambling now, the words spilling out in a rush. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to help you. I barely know how to help myself. I once put a band-aid on upside down- "
"Hey." His hand catches yours, stops the flailing. "Breathe."
You breathe. It doesn't help.
"I have supplies in my belt," he says calmly. "Just need to... patch it up. It's honestly not serious."
"You have a hole in your suit. There's blood. That seems serious."
"I've had worse nights." But he's pulling out a first aid kit that's somehow compact enough to fit in his utility belt, wincing as he moves.
You take it from him before he can argue. "Let me. Please. I need- " Your voice cracks. "I need to help. I need to do something."
He looks at you for a long moment, and then nods.
His suit has some kind of panel near the injury that peels back, revealing a gash along his ribs that makes your stomach turn. It's not as deep as you feared, but it's definitely more than "nothing."
"Knife?" You ask, focusing on the injury instead of the implications, instead of the fact that this man you've been slowly falling for risks his life every single night.
"Broken glass, actually. Went through a window."
"Consensually or...?"
"The window was very against it."
You laugh, because the alternative is crying, and you carefully clean the wound with the supplies from his kit. He doesn't flinch, which is somehow more concerning than if he had.
"You do this a lot," you say quietly. It's not a question.
"More than I'd like."
"And you just... patch yourself up and go back out the next night."
"Usually."
You're applying butterfly bandages now, careful and methodical, trying not to think about how this could have been worse. How it could always be worse.
"Why?" The word comes out smaller than you intended. "Why do you do this?"
He's quiet while you finish bandaging, and you think maybe he won't answer. Then: "Someone has to."
"That's not an answer. That's a deflection."
"You're getting good at reading me."
"You're getting easier to read." You sit back, surveying your work. It's not pretty, but it'll hold. "Or maybe I'm just paying more attention than I should be."
"Is that what you think? That you're paying too much attention?"
You look up at him, and even with the mask, even in the darkness, you can feel the intensity of his gaze.
"I don't know what I think anymore," you admit. "Three months ago, I was just a person who got mugged sometimes and had a dying tomato plant. Now I'm the person who waits on roofs and worries when you're late and apparently knows how to do field dressing for vigilante injuries. I don't know how that happened."
"I do." His hand comes up, cups your face like he did that first night. "You kept showing up."
"You literally scheduled the meetings."
"You could have said no."
"Could I have?" Your voice is barely a whisper now. "Because I don't think I could have. I don't think I can. And that's terrifying."
"Why terrifying?"
"Because you're- " You gesture at him, at the suit, at the fresh bandage on his ribs. "This. All of this. You jump off buildings and fight criminals and apparently go through windows. You're not safe. This isn't safe. And I'm- I'm a person who expects the worst because the worst usually happens, but somehow you've become the exception and I don't know what to do with that."
His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "What if I told you I'm terrified too?"
"You? You're Nightwing. You're not afraid of anything."
"I'm afraid of you not being here next Thursday." The words are quiet, honest, devastating. "I'm afraid of you deciding this is too complicated. Too dangerous. Too- "
You kiss him.
It's not graceful. You basically just lean forward and press your mouth to his, cutting off his words, and for a second he's too surprised to respond. Then his hand slides into your hair and he's kissing you back, and oh, this is-
This is nice.
You break apart after a moment that feels both infinite and far too short. You're breathing hard, and he is too, and you're still close enough to count his heartbeats.
"That was..." he starts.
"Impulsive? Stupid? A terrible idea given the circumstances?"
"I was going to say worth waiting for."
You laugh, and it comes out shaky. "You're bleeding through your bandage and I just kissed you. This is the most Bludhaven romance ever."
"Is that what this is? A romance?"
"I don't know. Is it?"
He leans his forehead against yours, careful of the mask. "I want it to be."
"Even though I'm a disaster?"
"Because you're a disaster. My favorite disaster." He pulls back just enough to look at you. "I need to tell you something. Soon. About... everything. Who I am. But not tonight. Not when I'm- "
"Bleeding and probably concussed?"
"I'm not concussed."
"You went through a window. You're at least mildly concussed."
"Fair point." He's smiling though, even through the pain. " I'll tell you everything. Soon. I promise."
