🐶

Peter had been avoiding you. 

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

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

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

This time, he didn’t knock.

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

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

“Peter—”

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

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

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

“Something’s wrong.”

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

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

“I almost killed a cop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I almost killed someone tonight.”

“I know.”

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

“It was an accident, Peter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please just tell me you’re okay.”

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

By morning, he still hadn’t answered.

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

“Peter, answer me.”

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

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

I’m okay.

That was all he gave you.

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

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

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

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

Spider-Man. 

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

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

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

So you went to him.

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

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

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

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you felt him catch himself again.

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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A quiet grunt, followed by the creak of floorboards. They’re hesitant and light, almost as if they’re contemplating simply hopping back out. Oddly enough you’re not worried about who just crashed through your window but rather how. Your apartment is about seven floors up.

“Uh… Hello?” A voice calls, sheepish and unsure. You freeze. You recognise that voice. You swear it. You stand up on shaky legs and take a hesitant step toward the kitchen door. “Hello? S’anyone home?” The voice calls again, a little closer this time, and you grip onto the kitchen doorway for support, the other hand now rubbing at the tender spot at the top of your head. You grip the doorframe a little harder, the wood groaning. The sound is quiet, almost inaudible, but the other person seems to hear it.

“So… funny story, I did not mean to do that!” There’s a pause and another creak of floorboards right outside in the hallway. “Okay, you’re in there… I can hear you. Probably wondering who the lunatic in your house is, right?”

You furrow your brow, leaning to look around the kitchen door, but you can only really see a silhouette in the dim lighting of the hallway. “Who are you? What d’you want?” The figure straightens up as they notice your head peeking out through the doorway. The person is tall and lean, and their eyes seem to be huge and reflective. They step forward into view. Your breath catches in your throat.

“First off, hi! I’m your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman. Emphasis on ‘friendly,’ I promise.” He laughs awkwardly, his hands open and visible in a placating gesture. “Secondly, really sorry about the window. I was, uh… well, I got distracted. Been having these… headaches… lately. Yeah.”

You can’t help but crack a small smile. Here he was — Spiderman. Yes, the Spiderman. In your hallway. Acting awkward and sheepish. I mean, what a sight to behold. You’ve never met a celebrity before, nevermind having one very flustered Spiderman in your house. You duck your head back into the kitchen to try and collect yourself.

Your sudden departure seems to alarm him, “I’ll pay for the damages. Or, um, help fix it? I’m handy with… well, webs. It’s a whole thing.” He laughs again, but it sounds a bit forced. There’s a beat of silence. “…You’re not calling the police, are you?”

“No!” You yell a bit too quickly before remembering yourself. You clear your throat. “No, I just… you’re…” You shake your head, amazed at the whole situation. You take a deep breath and step out fully into the hallway. He’s standing there expectantly, his head tilted. You can see your own pale form staring back at you in the reflection on his lenses. 

“It’s really no—“

“Again, I’m rea—“

You both splutter at the same time. You laugh, gesturing for him to continue. He shakes his head, bewildered and possibly embarrassed, planting his hands on his hips. He lets out a jagged huff of air that sounds almost like a laugh.

“I’m really sorry.” He’s slightly leaning forward as if he’s staring right at you, though his featureless expression conceals it. His lenses seem to be…squinting? “Seriously. I’ll go clean it up right now. I don’t want you cutting yourself because of me and I…” His words trail off, his voice catching as he leans even further forward, suddenly quiet. “I… uh, I mean, I really don’t want you hurting yourself. Not that you’re clumsy or anything! You’re, uh… really, um, graceful. Like, in a totally-not-creepy way that I’ve definitely noticed because… uh, spider-sense. Yeah. Spider-sense.” He scratches the back of his head, shifting from one foot to the other, the faintest scuff of his suit-clad foot on the carpet giving away his sheepishness. “Wow, that… sounded way cooler in my head. Anyway! I’ll just… clean it up before I embarrass myself further.”

He retreats quickly, and a moment later you hear the grating sound of glass being scraped across the floor. “Do you… do you have, like, a dustpan?” He calls, his voice a bit less wobbly. You blink, grappling with the thought that Spiderman is in your apartment, probably crouched on your living room floor like some awkward house guest.

“Uh, yeah!” You manage, heading back into the kitchen to grab the dustpan and brush from under the sink. When you enter the livingroom, the first thing you notice isn’t Spiderman hunched over a mountain of broken glass, but the freezing cold wind whipping at your curtains. You shiver involuntarily. “Here.” You mutter, holding the dustpan and brush out to him.

As he sweeps at the shards, he glances up at you. “I’m such a…” He shakes his head, huffing, “I can uh… board it up with my webs. Until you can get it fixed properly.” He takes in your shivering form and his shoulders droop. He doesn’t say anything else, but he looks guilty. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hide the tremor in your hands. “It’s… okay. Accidents happen.” He pauses mid-sweep, tilting his head. “You’re being way too nice to the guy who just wrecked your window.” A small laugh escapes you, breaking some of the tension. “Well, you did just save the city, like, last week… right?” He snorts quietly, resuming the sweep with his gloved hands. “You heard about that, huh? It wasn’t as glamorous as the news made it look. I mostly just… got lucky.” You watch him for a moment, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, like he’s bracing for you to get mad. When there’s no backlash, no anger, he glances back at you, giving a small, grateful nod. He finally finishes gathering the larger shards, webbing them neatly into a sticky bundle. “There. At least you won’t step on these in the middle of the night.” Then he glances at you again, hesitating. “You’re still shivering. Can I…uh… can I stay until you’re, you know, less… ice cube-y?” You blink, surprised. “I mean… sure. Yeah. I guess I could use the company.” He sits cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with a piece of webbing and looking comically out of place sitting on your rug. “So… do you always let strange guys in spandex hang out in your apartment after they break your stuff?” You chuckle softly, feeling your cheeks getting a little warm. He is awfully charming and likeable, and he’s sitting on your living room floor. He tilts his head, and though you can’t see his face under the mask, you can practically feel his grin. “You good?” You give a small shrug, trying to keep your face angled away to hide your growing flush. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint city noises outside. You catch yourself leaning against the wall, still hugging your arms, but the tension in your chest is slowly easing. “Thanks, by the way. For not yelling. Or calling the police. Or, you know, throwing a lamp at me.” He mutters, tilting his head to look up at you, his lenses narrowing. You smile faintly. “I don’t have very good aim.” He leans back on his palms, his posture relaxed now. His head darts around, seemingly taking in his surroundings properly for the first time. “You’ve got a nice laugh, by the way. Made me feel better about this whole disaster.” Your cheeks warm even more at the unexpected compliment, and you find yourself stepping closer, drawn in by his odd mixture of awkwardness and charm. “It wasn’t a disaster. You’re just… a bit clumsy. And a bit of a drama queen.” You add with a snort. “Clumsy hero,” he mutters, then his head snaps back to you quickly, “Hey! Drama queen? Really?” You both laugh, letting the strange tension and situation dissipate into comfortable familiarity. The laughter slowly ebbs and there’s a beat where you’re both just… looking at eachother. The city light flickers in from the broken window, painting stripes across his red and blue suit. He tilts his head, voice soft. “I should, uh… probably head out before I make things worse. Unless…” You tilt your head, waiting for him to continue.

“Unless, uh, you…” He shakes his head and waves his hand dismissively, like he’s expecting you to reject the idea completely. “S’nothing. Nevermind.”

You furrow your brow and cross your arms. Your voice is soft and coaxing. “No, what is it?”

He lets out a shaky breath, pretending to be interested in a notch in your wooden coffee table. “Unless you don’t want me to?” You glance at the table, then at him, taking in the way his gloved fingers trace the edge of the wood. The quiet hum of the city outside seems louder in the pause between you. You swallow, trying to find your voice. “I… I don’t mind if you stay,” you say softly, almost questioning yourself as the words leave your lips. He looks up, his shoulders relaxing slightly, “Yeah? Okay… cool. I can, um… stay… sitting here for a bit, if that’s alright?” You nod, and he settles more comfortably on the floor, his back against your couch. He lets out a quiet, almost content sigh, the sound draws your gaze, and you notice the way his chest rises and falls beneath the suit. You’re closer than you realised. You take another step closer and settle down onto the floor beside him. The quiet stretches, but not uncomfortably. He shifts slightly, angling his body toward you. “I mean… if you want me to go, I will. I just…” He hesitates, then shrugs. “I kinda like being here.” Your heart flutters. You reach out without thinking, letting your fingers brush his gloved hand. He freezes for a second, then turns his hand over, letting your fingers settle against his palm. “I kinda like having you here,” you admit with a small laugh. He exhales, a slow, careful breath, and you can almost feel the smile behind the mask. He leans in just a little, his hand coming up as if to touch your face, but he hesitates, letting it hover mid-air. The shutters on his lenses snap closed for a moment before opening, and he seems to remember himself, snatching his hand back.

“Sorry. That was weird.” He groans, sounding almost as if he was in physical pain. “It’s just— You’re really… uh, y’know. And I just…” He scrubs a hand over his mask-clad face. “I don’t even know your name and it’s all… it’s…” “It’s (Name).” You say quietly, your eyes still fixed on his hand that had been hovering near your face a few seconds ago, now curled into a fist. “(Name),” he repeats softly, like he’s testing the taste of it through the fabric of his mask. “That’s… yeah, that’s a really nice name.” He laughs nervously, a breathy little huff, shifting slightly closer, “I, um, don’t usually do this kinda thing. Y’know—talk to strangers often. Or… stare at them. Which I’m not! Anymore. I’m stopping now.” You can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time? It’s hard to tell.” He groans again, letting his head fall back for a second. “I’m terrible at this. I mean, I just met you like, thirty minutes ago, and my brain’s already… jelly.” “You’re nervous?” “Yeah. I mean… you’re… wow.” His voice drops, becoming a bit more gravelly, a little raspy. “You’re kinda distracting, you know that?” He hesitates, his hand twitching at his side before lifting half an inch, as if he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. “If I… um… wanted to…” He swallows, his voice cracking slightly. “Would it be… totally insane if I… kissed you right now?” Your breath catches, and for a moment you can’t even think, let alone speak. You make a choked little noise at the back of your throat. “Maybe… just a little bit insane.” “Insane’s kinda my thing, isn’t it?” he says quickly, a grin audible in his voice. He closes the distance, scooting so close that your thighs are touching. He’s close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating through his suit. “Can I?” he whispers, leaning in and nodding toward your hand, still giving you a chance to pull away. You nod, and he reaches a hand out slowly, hovering for a split second before it closes around yours, and pulls it up toward the bottom of his mask. Your fingers close around the fabric and his hand guides yours to pull gently.

His hand is trembling. His lips look soft. And then he’s kissing you, it’s clumsy at first, like he can’t quite believe it’s happening. Within seconds it deepens, the urgency and heat catching both of you off guard. One hand hovers uncertainly at your waist before finally settling there, trembling, the other hooks under your thigh. Almost effortlessly, he pulls you onto his lap, and you can feel the rapid pound of his heart through the thin layer of fabric where your chests are now pressed together. The kiss is almost inexperienced and sloppy, all clashing teeth and accidental nips.

You pull back for just a second, your lips kiss-swollen and wet. You try to catch your breath. “Wow…” You trail off, catching yourself, the name ‘Spiderman’ feeling a bit impersonal considering the circumstance.

Spiderman himself seems unbothered, already chasing your lips with his own and delivering a teasing little nip before diving back in. You can feel him grinning against your lips.

“It’s… Peter… say it…” He mumbles between kisses, his hands splaying across your lower back, pulling you flush against him. “…Please…”

The friction makes him groan. He plants another long, wet kiss on you. You can feel yourself getting pulled against the rigid length of him, making you squeak, “Peter!”

He lets out a low, steadying breath, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. His hands are now firmly anchored onto your hips, holding you in place. You can feel him pulsing beneath you. His voice rises an octave, “God, yeah. That’s it. I’m Peter.”

You don’t let him say anything else, pressing your hips more firmly against him. He lets out a choked noise and his head falls back against the couch, his mask slipping back down over his face. He doesn’t seem to notice but his grip on your hips tightens, and you feel almost certain that it’s going to leave a bruise.

It’s almost comical, The Amazing Spiderman, pliant and trembling underneath you. His hips buck upwards, seeking more friction. “C’mon. Just… little bit… Oh. Oh fuck…” His hands grip tighter, slowly coaxing you to rock. The only sounds are both of your laboured breathing and the grating sound of denim against spandex. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the suit. “That’s… shit, that’s good…”

The rocking grows faster, less coordinated as he loses rhythm, his hips jerking involuntarily. You can feel a familiar heat pooling in your lower abdomen, like a coil that’s about to snap. The pleasure is starting to border on pain as he starts driving his hips upward, holding you captive in his bruising grip. “Peter… s’too much… I think I’m…”

You’re cut off by a particularly rough rut, the air being punched out of your lungs. You feel your lungs stinging a bit with the lack of oxygen, and him. You can feel him. Everywhere. His grip on your hips, the soft fan of his breath through his mask and the hot, pulsing length of him slotted between your thighs.

“Yeah?” His breathing is coming in short, jagged pants. The innocent looking lenses on his mask are half covered by the shutters, making him look in a perpetual state of bliss. You can see your flushed, sweat-damp face reflected in the still-visible whiteness. “G’on. ‘M close too… so close…”

With a final, stuttering rut and an almost vice-like clamp on your hips, he comes. He finally stills, letting his grip slacken and brings up a hand to sheepishly scrub at his masked face. You’re both panting, clothes stuck to your skin with sweat. With a few blink-like snaps of his shutters, his lenses seem to uncloud and he straightens up, checking you over as if looking for injuries. “You alright?”

You blink, nodding fervently. “Yeah. I’m alright. You?”

His other hand rubs gentle circles on your hip. “Alright? I’m uh, I’m a bit more than alright—“

A jingling, chip-tune like melody starts to play from close to his hip. Then it starts to play from your pocket, where your phone is. Peter tilts his head, then he jumps, as if remembering who he is. He pulls out his phone, and you dig in your pocket for yours.

“Spidey Tracker.” You both mutter.

Peter snorts, snapping his phone shut. “Ignore it.”

You huff, phone still clutched in your hand. You bring the other up to touch his chest, right over his spider emblem. Your eyes drift down his torso and land on the slowly spreading wet patch at the crotch of his suit. He groans, sounding embarrassed. “M’sorry about that. Gonna need to find a good dry-cleaner.”

You laugh, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to the side of his mask. Just then, a soft ding comes from your phone, lighting it up with a notification. Peter cranes his neck to look. “What’s that?”

A text comes through.

Peter had been avoiding you. 

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

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

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

This time, he didn’t knock.

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

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

“Peter—”

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

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

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

“Something’s wrong.”

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

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

“I almost killed a cop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I almost killed someone tonight.”

“I know.”

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

“It was an accident, Peter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please just tell me you’re okay.”

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

By morning, he still hadn’t answered.

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

“Peter, answer me.”

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

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

I’m okay.

That was all he gave you.

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

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

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

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

Spider-Man. 

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

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

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

So you went to him.

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

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

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

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you felt him catch himself again.

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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You and Peter were both hunched over the same lab notebook, rereading your notes and trying to make sense of it all. The light was dim, the sky outside dark, as the sun had already set. Your heads were almost touching when his knee bumped yours under the table for the third time in the last half hour. 

“Sorry—sorry.” He whispered with a tight and awkward smile, his voice cracking a little when he glanced at you up close, then looking back at the papers. He was wearing that white t-shirt, the one that suddenly hugged his body in a way you never noticed before—stretched tightly around his arms and way too fitted around his buff chest. The corner of your mouth lifted in a subtle smirk when he avoided your eyes again, but you looked down to notice the hard and prominent outline against the front of his jeans. 

You knew he had been hard for the past twenty minutes but tried to act nonchalant about it and shift like he could will it away. 

“It’s just… the data’s really good tonight. We can make something out of it.” He mumbled too fast, cheeks pink and fingers fidgeting with the forgotten pencil on the table. “And you’re really close, and your perfume is really sweet, and I keep thinking about—uh. Never mind.”

You glanced down at his jumping knee, the tent in the jeans even more prominent now. 

Peter followed your eyes now, freezing for a second with that adorable pink dust on his cheeks, then let out this soft and embarrassed half-laught and half-scoff. “Yeah, sorry. That’s… new. Everything’s new. Everything has changed. I keep tripping over my own feet, and I’m feeling everything differently, and also I can't stop looking at your mouth, and I’m really, really trying to be normal right now.”

He began tapping the tip of his pen on the table, but you caught his wrist gently. The second your fingers wrapped around his wrist, he made a tiny, surprised sound. Peter looked back at you, pupils dilated and running over your face, while his lips parted like he wanted to say something. 

“Can I…?” You murmured.

He nodded so fast the long strands of his hair fell forward, yet he didn’t even know what you were meaning by your words. He was just willing to accept whatever. Your hand left his to brush his hair back. You felt the hitch in his breath. Then you pushed back on your stool, slightly towering over him now, and Peter’s throat bobbed. 

“Please. God, please. I’ve been thinking about you since you leaned over the centrifuge earlier and your shirt—yeah. Yeah.”

You sank to your knees between the slightly spread thighs silently. Peter stared down at you with parted lips, eyes so dark and lustful like he could not believe it was actually happening. His breath came in little huffs, and when you actually palmed the thick ridge through his jeans, he actually whimpered. 

“Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re really—okay. Okay.” He was babbling, voice high and shaky and so fucking turned on. “I’m gonna last like twelve seconds. I’m warning you. I’ve jerked off thinking about this so many times and it never felt this—”

You popped the button first. The zipper down. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, the thick head already shiny with precum. Peter made a broken little noise and covered his face with both hands before peeking through his fingers. Your fingers wrapped around the base, barely connecting around his girth, when you gave a long, experimental stroke. 

“Please don’t stop. I’ll be quiet. I’ll be so quiet. Just—just put your mouth on it, please, I need—”

You looked up when your lips finally wrapped around the tip and sucked. Peter’s hips jerked forward suddenly. A high, almost giddy moan spilled out of him before he bit down on his lip and he lowered his hands to grip the sides of the chair underneath him. You took him deeper, tongue working the underside, right over the prominent and pulsating vein, and Peter’s thighs started trembling under your palms.

“Holy shit—your mouth—I’m gonna—wait, wait, I’m already—” He was laughing breathlessly between the curses, half-shy, half-wrecked. He looked down, alternating between your seductive mouth and your lips that looked so good stretched around his cock—a sight he was sure he could never forget. “You’re so good at that. How are you so good at that. I’m gonna come, I’m serious, I’m—fuck—”

You hollowed your cheeks and took him to the back of your throat until your eyes started watering. He was so big and heavy, precum a bit salty on your tongue. Peter’s whole body seized. You bobbled your head a few times, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head until he whimpered softly again. Then his hips pushed forward slightly and he came with a soft, shocked cry, pulsing thick and hot spurs of cum across your tongue while his fingers finally got bold enough to tangle in your hair and move you slightly. 

His hips kept stuttering, warm drops still leaking into your mouth, as his voice was cracking on your name. 

When he finally softened in your mouth, he looked down at you with blown pupils and the biggest, dazed smile.

You didn’t even look up at first. You just felt the shift in the air, the way the room suddenly got smaller.

Peter Parker stepped inside like the place had been waiting for him. Backpack slung over one shoulder, hair a little damp like he’d just come from the gym or a shower or someone else’s bed—hard to tell with him. He kicked the door shut with his heel and tossed his keys onto the counter without looking. His eyes landed on you almost immediately, and that familiar, lazy half-smile curved his mouth.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and deliberately amused. “Look who finally crawled out of their hole. Didn’t think you still knew where this place was.”

You kept your gaze on the TV, even though nothing interesting was happening on it. “Didn’t think you’d be back so early. Figured you’d still be making your rounds through the second floor.”

Harry made a quiet, warning sound under his breath. Peter just laughed, soft and unbothered, and dropped his backpack by the wall.

“Second floor’s overrated,” he said, walking past the couch close enough that his shin brushed your ankle. He didn’t apologize. “Third floor’s where the real talent is this semester. You’d know if you ever left your room for anything other than this one and judging me.”

You finally turned your head to look at him. He was leaning against the kitchen counter now, arms crossed, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who’d just been called a campus-wide whore.

“Judgment’s free,” you said. “Unlike whatever STD panel you’re probably due for.”

Peter’s grin widened, all teeth and zero shame. “Ouch. That almost hurt. You practicing those lines in the mirror, or do they just come naturally when you’re this sexually frustrated?”

Harry closed his textbook with a soft thud. “Can we not—”

“No, it’s fine,” you cut in, still locked on Peter. “I’m just trying to figure out how someone who treats the entire dorm like a revolving door still has a roommate who defends him like he’s actually a person.”

Peter pushed off the counter and took a few slow steps closer, stopping just short of the couch. He looked down at you, head tilted, that cocky little spark in his eyes that made it very clear he was enjoying this.

“Maybe because I’m fun,” he said, voice dropping a fraction. “And you’re… what, exactly? The dorm’s resident wet blanket who keeps score of who I fuck like it’s a personal insult?”

You sat up straighter, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking away. “It’s not an insult. It’s a public service announcement. People should know the risks before they make the same mistake half the building already has.”

He laughed again—quiet, almost fond, which somehow made it worse. “You keep talking like you’ve got me all figured out. It’s cute. Really. But if you’re so disgusted, why do you keep showing up here?”

“Because some of us actually care about our friends,” you shot back. “Not just who we can get horizontal with before the weekend’s over.”

Peter’s gaze flicked, just for a second, to Harry—who looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him —then back to you. Something sharper settled behind his easy expression.

“Careful,” he said, softer now. “You’re starting to sound jealous.”

You scoffed, but the sound came out thinner than you wanted. “Of you? Please. I’d rather chew glass.”

“Mm.” He rocked back on his heels, studying you like he was deciding whether the argument was still entertaining. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll even believe it.”

Harry finally stood up, hands raised in surrender. “Okay. Both of you. Enough. Peter, go shower or something. You smell like ass. And you—” he pointed at you—“stop poking the bear. He’s already insufferable when he’s in a good mood.”

Peter raised both hands in mock innocence, already backing toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Hey, I was just saying hi. Not my fault your friend can’t handle a little honesty.”

He disappeared around the corner, but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder — like he already knew this wasn’t over.

The bathroom door clicked shut a second later. The water started running.

Harry dropped back onto the couch with a long, exhausted sigh and muttered, “I genuinely don’t know why I let you two exist in the same space.”

You stared at the empty hallway, jaw tight, pulse a little too loud in your ears.

Neither did you.

The dorm hallway was quieter than you’d ever heard it. No bass thudding through walls, no laughter spilling out of open doors, no one arguing about whose turn it was to buy more Red Bull. Thanksgiving break had hollowed the whole building out. Most people had scattered home the second classes ended. You were supposed to be one of them. The ticket price had laughed in your face, so you’d stayed, claiming the silence like it was a prize.

You were already dressed when you remembered the necklace. Black dress that hit mid-thigh, the kind that made you feel like you had somewhere better to be than an empty campus. Heels that clicked too loud in the stairwell. Hair done. Makeup sharp. You’d left the necklace at Harry’s place weeks ago after the clasp snapped during a night that ended with too much cheap wine and you insisting it was fine, you’d just leave it. He'd fixed it the next morning and texted you to come grab it whenever. You never had.

Tonight felt like the perfect window. Peter would be gone. Everyone would be gone. In and out, necklace in hand, then you’d hit the one bar still open near campus and pretend the holiday didn’t sting.

You used the spare key Harry had given you months ago and pushed the door open without knocking.

The living room lights were on.

Peter Parker was in the kitchen, barefoot, leaning against the counter with a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other. He was wearing a tight black crop top that stopped just above the sharp cut of his hips and a pair of black Juicy Couture velour sweatpants that sat low on his waist. The fabric clung in places it had no business clinging. His stomach was flat, a faint trail of hair disappearing under the waistband, and the crop top left zero room for interpretation about how much time he spent in the gym when he wasn’t busy being a walking cautionary tale.

He looked up the second the door shut behind you.

For half a second he just stared. Then that slow, filthy little smile pulled at his mouth.