"Everything?"
"Everything you want to know."
You should be scared. This is the part where your pessimistic brain should kick in, should start listing all the ways this will inevitably end badly. But looking at him now, at the way he's looking at you like you're something precious instead of just another disaster in motion...
"Okay," you say. "Okay. I'll see you next Thursday. But if you're late again, I'm implementing a three strike policy."
"What happens after three strikes?"
"I'll have to actually learn your name through investigative journalism. It'll be very embarrassing for both of us."
He laughs, then winces. "You should go. Get some sleep. I'll watch you get inside safely."
"You'll watch me walk down one flight of stairs?"
"Humor me."
So you do, gathering your blanket and your unopened snacks, and when you reach the roof door you look back. He's still sitting there, hand pressed to his ribs, watching you with that impossible attention.
"Be careful," you call back. "Please."
"You first."
"That's statistically unlikely, but I'll try."
You're smiling as you head down the stairs, heart racing, lips still tingling, completely terrified and completely sure all at once.
This is definitely going to end in disaster.
But maybe- just maybe- it'll be the good kind.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
Nightwing hands you an envelope.
You're on your usual rooftop, and he drops down from seemingly nowhere, landing in that cat like crouch that should be illegal in terms of sheer attractiveness. You've been seeing each other- if you can call these rooftop rendezvous "seeing each other"- for almost four months now, and your heart still does that stupid flutter thing every time he appears.
"I have something for you," he says, and there's a nervous energy to him that's new.
"If it's another apology for having to leave mid-kiss last week because of a police scanner, I'm going to start charging you per interruption."
"It's not that." He sits next to you and pulls out a cream colored envelope, expensive looking, with your name written on it in actual calligraphy. "I want you to come to something."
You take the envelope like it might explode. "Is this a ransom note? A summons? A very formal breakup letter?"
"Just open it."
You do, and your brain immediately short-circuits.
You are cordially invited to the Wayne Foundation Annual Charity Gala...
"This is- " You look up at him, then back at the invitation. "This is a joke, right? This is fake. You printed this at like, a FedEx or something."
"It's real."
"Nightwing. This is a Wayne gala. As in Bruce Wayne. As in billionaire Bruce Wayne. As in- " You wave the invitation. "There's no way this is real. These things are invite only for like, celebrities and politicians and people who own multiple yachts."
"I know."
"So this is definitely fake."
He takes off one of his gloves and reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "It's real. I want you there. I want..." He pauses, and you can see him gathering courage. "I want you to meet me. The real me. Not just the mask."
Your heart is doing dangerous things. "You're going to be there? At a Wayne gala?"
"Yeah."
"As yourself. Your real self."
"Yeah."
"And you're either Bruce Wayne's secret son, or you're about to tell me you're Batman, or- " You stop. "Oh my god, are you Batman? Is that why you said you only have six things in your utility belt? Is it a budget thing or a 'I'm actually just a vigilante with a day job' thing?"
He's laughing now, soft and genuine. "I'm not Batman. But yes, I'll be there. And I want you there too. If you want to come."
"This is insane."
"Probably."
"This is going to be a disaster."
"Maybe."
"I don't have anything to wear to a Wayne gala. I can't exactly show up in my 'I Survived Bludhaven' tshirt and jeggings."
"You'll figure something out." He squeezes your hand. "Please? I know it's scary, and I know this is all backwards and weird, but- "
"Okay."
He stops. "Okay?"
"Okay. I'll come." You look at the invitation again, at the embossed Wayne logo, at the date that's only three days away. "I'm going to regret this. This is going to end terribly. But okay."
He kisses you then, deep and relieved and tasting like promises that you're terrified to believe in.
"Saturday night," he says against your lips. "Wayne Manor. Seven pm."
"I'll be the one having a panic attack in the corner."
"I'll find you."
After he leaves, you sit on the roof for another hour, holding the invitation and trying to convince yourself it's real.
It's probably fake, you think.
This is definitely a prank.
There's no way this ends well.
Saturday arrives with all the inevitability of a dental appointment.