“Holy shit,” he said, voice low and delighted. “Did hell freeze over or did you actually get dressed up for once?”

You froze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Peter took another bite of the protein bar, chewed, and shrugged one shoulder. The crop top rode up a fraction higher. “Could ask you the same thing, princess. Thought you’d be halfway across the country by now, crying into your mom’s stuffing.”

“Ticket was too expensive.” You hated how defensive it sounded. “I came for my necklace. HarryHarry fixed it.”

“Ah.” He set the protein bar down and pushed off the counter, walking toward you with that lazy, cocky gait that always made it feel like he owned the floor. “The little silver one. Yeah, it’s in my room. I moved it so it wouldn’t get lost in the chaos of his packing.”

You stayed by the door. “Of course it’s in your room. Because nothing can just be simple with you.”

Peter stopped a few feet away, eyes dragging down your dress in a way that felt deliberate and completely unapologetic. “You’re the one who showed up looking like that. Don’t act shocked that I’m looking. Most of the dorm’s gone. Campus is a ghost town. And here you are, all done up, standing in my doorway like you expected the place to be empty.”

“I did expect it to be empty,” you shot back. “I expected the campus whore to be off somewhere, ruining someone else’s holiday.”

He laughed, soft and mean. “There she is. Miss High Horse. Miss I-Would-Rather-Chew-Glass. You keep talking about me like that and people might start thinking you care.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure.” He tilted his head, studying the way the dress sat on your body. “Where were you even going dressed like that? Don’t tell me you had plans. On Thanksgiving. Alone.”

You clenched your jaw. “None of your business.”

“Everything in this dorm is my business when you’re standing in it looking like that.” He took another step closer. The sweatpants shifted with the movement, the soft fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the outline of him. “You came here thinking I’d be gone. You wanted the place to yourself. Necklace, quiet, maybe a little victory dance that you didn’t have to deal with me. And instead you get this.” He gestured vaguely at his own torso, at the crop top, at the ridiculous Juicy pants. “Disappointed?”

“Disgusted, mostly.”

Peter’s smile widened, all sharp edges and zero shame. “Liar. You’re staring.”

You forced your eyes back up to his face. “I’m staring because I can’t believe you own Juicy Couture sweatpants.”

“Laundry day” he said easily. “Found them in the clean basket. Thought they were yours honestly.” He reached out and plucked the keys from your hand before you could react, tossing them onto the counter behind him. “Necklace’s on my desk. You can come get it, or you can stand there in that dress pretending you don’t want to know why I’m still here either.”

You crossed your arms. “Why are you still here?”

Peter’s expression flickered—just for a second—before the cocky mask slid back into place. “Same reason as you, probably. Money. Or lack of it. Or maybe I just didn’t feel like explaining to my aunt why I wasn’t coming home this year.” He shrugged again, but it was tighter this time. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, you’re here. I’m here. The building’s empty.”

You opened your mouth to tell him to go fuck himself.

He beat you to it.

“Necklace’s this way,” he said, already turning toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. The crop top rode up again when he lifted one arm to push his hair back. “Try not to trip over your own judgment on the way.”

You hesitated for exactly three seconds.

Then you followed him.

Peter’s room was… normal.

You stopped just inside the doorway, the words dying in your throat. You’d expected a mess—empty condom wrappers, a rotating door of half-forgotten names written on a whiteboard, the smell of sex and cheap cologne baked into the walls. Instead the bed was made. The desk was organized. A few textbooks were stacked neatly beside a closed laptop. There was a framed photo of an older woman who had to be his aunt, a poster of some indie band you’d never heard of, and a single hoodie draped over the back of the desk chair. It looked like he was actually put together. Not the lair of the dorm’s most prolific problem.

He noticed you staring.

“What?” he asked, already moving toward the desk. “Expecting a red room and a list of conquests on the wall?”

“Honestly? Yeah.”

Peter huffed a quiet laugh and opened the top drawer. “Sorry to disappoint. I keep the list on my phone.” He pulled out the silver necklace, the clasp fixed and gleaming, and held it up between two fingers. “Here. All yours.”

You stepped closer to take it. That was your first mistake.

The crop top left his arms completely exposed, and under the soft overhead light they looked unfairly good—hard muscle, the kind that came from actual work instead of just showing up at the gym for the mirror. Veins faintly visible when he flexed to reach something. Your eyes dragged over them before your brain could stop it, and something low and traitorous in your stomach twisted.

Peter went still.

You looked up and found him watching you, that slow, knowing smile already spreading across his face.

“There it is,” he said softly. “Knew it was only a matter of time.”

You snatched the necklace out of his hand a little too fast. “I was looking at the room.”

“No you weren’t.” He leaned back against the desk, arms crossing over his chest in a way that only made the muscles in his biceps stand out more. The crop top rode higher. “You were looking at me. Specifically at these.” He flexed once, deliberately, just enough to be an asshole about it. “Don’t worry. Happens a lot. Usually people are better at hiding it, though.”

Heat crawled up the back of your neck. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” Peter’s voice dropped into something smoother, warmer, the cocky edge still there but now wrapped in deliberate charm. “Because you’ve been throwing insults at me for months, but the second you see a little skin you’re staring like you’ve never seen arms before. It’s cute. Really. All that judgment and you’re still human underneath it.”

You turned the necklace over in your fingers, refusing to meet his eyes. “I came for this. That’s it.”

“Then why are you still standing there?” He pushed off the desk and took one slow step closer. Then another. The Juicy sweatpants sat low enough that the cut of his hips was impossible to ignore. “You could’ve grabbed the necklace and left. Instead you’re lingering in my room looking at me like that. So either you’re about to call me a whore again for sport, or you’re starting to realize the problem isn’t that I’ve slept with half the dorm.”

Your pulse was too loud. “What’s the problem, then?”

Peter’s smile turned sharper, almost fond. “The problem is you want to know what all the fuss is about.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.” He reached out and gently took the necklace from your hand again, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary. “You’ve spent so much time deciding I’m disgusting that you never let yourself admit you like what you see.” He stepped into your space, close enough that you could smell whatever clean, expensive soap he’d used. “Say it.”

You swallowed. “No.”

“Coward.” The word was soft, almost teasing. He lifted the necklace and, without asking, reached around your neck to clasp it himself. His knuckles brushed the side of your throat. Warm. Steady. “You’ve got that hungry look on your face. And still you won’t just say you think I look good.”

His hands lingered at the back of your neck after the clasp clicked shut. You could feel the heat of his palms, the quiet strength in his fingers.

“I don’t think you look good,” you managed.

Peter leaned in just enough that his mouth was near your ear. “Liar. Your eyes already told on you the second you walked in here. So either keep lying and leave, or stay right here and admit it.” His voice dropped lower, velvet and filthy at the edges. “Tell me you like what you see, and maybe I’ll stop being such an asshole about it.”

You should have shoved him back. Should have taken the necklace and walked out while you still could.

Instead you stayed exactly where you were, pulse hammering, the quiet of the empty dorm pressing in around both of you.

Peter waited, patient and infuriatingly sure of himself, thumbs brushing once along the sides of your neck like he already knew the answer.

“You look good,” he said, quiet enough that it felt private. “Really fucking good. That dress is doing things it has no right to do on a night like this. And the heels? Dangerous. You walked in here looking like you were ready to ruin someone’s entire holiday, and I’m starting to think that someone was supposed to be me.”

You stayed silent. Admitting anything felt like handing him the win on a silver platter, and you refused to give him that satisfaction.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Still nothing?” His mouth curved, soft and wicked. “Alright. Let’s try again.” He shifted closer, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of the crop top. “You’re beautiful when you’re trying this hard not to want me. All that fire, all that attitude… and still you can’t stop staring at my mouth.”

Your breath hitched. Traitorous.

Peter’s hands slid from your neck to your jaw, tilting your face up with careful, deliberate pressure. “There it is. That little crack. You hate that you like how I look in this shirt. You hate that the sweatpants are doing it for you. You hate that I’m standing this close— your pulse is going crazy under my fingers.” His voice dropped lower, coaxing, almost gentle. “Just say it. One sentence. ‘You look good, Peter.’ That’s all. I’ll even pretend I didn’t already know.”

You clenched your teeth. “I’m not giving you that.”

“Then I’ll keep talking until you do.” He leaned in another inch. His breath brushed your lips. “You smell expensive tonight. Like you actually tried. For who? Some stranger at a half-empty bar? Or did some part of you hope I’d still be here to see it?”

Your hands had somehow found the soft fabric of his sweatpants at his hips, fingers curling without permission. He felt it. His smile turned sharper.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Hold on to me if you need to. I don’t mind.” Another step closer and your chests nearly touched. The crop top left almost nothing between you. “You’re shaking a little. Did you notice? Because I did. Your body’s already answering for you. It’s just waiting for your mouth to catch up.”

He was so close now that every word brushed against your lips. His hands tightened just enough to keep you exactly where he wanted you—tilted up, open, trapped in the quiet gravity of him.

“Say it,” he whispered, the words a soft command against your mouth. “Tell me you like what you see. Tell me the judgment was bullshit. Tell me you’ve been thinking about this longer than you’ll ever admit.”

You tried to form a denial. Something sharp. Something safe.

What came out instead was a broken little sound—half protest, half surrender—as your body finally betrayed you completely. A quiet, helpless whine slipped past your lips and straight into his.

Peter’s control snapped.

He closed the last fraction of space and kissed you like he’d been waiting months for the exact sound you just made. His mouth was hot, sure, and filthy with intent—lips parting yours immediately, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming stroke that made your knees weak. One hand stayed locked on your jaw, the other sliding down to the small of your back to haul you flush against him. The hard line of his body pressed into yours and he kissed you deeper, hungrier, like he was determined to swallow every last scrap of resistance you still had.

When he finally pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was rough and satisfied.

“There she is,” he breathed against your mouth. “Knew you’d taste as mean as you talk.”

Peter didn’t pull away after the words left his mouth. He stayed right there, lips brushing yours, breathing you in like he’d already won something. The hard line of his cock pressed against your lower stomach through the thin fabric of the velour sweatpants, thick and unmistakable, and the second you felt it your brain short-circuited.

He kissed that good. Filthy and controlled and just a little mean, like he knew exactly how to make you melt and was doing it on purpose. Your hands tightened on his hips without thinking. Your body moved before your pride could catch up. You rolled your hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding against the heavy length of him, and the quiet, punched-out sound he made against your mouth went straight between your legs.

Peter’s grin was pure sin when he pulled back just enough to speak.

“There it is,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Knew you’d start rubbing on it the second you felt how hard I got for you. Look at you. All that talk and now you’re grinding on my cock like you’ve been waiting for permission.”

Heat flooded your face. “Shut up.”

“Make me.” He rolled his hips back into yours, dragging the thick ridge of his cock against you, letting you feel every inch. “Go on. Tell me you don’t want it. Tell me that little grind was an accident. I dare you.”

You hated how easily he got under your skin. Hated that your stupid brain had flipped from get out of here to please him in the span of one kiss. You shoved at his chest—hard enough to make him take a step back—and he went willingly, still smiling that cocky, knowing smile like this was exactly the reaction he’d been angling for.

The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. You pushed again and he dropped down onto the mattress, catching himself on his elbows, crop top riding up to show the sharp cut of his abs and the dark trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of those ridiculous sweatpants. His cock strained against the soft fabric, thick and obvious, the head of it already leaving an impression near the waistband.

You dropped to your knees between his spread legs before you could talk yourself out of it.

Peter’s eyes went dark and hungry. He looked down at you like you were the best Thanksgiving present he could’ve asked for.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, voice thick with satisfaction. “Look at that. On your knees already. Didn’t even have to ask.” He reached down and brushed his thumb across your bottom lip, slow and lazy. “You gonna keep glaring at me while you do it, or are you finally gonna admit you want my cock in your mouth?”

You glared up at him, hands already sliding up his thighs. “I want you to shut the fuck up.”

Peter laughed, low and filthy, and leaned back on one hand so he could watch you better. The other hand stayed on your face, thumb pressing gently against your mouth.

“Not a chance, baby. You’re about to put that pretty mouth to work and I’m gonna talk the entire time. You’re gonna hear every single filthy thing I think while you suck me. That’s the deal.” His fingers slid into your hair, not pulling yet—just resting there, possessive. “Now take it out. Show me how bad you’ve actually wanted this.”

The air in the room felt thicker. Your heart was slamming against your ribs. And still, kneeling between Peter Parker’s legs with his cock hard and waiting inches from your face, all your brain wanted was to make him sound as wrecked as he was making you feel.

You tugged the soft waistband of the Juicy sweatpants down just enough to free him. His cock sprang out with a soft thud against his stomach. Heavy and flushed, the thick head already shiny at the tip. The scent of clean skin and arousal hit you immediately. You wrapped your fingers around the base and felt him throb against your palm, hot and solid.

Peter’s breath left him in a low, satisfied sound.

“Look at that,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face. “Finally got your hands on it. You gonna keep staring or are you actually gonna do something?”

You ignored the dig and leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of the head. Slow. Deliberate. You dragged your tongue in a lazy circle around the ridge, tasting the faint salt of precome that had already gathered there. His thighs tensed under your free hand.

“Fuck—” His voice had gone rougher. “Cute. Real cute. You think taking your time is gonna make me lose it?”

You hummed against the sensitive skin just beneath the head and felt the vibration travel through him. Another slow lick, this time from the base all the way up, flattening your tongue so you could feel every ridge and vein. His cock twitched hard against your mouth.

Peter’s hand shot into your hair.

He didn’t ask. He just gripped a fistful and guided the swollen tip past your lips in one smooth push. The head of him filled the front of your mouth—hot, smooth, already leaking. You tasted more of that salt-sweet precome the second it hit your tongue.

“That’s better,” he said, voice low and smug. “Just the tip for now. Look at you. Mouth stretched around me and still trying to pretend you’re in control.” His fingers flexed in your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted. “Suck. Nice and slow. I want to feel that tongue working.”

You hollowed your cheeks around the head, sucking gently, swirling your tongue under the sensitive ridge the way you knew would make him react. He exhaled hard through his nose, the muscle in his jaw jumping.

“Fuck, that’s good. Messy little thing already.” He rocked his hips the smallest amount, pushing the tip a fraction deeper before easing back. “You look filthy like this. On your knees in that dress with my cock in your mouth. All that attitude and here you are, letting me use your face.”

You glared up at him, the expression ruined by the stretch of your lips and the wet shine already coating the head of his cock every time he pulled back. He just smirked down at you, completely unbothered.

“Don’t give me that look. You started grinding on me first. You dropped to your knees. Now you’re sucking the tip like you've dreamed about this before.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth where it was stretched around him. “Tell me how it tastes.”

The constant stream of cocky, filthy commentary was starting to get under your skin in the worst way. Every smug word made the heat between your legs worse. You wanted him quiet. You wanted him wrecked.

So you stopped teasing.

You braced both hands on his thighs, took a breath through your nose, and sank down.

The thick head pushed past your tongue, over the soft palate, and kept going. Inch after hot, heavy inch filled your mouth until your lips met the base and your nose brushed the soft skin of his lower stomach. Your throat fluttered hard around him. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the stretch. Spit welled up and spilled past your lips, dripping down his shaft and onto the waistband of the sweatpants still shoved low on his hips.

Peter’s entire body went rigid.

“Jesus—fuck—” The cocky drawl cracked for the first time. His hand tightened almost painfully in your hair, but he didn’t pull you off. He held you there, buried to the hilt, while your throat worked around the thick intrusion. “Oh my god. You just—took all of it. Look at you. F-fucking look at you.”

You stayed down, swallowing around him on purpose, letting your throat ripple and squeeze. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the quiet room. When you finally needed air you pulled back only far enough to breathe, spit connecting your lips to his cock in a shiny string, then immediately sank down again—slower this time, dragging every inch along your tongue until he was lodged deep once more.

Peter’s head dropped back for half a second before he forced himself to look down again. His voice had gone wrecked and mean at the same time.

“Best fucking mouth I’ve ever had. You hear me? Best. A-and you’re still trying to shut me up by deepthroating me like a professional.” He rolled his hips up in a short, controlled thrust, fucking into the tight heat of your throat. “Not gonna work, baby. Gonna tell you exactly how perfect your throat feels while you choke on me.”

You moaned around the thick length of him, the sound vibrating straight up his cock, and watched his abs flex hard under the crop top. Spit was everywhere now—your chin, his shaft, the soft black velour of the sweatpants. Your eyes watered freely. Your jaw ached in the best way. And still you kept taking him to the base, determined to turn every smug word into a broken sound.

Peter’s grip in your hair stayed firm, guiding the pace just enough to remind you who was actually in charge even while you tried to ruin him.

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice thick and filthy. “Take it. Show me how bad you wanted this cock. Swallow around it again—yeah, just like that. Fuck, you’re gonna make me come down your throat if you keep being such a good girl.”

You pulled off him with a wet, filthy gasp, a thick string of spit still connecting your bottom lip to the flushed head of his cock. Your voice came out ruined already—hoarse and low from how deep you’d taken him.

“Look at you,” you rasped, stroking the slick length with one hand while you caught your breath. “Sitting there being such a good boy for me.”

Peter’s eyes flashed. His fingers flexed hard in your hair, but the next cocky remark never made it out of his mouth.

You didn’t give him time to recover. You sank back down in one smooth motion, taking him straight to the base again until your throat closed tight around the head and your nose pressed into his skin. The wet sounds of it was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Spit flooded past your lips and ran down his shaft in warm rivulets. Your eyes watered instantly from the stretch. You held there, swallowing hard around him on purpose, letting your throat flutter and squeeze.

When you pulled up again it was only far enough to speak, lips still brushing the shiny head.

“That’s it,” you breathed, voice thick with spit. “Just like that. Letting me choke on this thick cock like a good boy. You’re being so fucking patient for me.”

You dove back down before he could answer. Deeper this time. Your throat convulsed around the intrusion and a broken gag tore out of you, wet and raw. Tears slipped free and tracked down your cheeks. You didn’t stop. You stayed buried, swallowing repeatedly, the muscles of your throat working him in tight, rhythmic pulses while more spit dripped onto the soft black fabric of his sweatpants.

Peter’s free hand had fisted in the sheets. His abs were clenched hard under the crop top. The only sound he managed was a low, punched-out groan.

You pulled off again, panting, chin shiny and dripping. Your hand kept stroking him in long, tight twists, spreading the mess you’d made.

“Fuck, you’re taking it so well,” you praised, voice wrecked and filthy. “Letting me use your cock like this. Sitting there all pretty while I gag on it. Such a good boy for me, Peter. Look how hard you are. Look how much you’re leaking just from my mouth.”

You licked a slow stripe up the underside, gathering the fresh precome that had beaded at the tip, then took him deep once more. The stretch burned in the best way. Your throat bulged visibly for a second before you forced yourself farther, until your lips were sealed tight around the base again. Another wet gag spilled out of you, the sound filthy and helpless. Spit poured down his balls. Your mascara was definitely ruined.

Peter’s hips jerked once—short, controlled, like he was fighting not to fuck up into your throat. His breathing had gone ragged. The constant stream of smug commentary had dried up into broken little sounds he couldn’t quite swallow.

You pulled back just enough to speak against the head of him, lips dragging over the sensitive ridge with every word.

“That’s my good boy,” you murmured, the praise low and dirty. “Staying so still while I choke myself on this cock. Letting me take every inch. You’re doing so well for me. So fucking well.”

You sank down again, slower this time, letting him feel every inch of tight, wet heat as your throat opened and accepted him. The wet sounds were constant now—obscene, rhythmic, mixed with the soft wet gasps you made every time he bottomed out. Your jaw ached. Your eyes kept watering. Spit soaked the front of his sweatpants. The insides of your thighs were damp where you’d started shifting restlessly against nothing.

Peter’s hand in your hair had gone almost tender despite the firm grip, guiding you in short, shallow rocks while you kept him buried. He wasn’t talking anymore. Just breathing hard and watching you with dark, blown-out eyes like he couldn’t quite believe what you were doing to him.

You moaned around the thick length of him on purpose, the vibration making his thighs tense under your palms, and kept going—choking, gagging, praising him in wrecked little scraps of voice every time you came up for air.

You felt it the second his control started to slip.

Peter’s thighs were shaking under your hands. His cock throbbed harder against your tongue, the thick vein along the underside pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Precome was leaking steadily now, salty and constant, mixing with the spit that already coated everything. His breathing had gone short and rough. The hand in your hair tightened until it bordered on painful.

He was close.

You doubled down.

Instead of pulling up to breathe you stayed buried, nose pressed to his skin, and forced your throat to relax around him. The stretch burned. Tears kept slipping down your cheeks. Spit poured freely past your lips. You swallowed hard around the head of him—once, twice—then moaned low and long so the vibration traveled straight through his cock.

Peter’s hips jerked.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—” His voice cracked back into existence, rough and mean and desperate all at once. “You’re gonna make me come. Look at you. Throat stuffed full and still trying to milk it out of me. Such a greedy little mouth.”

You didn’t pull off. You let him take over.

Peter’s grip in your hair shifted from guiding to outright using. He held you down and started fucking up into your throat in short, filthy thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, using your mouth like it belonged to him. The wet, choked sounds you made every time he bottomed out were obscene. Your eyes watered freely. Your mascara was a complete disaster. Spit and precome ran down your chin in shiny strings and dripped onto the floor between your knees.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice wrecked and cocky even as his rhythm got more frantic. “Take it. Take every fucking inch. You’re gonna swallow all of it, aren’t you? Gonna let me pump this throat full.” His hips snapped up harder. “Fuck, you feel perfect. Best throat I’ve ever fucked. Knew you’d be this good the second you dropped to your knees.”

You didn’t care anymore. The constant stream of filthy praise and arrogance only made you wetter. You kept your hands braced on his thighs and let him use you, throat fluttering and convulsing around every thrust. When he pushed especially deep a broken gag tore out of you, wet and helpless, and Peter groaned like the sound alone was going to finish him.

“Gonna come,” he warned, voice low and strained. “Gonna come right down this pretty throat. Stay open for me—fuck—just like that. Don’t you dare pull off.”

His rhythm stuttered. His cock swelled even thicker against your tongue. The hand in your hair locked you in place as his hips snapped up one last time and stayed there, buried to the hilt.

Peter came hard.

Hot, thick pulses flooded your throat in heavy spurts. You swallowed instinctively around him, the muscles working to take every drop while he kept you pinned. More came—another strong pulse, then another—until your throat felt coated and warm and full. Some of it still managed to spill past the tight seal of your lips, mixing with the spit already dripping down his shaft. His thighs shook violently under your hands. A low, punched-out groan tore out of him as the last weaker pulses spilled across your tongue.

He held you there through every second of it, hips pressed tight to your face, cock still twitching in the back of your throat while he rode it out.

When he finally loosened his grip you pulled off slowly, gasping, a thick string of come and spit connecting your swollen lips to the head of his cock. Your voice was completely destroyed. Your chin and chest were a mess. Tears and mascara streaked your cheeks.

Peter looked down at you like he’d just found religion and lost it in the same breath—eyes dark, chest heaving, cock softening against his stomach.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, thumb dragging through the mess on your bottom lip. “You really just let me do that.”

You stayed on your knees for a few more seconds, just long enough to watch Peter’s chest rise and fall like he’d run a marathon. His eyes were hazy. His mouth hung open just a little. For once, the constant stream of cocky commentary had been fucked right out of him.

You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, smearing the mess of spit and come, and stood up on slightly unsteady legs.

Peter’s gaze tracked you slowly, like his brain was still buffering.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he rasped.

You didn’t answer. You smoothed the bottom of your dress once, then turned and walked out of his room without another word.

The bathroom was right across the hall. You flicked the light on, locked the door, and finally looked at yourself in the mirror.

Mascara streaked down your cheeks. Your lips were swollen and shiny. You looked thoroughly used and completely unbothered about it. You turned on the faucet, wet a clean washcloth, and methodically wiped your face clean—chin, cheeks, the corner of your mouth. You fixed your smudged liner as best you could, smoothed your dress back into place, and stepped back out into the quiet apartment.