You've spent the last three days having a sustained, low level panic attack. You went to every thrift store in Bludhaven and finally found a dress that doesn't look like it was donated after someone's divorce in 1987. It's black, because you're not ambitious enough for color, and it fits reasonably well if you don't breathe too deeply. It cost $27, which is $20 more than you've ever spent on a single item of clothing.
You've paired it with shoes you already owned (black flats with a scuff on the toe that you colored in with Sharpie) and a small purse you borrowed from your coworker who asked exactly zero questions, bless her.
You look in the mirror and see exactly what you are: a person in a discount dress pretending to be someone who belongs at a Wayne gala.
"This is fine," you tell your reflection. "This is totally fine. The invitation is probably fake anyway, and you'll get turned away at the door, and you can go home and eat ice cream and never think about this again."
The invitation sits on your counter, looking aggressively real.
You grab it, grab your purse, and head out before you can talk yourself out of it.
Wayne Manor is exactly as intimidating as you imagined, which is to say: very.
The uber driver drops you off at the end of a long driveway that probably costs more than your entire apartment building. There are actual literal limousines pulling up to the entrance. You can see people in gowns that cost more than your yearly salary stepping out with the kind of casual grace that comes from never having worried about rent.
"This is fine," you mutter, walking up the driveway because there's no way you're asking to be driven up like you belong here. "This is totally fine. The bouncer will definitely kick you out and then you can go home."
But when you reach the entrance, holding out your invitation like a shield, the man in the tuxedo just smiles and says, "Welcome, miss. Enjoy your evening."
And then you're inside.
Wayne Manor is obscene. There's no other word for it. The foyer alone is bigger than your apartment, with marble floors and a chandelier that probably costs more than a small country's GDP. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes are everywhere, holding champagne glasses and laughing with the kind of ease that comes from never having checked their bank account before buying groceries.
You are immediately, viscerally aware of every single flaw in your discount dress.
The woman next to you is wearing something that shimmers like starlight and probably has a designer name you can't pronounce. Her jewelry is real. Her hair is professionally styled. She smells like expensive perfume.
You smell like the lavender body spray you got on sale at Target.
"This was a mistake," you whisper to yourself. "This was absolutely a mistake."
You're about to turn around and leave, invitation be damned, Nightwing be damned, your own curiosity be damned, when a waiter appears with a tray of champagne.
"Would you care for a drink, miss?"
You take one because it's free and you're definitely going to need alcohol to get through whatever fresh humiliation this evening has planned.
The champagne is good. Annoyingly good. Even the alcohol here is fancier than you.
You drift through the crowd like a ghost, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, trying not to draw attention to your discount dress and your Sharpie-ed shoes. You find a corner near an elaborate flower arrangement (are those orchids? those are definitely orchids. you killed one once) and try to blend into the wallpaper.
This is fine. You'll stay for twenty minutes, drink your fancy champagne, and then leave. Nightwing was probably joking anyway. Or maybe he forgot. Or maybe-
"Excuse me," a voice says, and you turn to find a woman in a red dress that probably costs more than your car would if you had a car. "Are you here alone?"
"Um." You clutch your champagne. "Yes?"
"Oh, how lovely! I'm Caroline Whitmore. My husband is on the board of the Wayne Foundation." She gestures vaguely at a man across the room who's wearing a tux that fits him like a second skin. "Is this your first Wayne gala?"
"Is it that obvious?"
She laughs, but it's not unkind. "A little. You have that 'deer in headlights' look. Don't worry, everyone feels that way their first time. The Waynes can be a bit... overwhelming."
"That's one word for it," you mutter into your champagne.
"The trick is to just enjoy the free food and avoid Bruce Wayne's new girlfriend. She's dreadful." Caroline leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think he just dates models because he doesn't know how to have a real conversation."
You're saved from having to respond by a commotion near the entrance. The crowd shifts, and you can feel the energy in the room change, the way everyone's attention suddenly focuses on one point.
"Oh, there they are," Caroline says. "The Wayne family. They always make an entrance."
You shouldn't look. You should stay in your corner with your champagne and your discount dress and your existential dread.
But of course you look.
Bruce Wayne enters first looking exactly like the billionaire playboy philanthropist he's famous for being. Tall, handsome in a way that's almost aggressive, wearing a tux that probably costs more than your entire life.