Peter was still on the bed when you passed his open doorway. He’d managed to shove himself up onto his elbows, sweatpants still tugged low. He looked wrecked and confused and a little pissed that you were no longer on your knees.

“Hey.” His voice was still rough. “What the fuck? You’re just leaving?”

You paused in the living room long enough to slip your heels back on and grab your keys from the counter.

“Yep.”

Peter pushed himself fully upright, running a hand through his messy hair. “You can’t be serious. You just—come back here.”

You glanced over your shoulder, one hand already on the front door. The necklace sat cool and perfect against your collarbone. Your voice came out light, almost sweet.

“Bye, Peter.”

You opened the door, stepped into the empty hallway, and let it click shut behind you before he could get another word out.

The silence of the dorm building swallowed the sound of your heels as you walked toward the stairwell, the faint taste of him still lingering on your tongue and a small, private smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

spiderman will return in "my spidey senses are tingling pt 2"

Apparently so because when the words, “Does it come out anywhere else?” slipped from your lips, Peter looked at you like he just watched his puppy get run over.

There was confusion, worry, and maybe a little bit of awkward ‘humor’ in his face. But even as he told you no, he didn’t look sure of himself anymore.

“Should we test that?” you asked, your voice low and sultry, trying to get the mood back. It worked, because you felt Peter’s still-hard cock twitch against your leg. “Yeah?”

He nodded, waiting for you to make a move.

If he was being honest, he didn’t know what you meant when you said to test it. He just knew that his very sexy girlfriend was talking about making him cum, so he agreed without thinking.

Watching as your hand snaked between your bodies, Peter’s heart was racing with anticipation. He wasn’t sure it would be safe for a normal person’s heart to be beating that fast.

Luckily, he wasn’t a normal person.

And he found that opened a lot of opportunities in the bedroom.

“You can go twice right? I still want you inside me after...” your voice was laced with need, almost pushing Peter over the edge right then and there. He nodded frantically, his hips twitching, pushing his aching cock against your palm.

“I can. I promise. Please just—” he cut himself off with a moan as your hand pumped and curled around his tip. “Fuck.”

Failing to hold in a giggle, a smile spread on your face that made Peter feel like he just fell in love with you all over again. Weird.

Your hand wrapped around him, giving him a few teasingly slow strokes before you scooted backwards enough to wrap your mouth around his sensitive pink tip. You started to up your pace while your mouth sank further down, taking more of him in.

Bringing him closer and closer to the edge, he felt the same internal panic he did when the webs came out of his wrists for the first time. But you didn’t stop. No. You only went harder.

Peter barely pulled you off at the last second, watching as webs came out of his cock and splattered on the ceiling.

It was probably the best orgasm he’d ever had.

The relief when it was over, the pleasure he felt during it. All of it. His curls were sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and when he looked over you were staring at him with wide eyes.

Wide, excited, horny eyes. (He could tell).

“That was so hot, oh my god,” you squealed, wiping off the last string of web from his extremely sensitive cock. A strangled noise came from his throat, overwhelmed by the strong feeling.

“Oh jesus,” he whispered, trying to catch his breath. “I think I need just a minute. It’s really, really sensitive.”

You nodded, running your hands over his curls. He smiled, his head subconsciously leaning into your hand. Before you knew it, Peter was pulling you down to kiss him again, all wet and open-mouthed. His hands were roaming your body, reclosing the gap.

One of your legs swung over him, straddling his abdomin that was glistening with a sheer layer of sweat. You were careful not to go too far back until Peter was ready, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t rock yourself against him.

The hard ridges of his ab muscles were perfect for grinding your clit against, and not to mention Peter loved it. He didn’t realize how much he liked the praise until he met you.

“That’s it. Uh-huh,” he mumbled as he helped you guide yourself against him. Sweet noises were falling from your open mouth as you ran your slick pussy over his stomach.

One of his hands ran up, kneading your tits while the other stayed and grabbed at your ass—helping spread you open to get a better feel of him. You could feel your second orgasm of the night quickly approaching, but you wanted to save it.

Halting your hips was hard, you really didn’t want to stop, but you knew you’d be happier if you came with Peter inside you.

“Are you ready?” your voice was breathless and whiney, your eyes hooded and glazed over with need. He flipped you onto your back, pulling a cute squeak from your throat.

“Uh-huh.” Leaving open kisses down your neck, he asked, “But are you ready?” against your sticky skin.

You felt yourself squeeze around nothing. “Yeah.”

He pressed one last kiss to your neck before you felt his long cock stretch you out. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as he slid into you so far you felt like it would come out your mouth.

Your mouth was stuck open, tears from the pleasure welling up in your eyes. Peter felt your nails dig into his back as he started at a slow pace. It wasn’t gentle, but it was just enough to refamiliarize yourself with him.

As the seconds passed, you needed more and more. Trying to grind your hips up and meet him halfway for more pressure, more speed, wasn’t cutting it. You needed his all.

“Peter. Oh my, fuck. Peter, please. I need more. I can handle it,” you moaned as he thrusted, your eyes meeting his so he could see the truthfulness in your eyes. That you would really be okay if he went harder.

He was always scared of hurting you, so he needed that confirmation every time.

His pace sped up along with his thrusts’ power. After only a few seconds, he was fucking you into the mattress. Moans and heavy breaths were spilling out of your mouth, along with Peter’s grunts and moans himself.

The bed was squeaking, a dull thud against the wooden wall for every thrust he gave you. “Shit,” Peter grumbled, looking at something behind your head for only a second.

You could feel your second orgasm coming back, along with Peter’s antsy hands. They were moving from beside your head, to your waist, to your legs—pushing your legs further apart and hitting an even deeper angle.

Your moaning only spurred him on, his hand coming to rub circles to your clit. He felt you squeeze and flutter around him, your eyes and face scrunched up.

He felt his own orgasm coming up, but he was determined to focus on you. Your shaky legs and light knuckles from gripping the sheets too hard. Your short breaths and teary eyes.

“C’mon. Come for me,” he whispered as you felt yourself go over the edge. Your hips twitched and your pussy squeezed him unbearably tight, followed by his warm liquid leaking inside you.

The thought of his web-sperm mix you saw earlier being inside you made you flutter around him again.

He had the same sensitivity as before, hissing through his teeth as he dropped his head to your neck. He relaxed his body on top of you, too sensitive to move or pull out yet.

His weight and heat on top of you was a common feeling, but it was one of your favorites.

You loved having him lay on top of you, especially right after sex. “Thank you,” you mumbled against his hair, your fingers gently rubbing up and down his rigid back muscles. You could feel him twitching and softening inside you, an almost ticklish feeling.

Peter hummed before laughing and whispering, “Also, uh, we might need a new bed, by the way.”

masterlist

"That's exactly what you said. You said you're 'too wound up, stressed, can't sleep.' That's textbook horny, babe."

"Taehyung!"

"What? I'm just saying." He takes a lazy sip of beer. "You're way too tense these days. You need to hook up with someone. Let off some steam."

She gasps, swatting at his leg. "I absolutely am not."

He grins, eyes glinting. "Yes you are. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem so restless lately. Like you're crawling out of your skin."

"It's just stress over work." She pulls the pillow tighter. "Writing for the New York Chronicles is a lot of work. Deadlines, interviews, fact-checking—"

"Uh-huh. And when's the last time you got properly fucked?"

"Taehyung!"

He laughs, full and unbothered. "I'm serious. Maybe some good dick will help you. Relax those shoulders, clear that head of yours. You're practically vibrating."

On the fire escape, Jungkook's hands tighten into fists.

She's mine.

The thought crashes through him, possessive and raw. His jaw aches from clenching. He watches her through the window—her flustered expression, the way she hides her face in the pillow, the way she doesn't deny it. She's restless. He knows. He's seen her pace her apartment at 2 a.m., seen her press her thighs together in the bathtub, heard the soft, frustrated moans she thinks no one can hear.

And he knows Taehyung is right. She needs release. But the idea of her finding that release in someone else—some stranger's hands, some stranger's mouth, some stranger's cock inside her—makes his stomach twist with something dark and violent.

"You're impossible," she mutters, throwing the pillow at Taehyung.

He catches it easily. "And you're in denial. But okay. Keep telling yourself it's deadlines."

She stands, smoothing her shirt. "I'm leaving before you say something even more embarrassing."

"Text me if you change your mind! I know a guy—"

"Goodnight, Taehyung!"

The door clicks shut. Taehyung chuckles to himself, shaking his head.

Jungkook stays frozen on the fire escape long after she's gone, her scent still lingering in the air, her laugh still ringing in his ears.

He knows what he has to do.

He has to reintroduce himself. Casually, carefully. Slide back into her life before she finds someone else to release those frustrations on. Before some other man touches what's his.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he watches her walk home from a rooftop three blocks away, her silhouette moving under the amber streetlights. He watches her pause at her door, glance over her shoulder like she feels something watching her. She hugs herself, shivers, and disappears inside.

Soon, he tells himself, pressing a hand over his chest where his heart used to belong to her. Soon I'll make you remember. Or I'll make you want me again.

But for now, he waits.

Jungkook stands outside the coffee shop, his reflection staring back at him from the glass door. He checks his hair three times—runs his fingers through it, smooths the front, tucks a stray strand behind his ear. The black shirt hugs his shoulders just right, and the glasses frame his face in a way that used to make Y/N bite her lip and look at him twice.

She loved these glasses, he thinks, adjusting them once more. She used to say I looked like a secret librarian. A hot one.

He takes a breath, pushes the door open, and walks in with a confidence he's been practicing for weeks.

The bell above the door chimes. Y/N looks up from the counter where she's been scribbling in a notebook—probably working on another article for the New York Chronicles. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a simple apron over a cream sweater, and when she sees him, she smiles.

It's polite. Professional. The same smile she gives every customer working at her parent's cafe.

But it's still her smile, and his heart stumbles.

"Hi," she says, setting down her pen. "What can I get started for you?"

He steps up to the counter, leaning an elbow on the polished wood. "Hey. I'll take an iced americano and a chocolate donut."

She nods, writing it down. "Anything else?"

"No, thanks. That's perfect."

She turns to prepare the coffee, and he watches her movements—efficient, practiced. The way she scoops ice, pours the espresso, reaches for the donut with a tissue. When she turns back and hands him the cup, their fingers brush.

It's barely a second. Just a whisper of contact.

But she pauses, her eyes lifting to his face. A flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?—passes through her gaze before she blinks it away.

"Here you go," she says softly.

He takes the cup, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks."

She smiles again, a little different this time—warmer, a hint of confusion. Then she turns back to the sink where a few dishes are waiting, rolling up her sleeves.

Jungkook takes a seat by the window, sipping his americano, watching her from behind his glasses. She's humming softly, something he doesn't recognize. From the back room, he hears Taehyung's voice, humming some pop song, the clatter of boxes being moved.

Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.

He comes in every other day, sometimes every day. Always orders the same thing—iced americano, chocolate donut. Sometimes he grabs a table and pretends to work on his laptop, but really he's watching her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she bites her lip while reading. The way she laughs at something Taehyung says, bright and easy.

Their interactions are casual. Limited.

"Morning Jungkook." She learns his name.

"The usual?" She asks.

"You know it."

A smile. A quick exchange. Then she's busy, and he's left with the ghost of her attention.

It's not enough.

So one afternoon, when the shop is empty and Taehyung is in the back, he makes his move.

He walks up to the counter, coffee in hand, and as he reaches to pay, he lets his wrist go slack. The cup tips. The lid pops off. Brown liquid splashes across the floor, a puddle spreading near his feet.

"Shit," he mutters, a little too loud.

Y/N spins around from the espresso machine. "Oh no! Don't worry, I'll get it—"

She grabs a roll of paper towels from under the counter and moves to crouch down, but he's already there. He takes the roll from her hands, his fingers closing over hers for a brief, deliberate second.

"It was my fault," he says, meeting her eyes. "Don't worry about it."

"Really, I can—"

"Nope. I got it." He kneels, wiping up the mess quickly, ignoring her protests. "You have enough to do. Let me take care of this."

She stands there, hands on her hips, watching him clean up her floor with an expression caught between amused and impressed.

"You're not going to let me help, are you?" she asks.

"Nope." He finishes, tosses the wet paper towels in the trash, and straightens up. "See? All good."