Behind him is a younger man who looks uncomfortable in his suit, dark haired and scowling. Then another man, broader, with a white streak in his hair and an expression that suggests he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Another younger man who’s looking down at his phone and looks like he hasn’t slept since the day he was born.
And then-
And then-
Your champagne glass slips from your hand.
It hits the marble floor with a crash that echoes through the sudden silence, and everyone- every single person in the room- turns to look at you.
But you're not looking at them.
You're looking at the man who just walked in behind Bruce Wayne. Dark hair that sticks up in a way that's immediately, devastatingly familiar. A smile that you've seen in moonlight and shadows, now displayed under the crystal chandelier. A suit that's perfectly tailored to a body you've traced with your hands on rooftop meetings.
He's looking right at you.
And you know.
You know.
"Oh my god," you whisper. "Dick Grayson."
Because of course Nightwing is Dick Grayson. Of course he's Bruce Wayne's ward, the former circus performer turned billionaire's son, the golden boy of Gotham society.
Of course you've been making out with someone who's probably worth more than the entire city of Bludhaven.
Caroline is saying something about the broken glass, and a waiter is rushing over, but you can't hear any of it because Dick Grayson-Nightwing- is walking toward you.
The crowd parts for him like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea.
He stops in front of you, and up close, without the mask, you can see his eyes. Blue. Bright blue. The same eyes that have looked at you with concern and humor and heat.
"Hi," he says, and his voice is the same, exactly the same. "You made it."
"I- " Your brain is offline. Completely offline. "You're Dick Grayson."
"Yeah."
"The Dick Grayson. The- the son of Bruce Wayne. The- "
"Technically adopted son, but yeah."
"I've been kissing Dick Grayson on my roof."
He grins. "You have been."
"I told you that you were probably rich and you lied."
"I said I never said I was a billionaire," he points out. "Technically true. Bruce is the billionaire. I just have access to his credit cards."
"That's-you-" You look around at the crowd that's definitely, absolutely watching this entire interaction. At the broken champagne glass at your feet. At your discount dress next to his designer tux. "I'm going to pass out."
"Please don't." He takes your hand, the same way he has on the roof, his thumb finding that spot on your wrist that always makes you shiver. "Come on. Let's get you some air."
"I broke a glass. There's-I should clean that up. I should- "
"The staff will handle it." He's already guiding you through the crowd, past the staring faces and the whispered comments. Past Bruce Wayne, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Past the scowling boy and the man with the white streak and the teen that’s no longer looking at his phone but looking at you in curiosity.
He leads you out to a balcony that overlooks the grounds, and the cool night air hits your face like a slap.
"Okay," he says, turning to face you. "You can yell now."
"I can't yell. I'm at a Wayne gala. There are probably rules about yelling."
"There are definitely rules about yelling, but I'm giving you permission to break them."
You stare at him. At Dick Grayson. At Nightwing. At the man you've been falling for without knowing he's literally famous, literally rich, literally everything you're not.
"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress," you say finally.
He blinks. "Okay?"
"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress from a thrift store, and my shoes have Sharpie on them, and I colored in the scuff mark this morning because I don't own fancy shoes. Everyone in there is wearing clothes that cost more than my rent, and I'm- I'm- "
"Beautiful," he says simply. "You're beautiful."
"I'm a disaster."
"You're my favorite disaster."
And despite everything- despite the humiliation and the broken glass and the fact that you're definitely the poorest person at this gala- you laugh.
"This is insane," you say. "This is actually insane. I've been dating- are we dating? I don't even know if we're dating- I've been something with Dick Grayson and I didn't even know it."
"We're dating," he confirms. "Definitely dating. I'm not in the habit of having regularly scheduled rooftop makeout sessions with people I'm not dating."
"Your life is so weird."
"Says the woman who critiques muggers while they're actively mugging her."
You're about to respond, about to say something about how at least your weird is normal weird, not billionaire vigilante weird, when there's a commotion from inside.
Not the normal gala commotion. Something else.
Something wrong.
Dick's entire posture changes, his body going taut in a way you recognize from when he's in the suit.
"Stay here," he says.
"Yeah, that's not ominous at all."