She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're stubborn."

"I prefer determined."

"A determined mess-maker."

He laughs—a real laugh, not the careful one he's been using.

They stand there, the air between them easier now, the tension cracked open. She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, studying him with fresh eyes.

"You come here a lot," she says.

"I do. Good coffee. Good donuts." He pauses, letting his voice drop just a fraction. "Good company."

Her cheeks flush. She looks down, then back up, a spark in her gaze. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Born and raised. Just... been away for a while."

"Ah. A returning native."

"Something like that."

She tilts her head. "What do you do, Jungkook? Besides cleaning up your own messes?"

"I'm a freelance photographer. I take pictures of the city, the people. Try to capture moments that don't last."

Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."

"It has its moments." He holds her gaze. "Maybe I could show you sometime. If you're interested."

The offer hangs in the air, soft and deliberate. She bites her lower lip, considering, and he feels his pulse quicken.

"I'd like that," she says quietly.

A bell rings from the back—Taehyung calling something about a shipment. The moment breaks, but it doesn't shatter. It settles into something warm, something potential.

"I should let you get back to work," Jungkook says, stepping back. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"

"Same time," she confirms, her smile lingering.

He walks out of the coffee shop, heart hammering, a grin threatening to break across his face. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't need to.

He knows he has her attention now.

Taehyung slides up beside Y/N the moment the door swings shut behind Jungkook. He nudges her shoulder with his, a knowing grin already spreading across his face.

"Okay, so that guy? Exactly your type."

Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can feel the heat creeping up her neck. "Jungkook?"

"Obviously Jungkook." Taehyung leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "Like, I get it. He's attractive in that nonchalant way. The whole I just rolled out of bed but I'm still hotter than you vibe. And that confidence? It's practically dripping off him." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Makes you horny, doesn't it?"

"Taehyung!" She smacks his shoulder, but she's laughing. "Shut up. He's just a nice guy."

"A nice guy who you've been staring at for three weeks straight."

"I have not—"

"You literally watched him walk to the door just now. Like a sad puppy."

She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. She did watch him. She always watches him.

Taehyung groans, shaking his head with mock exasperation. "When you two finally hook up, I'm going to be right there to say I told you so."

"He's just a customer, Injun."

"Mhmm. Sure." He pats her shoulder and heads toward the back room, already humming again, leaving her standing there with her thoughts.

She bites her lip.

He's just a customer, she tells herself. But her mind drifts anyway, unbidden.

His voice—low and warm, with a teasing edge that makes her stomach flip. The way he carries himself, relaxed but aware, like he knows exactly what he's doing at all times. His baggy clothes, the way they hang off his frame, hiding and revealing at the same time. The silver rings on his fingers. That little smirk he gives her sometimes, like he's in on a joke she hasn't heard yet.

Her exes were... fine. Nice. Respectful. Boring.

They held doors open and said please and thank you. They kissed her forehead and asked if she was comfortable. They never made her pulse race. They never made her wonder what it would feel like to be pushed against a wall and taken.

Jungkook does.

He gives her mystery. Maybe even a little danger. The way he looks at her sometimes, like he's holding something back—something intense.

She shakes her head, physically trying to dislodge the thought. Crazy. You don't even know him.

But the thought lingers, hot and stubborn, all the way through the rest of her shift. It follows her home, past the subway, up the stairs to her apartment. It settles in her bones the moment she closes her door.

---

She's restless.

The apartment is quiet, dark except for the lamp by her bed. She changes into a tank top and shorts, lies down, tosses, turns. Her body feels tight—a coil wound too tight, needing release.

She gives in.

From the nightstand drawer, she pulls out her vibrator—a sleek pink thing she's had for years. She lies back, spreads her legs, and lets the hum of the motor fill the silence.

Her mind drifts to him.

To Jungkook. To his hands. Those rings. What they'd feel like gripping her thighs. His voice, low in her ear, telling her exactly what he's going to do to her.

She presses the vibrator harder against her clit, her breath hitching. She thinks about his smirk, his confidence, the way he holds her gaze a second too long. She chases the image, lets it build—

And then she comes.

A sharp, quick release. A gasp. The tension snaps, but it doesn't dissolve. It just... scatters. Falls apart unsatisfyingly.

She sighs, letting the vibrator drop onto the mattress. Her body feels hollow. Empty. Like the orgasm barely scratched the surface of what she actually needs.

"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.

She lies there, staring at the dark, her skin still buzzing with unresolved heat. She wants more. She wants him. But he's a stranger. A customer. Nothing.

She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up, and tries to sleep.

---

Outside her window, perched on a fire escape three buildings over, Jungkook watches the dark shape of her bedroom through the gap in her curtains.

He didn't look. Not directly. He swung toward her building on instinct, drawn by the familiar pull of her presence, and he landed on the adjacent rooftop just in time to hear it.

The buzz of the vibrator. Her soft, breathy moans.

His name. She whispered his name—Jungkook—on a desperate exhale.

And then the sigh. That disappointed, hollow sigh at the end.

He heard it all.

His fingers curl into a fist against the brick wall beside him. A smirk spreads across his face, slow and predatory, mixing with the ache in his chest.

You're not satisfied, are you, baby?

He knows the feeling. He's been unsatisfied too—in a different way. Hungry for her touch, her voice, her warmth. But that hunger is about to be fed.

He pushes off the ledge, letting the night air rush past him as he swings into the darkness.

Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.

Below him, the city blurs. Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Another night of crime waits for him—thugs to stop, civilians to save. The usual.

But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he feels something close to hope.

It starts slowly.

A whisper of warmth against her skin. The weight of a body behind her, pressed close, solid and familiar. She can't see his face, but she knows him—or rather, her body knows him. Her back arches into his chest instinctively, seeking more contact.

His hands. God, his hands. Calloused palms sliding up her thighs, fingers digging into her hips with just enough pressure to bruise. She feels the cool bite of metal rings against her overheated skin. A low chuckle rumbles against her ear.

"You've been so good for me, baby. But I'm gonna take what's mine now."

She opens her mouth to respond, but he's already rolling her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up, positioning her on her knees. The sheets are soft beneath her palms. She can feel his cock—thick, hard, pressing against her soaked entrance—and she whimpers, pushing back against him.

"Please," she breathes. "Please, I need—"

He cuts her off with a sharp thrust. He slams into her to the hilt, and she screams, her body clenching around him immediately. He doesn't stop. He fucks her like he owns her, like he's been waiting for this, each stroke deep and punishing, hitting a spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids.

"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."

His voice is low, rough, almost unrecognizable through the fog of lust. She can't think. She can only feel—the stretch, the burn, the relentless pounding. He wraps a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding, tilting her head back so he can whisper directly into her ear.

"You missed me, didn't you? Your tight little pussy missed me. Say it."

"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"

He groans, a sound so raw it vibrates through her bones. His pace quickens, his grip on her hip bruising. She feels the coil building, tighter and tighter, her moans turning into desperate sobs—

And then she wakes up.

---

Gasping.

Y/N bolts upright in bed, her tank top soaked with sweat, her thighs sticky with arousal. The sheets are twisted around her legs. Her pussy is throbbing, clenching around nothing, so empty it almost hurts.

She blinks at the ceiling, panting.

What the fuck was that?

The dream is already fading, slipping through her fingers like water. She remembers heat. A deep voice. Being pinned down and fucked senseless. But the face—she can't remember the face. Just a blur of dark hair, broad shoulders, a cruel smirk.

She presses her palm against her cunt, gasping at the sensitivity. She's soaked. Her thighs are slick. Her hole flutters, desperate to be filled.

"Fucking hell," she mutters, flopping back onto the pillows.

It's been like this for almost a week now. Every night, another dream. Some nights she's on her knees, sucking a thick cock while a hand tangles in her hair. Some nights she's tied to a bed, spread open, being fucked so slowly she can feel every inch drag against her walls. Some nights it's just a voice—a low, possessive voice—calling her filthy, desperate, mine.

She always wakes up the same way: wet, aching, unsatisfied.

She reaches for her vibrator on the nightstand, but even as she presses it against her clit, she knows it won't be enough. It never is anymore. She comes—hard, fast, grinding into the plastic—but the release is hollow. An echo of what her body actually craves.

She doesn't know what that is.

Her exes were boring. They never made her feel claimed. They never made her scream.

But her body wants something more, something she's never experienced. Or so she thinks.

She sighs, tossing the vibrator aside. Her cunt still throbs, still clenches, still weeps for something she can't name.

Why does this feel like grief?

---

Across the city, perched on a water tower overlooking her block, Jungkook watches the distant glow of her window with a dark, hungry expression.

He knows.

He's been watching her sleep through the gap in her curtains. He's heard her moans, her whimpers, the desperate sounds she makes when she's lost in a dream he put there—not consciously, but through the lingering threads of the spell that binds them. She can't remember him, but her body can. Her body is a traitor, whispering his name in the language of her muscles, her slick, her trembling thighs.

He clenches his fists, his cock hardening painfully in his suit.

He lets out a slow, shaky breath.

I'll give you what you're craving soon.

He pushes off the water tower, swinging into the night, leaving his mark on the rooftops like a promise.

But he doesn't go far. He lands on the fire escape just outside her window—close enough to hear her frustrated sigh, the rustle of sheets as she rolls over, the quiet, desperate whisper she thinks no one hears:

"What do I need? What's wrong with me?"

He presses a hand to the glass, his rings glinting in the moonlight.

Nothing's wrong with you, love. You just need me.

The morning rush at the coffee shop had been mercifully slow, leaving Y/N and Taehyung with nothing better to do than wipe down the already-clean countertops in a lazy, synchronized rhythm. The TV mounted in the corner murmured in the background—some local news broadcast about a bank robbery in Midtown. The anchor's voice was tinny, almost an afterthought.

"...and witnesses report that Spider-Man intervened just moments after the robbers entered. No casualties reported. The web-slinger made a quick escape as usual—"

Y/N didn't look up. Neither did Taehyung. It was New York. Spider-Man stopping a robbery was as routine as a subway delay. They'd both heard the name so many times it barely registered anymore—a ghost in red and blue, flickering across screens, saving lives, disappearing.

Taehyung hummed a tune under his breath, rubbing a smudge off the granite with his thumb. Y/N's mind was elsewhere. Still half-lost in the hazy aftertaste of another dream from last night—the echo of a deep voice, the phantom weight of hands on her hips, the ache between her legs that hadn't fully faded even after she'd come twice this morning.

She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.

Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.

The little bell above the door jingled.

She looked up.

And there he was.

Jungkook stepped inside, and she felt the air shift. He was breathing hard, his black t-shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin, dark patches of sweat spreading across his chest and under his arms. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in messy waves, and a thin sheen of perspiration glistened over his neck and collarbones.

He looked exhausted. But also... good. Really good.

"Hey," Y/N said, her voice coming out a little too breathy. She cleared her throat. "You okay?"

He offered a tired smile, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Just tired. Killed it at the gym today." He let out a huff of laughter, rolling one shoulder like it ached. "Didn't realize I pushed myself that hard."

She nodded, already moving to make his usual ice americano. Her body went through the motions automatically while her eyes trailed down his frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the tanned skin. The sweat highlighted every contour—the arch of his biceps, the column of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.

Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.

Her gaze dropped lower, catching a glint of silver at his wrist. A bracelet—woven black cord with a small metallic charm, a roughly shaped star. It looked handmade, well-worn, the edges smooth like it had been touched a thousand times.

She slid the cup across the counter toward him. "That's pretty," she said, nodding at the bracelet.

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. A flash of emotion too fast to name—hope? Pain? He opened his mouth, and she could've sworn she saw him about to say something, his throat bobbing with a swallow.

Do you remember that you gave this to me?

But the words didn't come. He just watched her as she pulled away from the counter, already turning back to the rag in her hand.

Of course she didn't remember.

"Thanks," she said over her shoulder, already distracted, moving toward the back to restock napkins.

Jungkook stared at the bracelet on his wrist. The star charm. She'd made it for him on their six-month anniversary, clumsily braiding the cord while sitting cross-legged on his bed, laughing about how she'd never made jewelry before. "So you don't forget me," she'd said, pressing it into his palm. "Wear it even when you're being Spider-Man. I want to be with you, always."