But he's already moving back toward the ballroom, and you follow because of course you do, because the universe has never let you make smart decisions.
The scene inside is chaos.
The lights are flickering. People are screaming. And standing in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by henchmen in matching green suits, is a man with a purple suit, a cane, and a smile that makes your skin crawl.
The Riddler.
Because of course. Of course this gala is being crashed by a Batman rogue. Of course this is happening.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Riddler's voice carries across the ballroom with theatrical flair. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything important. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of 'important,' doesn't it? After all, what's more important: champagne and canapés, or the answer to a riddle that could save your lives?"
You're frozen in the doorway. Dick is next to you, and you can see him calculating, planning, probably figuring out how to get to wherever he keeps his Nightwing suit stashed.
"Here's the riddle," the Riddler continues, twirling his cane. "What has hands but cannot clap, a face but cannot smile, and tells you when it's time to die?"
The crowd is silent, terrified.
And you-
You can't help yourself.
"A clock," you say.
It's not loud. It's barely more than a mutter.
But in the terrified silence, it carries.
The Riddler's head snaps toward you. "What was that?"
"I said it's a clock." Your voice is stronger now, because apparently when faced with mortal peril, your anxiety manifests as mouthy confidence. "The answer is a clock. It has hands, it has a face, and depending on your philosophical relationship with mortality, it tells you when you're going to die. Although technically, that's more metaphorical than- "
The Riddler stops in front of you, studying you with unsettling intensity. "You're not afraid."
"Oh, I'm terrified. I'm just also really annoyed because I was about to have a whole crisis about dating someone out of my league, and now you're here with your- " You gesture vaguely at his outfit. "Your whole situation, and I have to deal with that instead."
There's a beat of absolute silence.
Then Dick makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob.
"You're dating someone?" The Riddler looks delighted. "How wonderful! And who might this lucky person be?"
"That's really none of your business, but thanks for the interest in my personal life. Very invested for a supervillain." You pause, and your brain- your traitorous, anxiety ridden brain- decides this is the perfect time to keep talking. "Actually, you know what? Can I ask you something?"
Dick's hand tightens on your arm. "Please don't- "
"Why are you even doing this?" You gesture at the terrified crowd, the henchmen, the whole hostage situation. "The crime thing. You're clearly intelligent. Like, really intelligent. Your riddles are actually good, which is more than I can say for most people's riddles. Why aren't you running an escape room empire or something?"
The Riddler stops. Blinks. "Excuse me?"
"Escape rooms!" You're on a roll now, your anxiety manifesting as what can only be described as aggressive career counseling. "Think about it! You could corner the entire market! You're already creating elaborate puzzles and death traps; just make them non lethal and charge people seventy five dollars a head to try to solve them. People LOVE that stuff. You'd be rich in like, six months. Plus, you'd get to feel superior to everyone who can't solve your puzzles, which seems like a big thing for you- no offense- and it would be completely legal!"
The entire ballroom is silent. Even the henchmen look confused.
The Riddler is staring at you like you've just spoken in an alien language.
"You- " He stops. Starts again. "You think I should open an escape room?"
"Not an escape room. Multiple escape rooms. A franchise. 'Nygma's Enigmas' or something. Trademark it. Get investors. Go on Shark Tank. You could be a millionaire legitimately, and you'd get to watch people fail at your puzzles all day, every day, and they'd literally be PAYING you for the privilege. It's the perfect business model for someone with your specific skillset and psychological needs!"
"I- " The Riddler looks genuinely taken aback. "I have never- "
"And think about the branding opportunities! Merchandise! Puzzle books! A YouTube channel where you explain how people failed! You could be internet famous! Do you know how much money internet famous people make? A LOT. More than you're probably getting from- " You gesture at the current hostage situation. "Whatever this is supposed to accomplish."
"She has a point," one of the henchmen mutters.
The Riddler spins to glare at him. "Whose side are you on?"
"I'm just saying, boss, the last three jobs haven't really paid that well- "
"SILENCE!"
"Plus, the Bat keeps catching us," another henchman adds. "An escape room business would have way better job security- "
"Are my henchmen seriously discussing CAREER CHANGES in the middle of a HEIST?"