He clenched his jaw, forcing the ache down his throat.

She doesn't remember. Of course she doesn't. You knew that.

Taehyung slid off his stool and walked over, holding out a napkin. "Hey," he said, his voice soft but pointed. "Your forehead's bleeding a bit."

Jungkook blinked, reaching up. His fingers came away with a smear of red. Shit. Must've caught a stray piece of debris during the takedown. He'd been too focused on getting there fast—on changing out of the suit in that alley, on making it to the shop before she closed—that he hadn't bothered to check for damage.

"Ah, that." He took the napkin with a casual shrug, pressing it to the cut. "Tripped on the way here. Almost ate pavement. Stupid, I know."

Taehyung's eyes lingered on him a moment too long, a quiet skepticism behind his gentle gaze. He didn't say anything, but Jungkook could feel the weight of his unspoken question.

That's a weird place to trip. And you're too banged up for just a fall. And you showed up right after Spider-Man was seen.

But Taehyung just nodded, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "Be careful," he said simply, and walked back to the counter.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, pressing the napkin harder against his temple. He watched Y/N move behind the counter, her hair tied in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful. She was his. And she didn't even know it.

He took a long sip of the coffee she'd made him, letting the bitterness ground him.

He smiled against the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the curve of her back as she bent down to grab more cups from the low shelf.

The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.

The morning air in Manhattan carried the usual cocktail of exhaust fumes, pretzel cart steam, and distant sirens. Y/N walked with her messenger bag slung across her body, earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats keeping her grounded. The New York Chronicle skyscraper loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the pale winter sun. She was running a little early today, which meant she could grab a decent coffee from the lobby cart before heading up to her desk.

She was two blocks away when the screaming started.

At first, it was distant—a ripple through the crowd ahead. Then it grew, a wave of panic rolling toward her. People began sprinting in her direction, faces twisted with fear, elbows knocking pamphlets and coffee cups out of the way. A woman clutching a toddler nearly collided with her.

"What—" Y/N pulled out her earbuds, heart lurching. "What's happening?"

No one stopped to answer. The tide of bodies pushed past her, and she stumbled sideways, grabbing a lamppost to steady herself. Then she saw it: a column of smoke rising from the base of the Chronicle building. Orange flames licked at a collapsed awning. Glass littered the street like crushed diamonds.

Oh god. That's the lobby.

Her feet started moving before her brain caught up. She had to get in there. Had to see if her coworkers—her editor, the layout team, Maria from HR who always gave her extra granola bars—were okay. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.

"HEY!"

A blur of red and blue dropped from above, landing in front of her with a soft thud that cracked the asphalt. She yelped, skidding to a halt.

Spider-Man.

His lenses narrowed, body angled like he was about to grab her.

"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was modulated, sharp with urgency. "There's a gas leak—could blow again any second. Get back."

"I have to see if the people in that building are okay!" She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her, a wall of spandex and muscle.

"I'll check. You stay here." He pointed a gloved finger at the sidewalk behind her. "Don't move."

She barely registered that she'd just been ordered around by a superhero. Her heart was hammering. The smoke stung her nostrils. "I'm not just going to—"

He was already turning, preparing to leap. She took a step forward, following him.

A sharp thwip sliced through the air.

Something snapped around her right wrist—a rope of white webbing, sticky and warm, yanking her arm sideways. She stumbled, grunting, and found herself anchored to the handle of a police cruiser parked at the curb. The web held fast, elastic but unyielding.

"What the hell?!" She yanked at her wrist, but the webbing stretched and held. "Are you serious right now?!"

Spider-Man paused, tilting his head. She could almost hear the smirk behind the mask. "Nope. Wait here. I'll free you after I'm sure it's safe."

And then he was gone, a red streak disappearing into the smoke-filled doorway.

Y/N stood there, arm stretched awkwardly toward the cop car, jaw hanging open. People were still running past her, but the immediate panic was thinning. She looked at her wrist, at the white strands wrapped snugly around it, and felt a jolt—not of anger, but of something else.

The texture. The pressure. The slight give when she pulled.

Her breath caught.

She was in her bedroom. The lights were dim. Her wrist was bound to the bedpost with...not a rope...not a scarf...something else entirely. Her arms stretched above her head and a dark figure hovered over her. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his weight, his heat, the deep rumble of his voice against her ear.

"Stay still, baby. I'm not done with you yet."

The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping on the sidewalk, knees weak.

What the fuck?

She shook her head violently, pressing her free hand to her flushed cheek. "I'm starting to feel like a fucking sex addict," she muttered under her breath. Of all the things to think about right now—tied to a car by Spider-Man—her brain was conjuring erotic flashbacks? With...Spider-Man? For all she knew, the guy was a forty-year-old accountant underneath that suit. He could be balding.

But he didn't move like a forty-year-old. And his voice, even through the modulator, had a certain quality—young, confident, teasing.

She shook her head again, harder. Stop it. Focus. The building.

A few minutes passed. The fire trucks arrived. EMTs started setting up a triage zone. Y/N strained her neck, trying to see if anyone was being carried out. She pulled at the web again, frustrated, but it held true.

Then Spider-Man emerged from the smoke, walking casually now, hands on his hips. He jogged over to her.

"Building's clear. No casualties. Gas leak was contained before it got worse. Minor injuries, but everyone's out." He reached for the web on her wrist and gave it a sharp tug setting her free.

She rubbed her wrist, red and slightly raw. "That wasn't cool. You could have just asked me to stay."

"I did. You didn't listen." He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the suit's padding. "You should be more careful. People get hurt when they run toward explosions."

"I work there." She glared at him. "I was worried about my friends."

He was quiet for a second, his head tilted. She could feel his gaze through the white lenses, studying her. There was something familiar about the angle of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.

Then he straightened. "Bye."

And with a single leap, he was gone, swinging between buildings, disappearing into the Manhattan skyline before she could even respond.

Y/N stood there, mouth half-open, hand still rubbing her wrist. The phantom sensation of the web lingered—soft, taut, possessive. Her skin tingled where it had been wrapped.

Why does that feel like a memory I can't reach?

She stared up at the empty sky, the smoke still curling into the gray clouds.

And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.

Get a grip, Y/N. He's a stranger in a mask.

But her body didn't believe that. Not for a second.

The evening air did nothing to cool the heat lingering beneath Y/N's skin. After the chaos at the Chronicle building, after being webbed to a police car like some disobedient puppy, after the shredded remains of her dignity scattered across Sixth Avenue—she'd gone through the motions. Talked to her editor. Confirmed everyone was safe. Filed a preliminary report on the gas leak. Smiled at Maria's thanks.

But all the way home, her wrist tingled. The ghost of that webbing refused to fade.

Now she stood in her apartment, shoes kicked off, coat thrown over the armchair. The city lights bled through her window, painting amber stripes across her wooden floor. She should shower. Eat something. Answer the three texts Taehyung had sent asking if she was okay.

Instead, she grabbed her laptop and collapsed onto her bed, flipping it open.

YouTube.

Her fingers moved before she could talk herself out of it. She typed in the search bar: Spider-Man New York 2024.

The results flooded the screen. News clips. Fan edits. Compilations titled "Spider-Man's Top 10 Saves" and "Spider-Man Being a Menace for 12 Minutes Straight." She clicked the first one—a news report from two months ago, shaky cell phone footage of Spider-Man webbing a falling construction beam before it crushed a bus.

She watched it twice. Then a third time.

The comments section was a battlefield.

"whoever is under that suit is DEFINITELY packing i'm not taking questions"

"imagine getting railed by spider-man... the grip?? the stamina???"

"he literally fights crime every night and still has time to help old ladies cross the street... husband material"

"plot twist: he's actually a 50 year old dude with a beer belly and we're all just simping for spandex"

"even if he is 50 i'd still let him web me to the bed 🥴"

Y/N snorted despite herself, scrolling deeper. The thirst was real, embarrassingly real. These women were out there, posting paragraphs about what they'd let Spider-Man do to them. What they'd do to him. She felt a pang of something—not judgment, because who was she to judge—but recognition.

She'd felt that web around her wrist. She'd felt the possessiveness in that single thwip.

And God help her, she wanted to feel it again.

She clicked on another video. This one was different—a street interview, low-budget, filmed by someone's phone. The camera focused on Spider-Man, standing casually beside a hot dog cart, and standing next to him was a little boy—maybe eight years old, holding a notebook.

The interviewer says, "We've got a special guest today—this is Liam, and he wanted to ask Spider-Man a few questions."

Spider-Man crouched down to the boy's level. His lenses softened, tilted—the body language of someone genuinely engaged. He reached out and patted the kid's head, a casual, affectionate gesture.

"Go ahead, Liam. I'm all ears."

And he laughed—a low, warm chuckle that cut through the modulator like a blade through silk.

Y/N's breath hitched.

That laugh. She knew that laugh. It tickled something deep in her chest, a phantom sensation, like a voice calling from underwater. Her fingers tightened on the laptop. She replayed it. Once. Twice. Three times.

"I'm all ears."

The way he said it—teasing, gentle, familiar.

She shook her head, hard. You're projecting. Every guy laughs. It's not him. You don't even know who "him" is.

But her skin was prickling. Her thighs pressed together under the laptop.

She kept scrolling.

There was a Reddit link. r/SpiderManFantasies (NSFW). Her thumb hovered over it for a full ten seconds before she clicked.

The forum was a treasure trove of desperation. Women (and some men) posting photos they'd taken of Spider-Man mid-swing, or perched on a rooftop, or standing in the middle of a street after a rescue. The photos weren't explicit—they couldn't be, he was fully suited—but the captions were anything but.

"If I ever meet him I'm dropping to my knees immediately. That suit does NOT hide what he's working with."

"Imagine him pinning you down after a fight, all that adrenaline still pumping... you'd feel the bass in his chest."

"I don't even care what he looks like. I just want one night. ONE. NIGHT. With whoever is under that mask."

One post showed a blurry shot of Spider-Man crouched on a fire escape, his legs spread, the suit stretching taut across his thighs. The caption read: "I want to sit on his face and never get up."

Y/N closed the laptop so fast the screen clicked shut.

Her heart was hammering. Her cheeks burned. She pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning.

"I'm not above this," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm so far below this it's embarrassing."

She threw the laptop aside and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed outside—distant sirens, a neighbor's TV, the low bass of a car passing by. Her skin felt too tight. Her cunt ached, a dull, persistent throb that had been living in her bones for weeks now.

The clock on her nightstand read 11:47 PM when Y/N finally collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her jeans and a thin camisole.

Sleep came heavy and reluctant.

---

She woke with a gasp, thighs pressed together, a dull throb between her legs.

The clock read 2:47 AM.

Her skin was damp with sweat. Her nipples were hard, rubbing against the cotton of her shirt. She'd been dreaming again—fragments of a body above her, weight pressing her into the mattress, a warm mouth trailing down her stomach. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his hands. Strong, calloused, knowing exactly where to touch.

"I've got you, baby. I've always got you."

She threw an arm over her eyes, breathing hard. She was wet, aching, clenching around nothing. She slid a hand down her belly, into her underwear, her fingers finding her clit swollen and desperate.

She rubbed herself slowly, trying to chase a release that never came. She imagined the web wrapped around her wrist again. Spider-Man's lenses staring down at her. The low laugh from the video.

"Fuck," she whimpered, fingers moving faster. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. She could feel a shape just out of reach.

Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.

She pressed her palm harder, hips bucking, but the orgasm hovered like a mirage, untouchable. She let out a frustrated sob, pulling her hand away, her chest heaving.

Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.

Jungkook pressed his back against the brick wall, his own breathing uneven. He'd heard her whimper through the glass. Heard the wet sound of her fingers working. The whine of her frustration when she couldn't finish.

His cock was hard, straining against the suit. He'd come here to check on her after the explosion—to make sure she was safe, to watch her sleep like he did most nights. He hadn't expected this.

But he couldn't leave. Not while she was aching.

Not when he was the only one who could fix it.

He pressed a palm against the cold glass of her window, the mask hiding the anguish on his face. Soon, he told himself. Soon I'll find a way.

But for now, he just listened to her breathe, and hated the spell that kept them apart.