"It's not a bad idea," a third henchman says thoughtfully. "My cousin runs an escape room in Metropolis. He cleared six figures last year."
"Yeah, and he doesn't get punched by Batman," the first henchman points out.
"EXACTLY," you say, pointing at them. "See? Your employees understand basic risk benefit analysis! You could offer them actual benefits! Health insurance! A 401k! Paid time off!"
Dick has given up trying to stop you. You can feel him shaking next to you, and you're pretty sure it's silent laughter.
Bruce Wayne is pinching the bridge of his nose in the background.
The Riddler looks like he's having an existential crisis. "But- but the CHALLENGE! The battle of wits with Batman! The thrill of outwitting the law!"
"You can still have that! Just make one of your escape rooms Batman themed! Make it really hard! Charge extra! He might even show up to try it, and then you get to watch him struggle with your puzzles in a legal, controlled environment! It's a win-win!"
"Batman themed," the Riddler repeats slowly.
"With like, gargoyles and batarangs and stuff. Make it super dramatic. People will eat that up. Gotham loves Batman. Merchandising nightmare, but that's what lawyers are for."
There's a long, long pause.
"That's..." The Riddler trails off. "That's actually not a terrible idea."
"RIGHT?!"
"I could create the most challenging escape rooms in the world. People would come from everywhere to test themselves against my intellect- "
"And PAY you for it!"
"And I could rate them. Publicly. On their failures- "
"Make a leaderboard! With shame tiers!"
"A SHAME LEADERBOARD." The Riddler looks genuinely excited now. "That's brilliant! That's- " He stops. Looks around at the terrified gala attendees. At his henchmen, who are all nodding enthusiastically. At you, in your twenty seven dollar dress, having just accidentally talked a supervillain into considering legitimate employment.
"This is..." He shakes his head. "This is the strangest hostage situation I've ever been in."
"Is it still a hostage situation if we're having a productive career counseling session?" You ask.
"I don't know! I've never had this happen before!"
"Well, there's a first time for everything. So, are you going to let everyone go, or..."
That's when the lights go out.
There's the familiar sounds of a Batfamily in action the thwip of grappling hooks, the thunk of escrima sticks, the crack of martial arts, and what sounds like a tiny angry Robin yelling something about "incompetent fools."
When the lights come back on, the Riddler and his henchmen are zip tied on the floor. Batman is glowering. Nightwing is clearly trying not to laugh behind his mask. Robin looks deeply offended by the entire situation.
"Did she just- " Robin starts.
"Give the Riddler career advice? Yes," Batman says flatly.
"Is that... allowed?"
"I don't think there's a protocol for this, Robin."
The Riddler, zip tied and defeated, looks up at you from the floor. "You know, in another life, I think we could have been friends."
"In another life, you could be a legitimate businessman," you counter. "It's not too late! Think about the escape rooms! Think about the shame leaderboard! If Martha Stewart can make bank after prison, so can you!”
"I AM thinking about it!" He actually sounds enthusiastic. "The possibilities are- "
"Okay, that's enough," Batman interrupts, gesturing for the GCPD. "Take him in."
As they're hauling the Riddler away, he calls back: "If I do this- if I actually do this- I'm naming you as a consultant!"
"I don't want credit for this!" You yell back.
"Too late! You're getting a percentage!"
"A percentage of WHAT?!"
"MY ESCAPE ROOM EMPIRE!"
And then he's gone, still yelling about business plans and shame leaderboards, and you're left standing in a ballroom full of Gotham's elite, having just accidentally become a business partner with a supervillain.
Dick appears at your elbow, back in his regular tux, no mask. He's grinning so wide it looks painful.
"Did you just- "
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You just convinced the Riddler to consider a legitimate career- "
"I was dissociating. My mouth just does things when I'm nervous!"
"That was the most amazing thing I've ever witnessed."
Bruce Wayne materializes on your other side. He looks at you for a long moment.
"If he actually does open an escape room franchise," Bruce says seriously, "and it keeps him out of crime, I'm writing you a recommendation letter for whatever you want."
"I don't- I can't- " You look between them. "This is insane. This whole night is insane. I came here in a thrift store dress and now I'm a business consultant for a supervillain?!"
"Twenty seven dollar dress," Dick corrects, still grinning.
"NOT THE POINT."
Caroline Whitmore appears with champagne. "Same time next year?" She asks cheerfully.
You take the champagne and down it in one go.
"Sure," you say faintly. "Why not. What else could possibly happen?"
The universe, as always, is listening.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You wake up disoriented, head full of static, and for a moment you’re convinced the entire Wayne gala was a stress induced fever dream. The ceiling above you is definitely not the water stained plaster of your apartment: this one is smooth, painted a gentle gray, and if you squint you can see tiny glow in the dark stars scattered in one corner.
There’s a slow, delicious ache in your thighs that’s definitely not from stress.
You shift, and the sheet slithers over bare skin, warm and expensive, and the motion pulls your attention to the weight at your waist; an arm, long and golden and dusted with soft brown hair, wraps you close.
Oh.
You twist, carefully and there he is: Dick Grayson, hair rumpled, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, mouth parted with the kind of sleep heavy softness that makes you want to press your face to his shoulder and never move again.
Last night comes back in flashes: his mouth on yours as the adrenaline bled out in the back seat of the car, his hands clumsy and urgent as he unlocked the door to his apartment, laughter tangled with kisses, a trail of your thrifted dress and his designer tux winding through the hall.
You’d made love with the kind of desperate relief that comes from barely surviving- again- a night that should have been a disaster but somehow wasn’t.
Dick shifts, blinking blearily, and his gaze finds you, blue and bright and so gentle you could cry.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice gravel soft with sleep. “You’re still here.”
“Wasn’t sure I would be.” You mean to say it with a laugh, but it comes out quiet, almost vulnerable.
His thumb brushes over your bare hip, slow and affectionate. “You always have a choice. You know that, right?”
You nod, trying not to melt into him. “You snore, by the way.”
He grins, no shame at all. “And you talk in your sleep. You told me the exact tax rate on laundromat quarters.”
You flush, and Dick leans in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your jaw. “It’s adorable.”
You let yourself settle against him, the two of you tucked into the soft tangle of his sheets, sun leaking in around the blackout curtains.
Dick rolls you gently onto your back, hovering over you, hair falling into his eyes. “You know what I want?” he says, voice gone low and teasing, eyes warm as sunrise.
“What’s that?”
He ducks down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s slow, sweet, the kind you never thought you’d get from someone like him. “I want to make you breakfast. And then I want to see if you’ll let me keep you here all weekend.”
Your heart does a ridiculous, traitorous thing in your chest. “You’d get sick of me by noon.”
He nips at your jaw, grinning. “Not possible. I’m insatiable.” He punctuates it with another kiss, this one lingering, his hand sliding over your waist, palm broad and steady.
You can feel him, hard and wanting against your thigh. The temptation to tease is irresistible. “Didn’t you say you needed to rest after last night, Mr. Grayson?”
He groans, but his mouth is already sliding down your neck, teeth scraping lightly. “I lied. Or maybe you just recharge me.”
Your hands slide into his hair as he kisses down your body, worshipful, reverent. His lips find your breast, tongue circling, and his hand drifts lower, cupping your thigh, thumb stroking lazily at your skin. The ache between your legs turns electric, all soft warmth and want.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin, breath hot.
“Don’t you dare.”
He laughs quiet, and so, so happy and then his mouth is on you, slow and patient, mapping every inch. When he finally presses inside, the stretch is familiar and perfect, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him close, moving together in the drowsy gold of morning.
He presses his forehead to yours, both of you grinning like idiots.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.
He kisses you, slow and sure, as if sealing a promise: “Good. Because you’re my favorite disaster.”
The sun climbs higher, and you think, for once, that maybe- just maybe- everything is exactly as it should be.
And maybe lightning didn’t strike to destroy you for once: maybe it struck to set you alight.
I miss designationless reader so here’s a throwaway thought that has indeed been talked about before:
John wasn’t expecting it.
You’d been curled up against him on the couch, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, his fingers absentmindedly rubbing soothing circles along your back. It was nothing out of the ordinary- just another evening where he took care of you. He was warm, steady, protective. It was second nature.
And then, with a sleepy sigh, you murmured. “You’re such a good Alpha, John.”
His body locked up. His chest rumbled with a deep, involuntary purr, the praise settling over him like a heavy, addictive drug. His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer as if he could absorb the words into his very being.
“Yeah?” His voice was rough, deeper than usual, tinged with something dark and so very pleased. “That right, love?”
You nodded drowsily, your own eyes closed and unaware of the way his pupils had dilated.
His jaw clenched. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to take a slow breath, to keep his instincts in check. But fuck, hearing that from you- from his scentless darling who didn’t even understand what it meant- was dangerous.
He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling the faintest traces of warmth and home and the nest that clung to your skin. His lips brushed against your temple, voice thick and quiet when he spoke quietly. “That’s right, sweetheart. I’m your Alpha. Always.”
It didn’t end at just John, of course. You had no idea what you were doing to Ghost, either.
He had you pinned against the training mats, his forearm braced beside your head, his weight hovering just enough to keep you trapped without crushing you. Your chest rose and fell in quick little breaths, your limbs trembling from exhaustion after he’d spent the last two hours running you through drills.
He was just about to push himself up, about to offer you a hand and call it a day-
But then you exhaled, all soft and warm beneath him now, and huffed. “You’re such a good Alpha, Simon. And a good sparring partner.”
He froze.
For a full five seconds, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe. A deep, wrecked sound rumbled from his chest, his pupils blown wide. His fingers twitched against the mat, and it took everything in him not to sink down, not to press himself into you and take what his instincts so desperately wanted.
His head dipped, nose brushing against your jaw, and his voice came out hoarse. “Say that again.”
You blinked up at him, lips parted in confusion. “Huh?”
His breath hitched. Fuck. You didn’t even realize.
His body was vibrating, his muscles locked in place as he forced himself to lift away from you, to put space between you before he did something stupid. He barely managed a rough, “Nothing,” before pulling you to your feet and all but shoving you out of the gym.
He needed to calm the fuck down.
And then for Soap, it happened in the middle of a mission.
You were perched on a rooftop with him, lying low as he set up the overwatch position. The others were moving in, and he watched their backs.
His focus was sharp, fingers steady as he adjusted his scope, tracking movement below. He was good at this- at spotting danger before it could reach his pack, at keeping them safe. It was instinct.
And then your voice, quiet, cut through the tense silence. Would his reaction be like Simon and John’s, you wondered?
“You’re such a good Beta, Johnny.”
His breath caught. His hands tightened around the rifle. Heat crawled up the back of his neck, spreading to the tips of his ears, and he had to blink rapidly to keep himself from losing focus.
A slow, giddy grin crept across his face. “Aye, lass? Y’think so?”
You hummed. “Mhm. You always watch out for everyone. It’s nice.”
His chest ached. His heart pounded so hard he was sure the others could hear it through comms. His fingers flexed against the rifle as a shiver ran down his spine.
“Fuck’s sake.” He muttered under his breath, shaking his head with a helpless laugh.
He and his pack were never letting you go.
Lastly- Gaz.
It was late, and the two of you were alone. The others had already gone to bed, but you and Gaz had stayed up, quietly chatting as he helped you patch up a few scrapes from training.
He was careful, his touch gentle as he smoothed ointment over your skin and wrapped the bandages with practiced ease. His brow furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted as he focused.
You watched him for a moment, something warm blooming in your chest. Maybe…
“You’re such a good Omega, Kyle. Thank you for taking care of me.”
He stilled, much like Ghost had done.
His fingers faltered against your arm, breath hitching sharply. His eyes snapped up to yours, wide and dark, and for a moment, he just stared at you, as if trying to decipher whether you meant to say that.
And then, very slowly, a shaky exhale left his lips. His head dipped, his nose brushing against the side of your throat, and a low, satisfied purr rumbled from deep within his chest.
“God,” he groaned, thick and hoarse. “You can’t just say things like that, dove.”
You blinked, hiding your grin. “Why not?”
His grip on your wrist tightened, just a little. He took a slow breath, scenting you out of pure instinct, even though you had no scent to take in. “Because,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, “it makes me wanna keep you all to myself. Come on, up- we are going to the nest.”