The knock that rattled Taehyung's door at 11 PM was frantic—three sharp, pounding hits, then a pause, then another. He barely had time to unlatch the lock before Y/N pushed past him into his apartment, her eyes wild, her hair a mess, her chest heaving like she'd run the whole way.

"Okay," she said, hands on her hips, pacing his narrow living room. "You were right. You were fucking right."

Taehyung closed the door slowly, crossing his arms. He was in sweatpants and an old band tee, clearly winding down for the night. "Right about what, exactly? Because I'm right about a lot of things."

She whirled on him, jaw tight. "The sex thing. The needing-to-get-laid thing. The I'm crawling out of my skin thing." She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots. "It's not just being horny, Taehyung. It's like—" She stopped, struggling for words. "It's like my body is craving something specific. A specific touch. A specific rhythm. A specific person. But I don't know who or what. I don't remember. I just feel this ache that nothing fills."

Taehyung's teasing demeanor softened. He gestured to the couch, and she collapsed onto it, head in her hands.

He sat beside her, voice careful. "An ex? Someone you dated before? Maybe your brain locked away a breakup that hit you harder than you think."

She looked up, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "No. It's not an ex. I don't have any traumatic breakup memory. It's—" She groaned, frustrated. "I don't know. It feels like a ghost. A phantom limb."

Taehyung was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "Maybe you don't need to find that specific person. Maybe you just need to try someone new."

She blinked at him. The idea hung in the air, fresh and foreign.

"Someone new," she repeated, tasting the words.

"Someone who doesn't come with baggage or memories. Someone who can just—" He made a vague gesture. "Fuck you into forgetting whatever's haunting you. A clean slate. A hot body. A night of no strings."

She stared at him. Then, slowly, a nod. "Maybe you're right."

His grin spread wide. "I am right. And I know exactly how to start." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "There's that new nightclub in midtown. Opened last week. 'Velvet Underground.' It's got black lights, VIP booths, and supposedly a very attractive bartender who does body shots. I've been dying to go."

"A club," she said flatly.

"A club where you can find a guy—or girl, no judgment—who will take you home and fuck you until you forget your own name. That kind of club."

She chewed her lip. The idea terrified her. Thrilled her. She thought of her empty bed, the wet sheets, the incomplete orgasms. She thought of the phantom hands in her dreams.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Let's do it."

Taehyung clapped his hands together. "Yes. I'll text you the details. Wear something slutty. I'm talking a dress that says 'I'm here to get railed.'"

She laughed—a real laugh, shaky but genuine. "You're such a bad influence."

"Someone has to be."

They spent the next hour planning. What time to arrive. Which drinks to order. An exit strategy if the guy was a creep. Y/N felt lighter than she had in weeks, a fragile hope blooming in her chest.

---

Outside, pressed against the brick wall of the adjacent building, a figure in red and blue watched through the sliver of curtain left uncovered.

Jungkook's hands curled into fists.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Someone new.

The words echoed in his skull, each syllable a knife twist. She was going to let some stranger touch her. Some random guy from a club. He'd put his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat...

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, muffled by the mask.

No. Absolutely fucking not.

He pushed off the wall, landing silently on the fire escape below. His mind raced. He couldn't stop her—not directly. He couldn't reveal himself, couldn't break the spell. But he could intercept. He could follow. He could make sure that no one—no one—got close enough to touch what was his.

Even if she didn't remember it.

He swung into the night, a plan already forming. The club. He'd be there. Not as Spider-Man—too obvious. He'd ditch the suit, put on something tight, something that would make her look. He'd find her on the dance floor, buy her a drink, let the night unfold.

The hunt was on.

The strapless bodycon dress was a weapon, and Y/N knew it.

Black velvet hugged every curve from her collarbone to mid-thigh, the hem riding up just enough to make men's eyes glaze over. She'd paired it with strappy heels that made her legs look miles long and a thin silver necklace that caught the light. Her hair fell in loose waves, makeup smoky and deliberate.

Taehyung let out a low whistle when she stepped out of her bedroom. "Holy shit."

"Too much?" She tugged at the neckline nervously.

"Not enough. You're going to break necks tonight. Possibly some hearts too, but who's counting." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

She took it, laughing. "Let's get me laid."

---

The Velvet Underground lived up to its name. The interior was all dark burgundy and dim gold lighting, with a massive dance floor pulsing under black lights that made white fabrics glow. Bodies moved together in a haze of sweat and bass, the air thick with perfume and alcohol.

They claimed a spot at the bar, and Taehyung ordered them both shots of tequila. "Warm-up," he shouted over the music.

Y/N downed hers, grimacing at the burn. A second followed. Then a third.

By the fourth, the edges of her anxiety had blurred into a pleasant haze. The bass thrummed through her bones, and she found herself swaying, scanning the crowd. Potential candidates everywhere—sharp jawlines, broad shoulders, confident grins.

None of them made her stomach flip.

But then the door opened.

And he walked in.

Jungkook had planned this.

Tight black jeans that hugged his thighs and sat low on his hips. A simple white T-shirt, thin enough that the outline of his chest was visible when he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. He'd styled his hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and he wore that lazy half-smirk that had always made her knees weak.

Her favorite outfit.

He remembered the first time she'd seen him in it. They'd been dating for a few weeks, and he'd shown up at her door looking like this. She'd pulled him inside by his collar, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him so deep he'd seen stars. Her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling, while the other roamed down his stomach to palm him through the denim. She'd broken the kiss just to whisper against his lips, "You look so good it should be illegal. I want to ruin you."

And she had. For hours.

He carried that memory in his bones as he pushed open the club door, scanning the crowd with practiced casualness. His eyes landed on the bar.

There she was.

Strapless black dress. Hair loose. Cheeks flushed from alcohol. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—which was saying something, because he remembered every detail.

He pretended not to see her at first. Ordered a drink. Leaned against the bar, letting the black lights catch the contours of his arms.

Then Taehyung spotted him.

"Hey! Jungkook!"

Jungkook turned, feigning surprise. His eyes landed on Y/N, and he let them widen slightly—just enough. "Oh. Hey. Didn't expect to see you guys here."

Y/N's breath caught. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping. "Hi."

Just that. Hi. But the word came out breathy, almost involuntary.

Taehyung gestured him over. "Come join us. We're just warming up. Y/N's on a mission tonight."

"A mission?" Jungkook raised an eyebrow, sliding onto the stool beside her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers under the bar. "Sounds intriguing."

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words came out slurred. "M'sion... find someone... hot..."

Taehyung sighed. "I think the tequila hit faster than expected."

Jungkook smiled knowingly. She always did get tipsy fast. Three drinks and she'd be clinging to him, whispering dirty things in his ear. Four and she'd be begging to go home. Five and she'd be asleep before they hit the door.

"I can help you get her home," he offered, voice steady. "If you want."

Taehyung looked relieved. "God, yes. I was not looking forward to carrying her six blocks in those heels."

They helped her off the stool. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled forward—

Right into Jungkook's arms.

Her palms landed flat on his chest. Her head tipped up, eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked at him, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Wow. You're... strong."

His hands caught her waist, steadying her. The velvet of her dress was soft under his fingers, her skin warm beneath the fabric. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.

He lowered his voice, letting it dip into that husky register she'd always loved. "Oh yea?"

She nodded, earnest and drunk. "Mmhm. Like... hero strong."

If only you knew.

Taehyung was already heading for the door, waving them along. Jungkook kept one arm around Y/N's waist, guiding her out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them, taxis honking, distant sirens, the buzz of neon signs.

The walk to her apartment was slow. She kept tripping on cracks, leaning into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. At one point she looked up at him, squinting.

"You smell... familiar."

His chest tightened. "Good familiar or bad familiar?"

"Good." She nuzzled into his shoulder. "Really good."

Taehyung shot him a look—half curious, half amused. Jungkook just shrugged, playing it casual, though his heart was hammering.

They reached her building. Taehyung held the door while Jungkook helped her up the stairs. At her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice.

When she finally got it open, she turned around, throwing her arms around both of them in a messy group hug.

"Thank you," she mumbled into Taehyung's shoulder. "You're the best."

She pulled back, swaying slightly, and turned to Jungkook.

Her eyes met his.

The air between them thickened.

"You..." She reached up, touching his cheek with drunken clumsiness. Her thumb brushed his jawline. "You look so good tonight."

The words came out soft. Barely a whisper. Heavy with something she couldn't name.

Jungkook's throat tightened. He wanted to grab her, pull her inside, pin her against that door and remind her exactly what she was missing. He wanted to kiss that drunk confession off her lips and replace it with moans.

But not yet.

Not yet.

He smiled, gentle and aching. "Get some sleep, Y/N."

She blinked slowly, then ducked inside, closing the door with a soft click.

The lock turned.

Jungkook stood there for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood. He could hear her on the other side, shuffling, probably kicking off her heels.

"She say something?" Taehyung asked from behind.

"Just saying goodnight."

Taehyung hummed, unconvinced. "You know, for a guy who just met her, you're pretty invested."

Jungkook turned, keeping his face neutral. "She's a friend. I don't like seeing friends drunk and alone."

"Uh huh." Taehyung didn't push. "Well, thanks for the help. I'm gonna crash. See you around, Jungkook."

"Yeah. See you."

When Taehyung disappeared down the stairwell, Jungkook let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He pressed his forehead to the door, listening. On the other side, he heard her humming—off-key, sleepy—as she padded toward her bedroom.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon she'll know.

But for tonight, he'd settle for knowing that even drunk and confused, she still thought he looked good.

That was enough.

For now.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of his apartment swallowed him whole.

Jungkook stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the echo of her voice in his head. You look so good tonight. Drunk, slurred, honest. She'd meant it. Even without knowing who he was, her body remembered. Her eyes had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, and something deep in her gut had stirred.

But she was inside, alone, probably already curled up in bed, dreaming of strangers.

And he was out here. Alone. Again.

He pushed off the door and walked to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water he didn't want. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The walls seemed to press in on him, carrying the weight of every night he'd spent like this—restless, aching, watching the clock tick toward dawn while the city hummed outside.

It's hard when no one loves you and the ones you love can't remember you.

He set the glass down harder than intended. It cracked. Water spilled across the counter.

"Fuck."

He stood there, dripping, staring at his own reflection in the dark window. A stranger in his own life. Spider-Man saved people. Jungkook saved no one. Not even himself.

He loved being Spider-Man. Loved the rush of swinging between buildings, the wind in his face, the sound of sirens fading as he swooped in to help. Loved the gratitude in strangers' eyes when he pulled them from wrecks, the way kids pointed up at him with awe.

But Jungkook deserved his own life too. A job he didn't have to hide. Friends who called him by his real name. A girl who looked at him like he was the only man in the world.

He closed his eyes, and there she was. Y/N. Laughing. Touching his face. Whining his name in that breathless way she used to when he was inside her.

"You're so good, Jungkook. Fuck—don't stop—"

His hand curled into a fist.

Then his spider-sense flared.

Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.

He sighed, heavy and resigned, and reached for the suit.

---

The city was cruel tonight.

He swung from rooftop to rooftop, the wind biting at the exposed skin of his face and hands. Below, the neon lights of Manhattan bled into puddles on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a woman screamed—he veered toward it, landing on a fire escape to find a mugger wrestling a purse from an elderly lady. He webbed the guy to a lamppost in seconds, returned the purse, and was gone before the woman could finish thanking him.

Two blocks over, a car crash. He helped pull a family out before the fuel line sparked.

A domestic disturbance. He talked a man down from a balcony ledge.

A break-in at a convenience store.

A fire on the Lower East Side.

He kept moving. Kept saving. Kept pretending that each life he touched filled the hole inside him.

But it didn't.

Because the whole time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking of her. Her safety. Her smile. The way she used to trace the scars on his shoulders after a bad fight, her voice soft with worry: "You can't keep doing this, Jungkook. One day you won't come back."

And he'd kissed her forehead and promised he'd always come back to her.

Now she didn't even know to wait.

---

He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.

The lights were off in her apartment. She was asleep, probably still drunk, tangled in sheets that smelled like her perfume. He imagined her lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.

He pulled out the photo he kept tucked inside his suit. Polaroid, edges worn from handling. Her smiling at the camera, hair messy, wearing his hoodie. She'd taken it one morning after they'd spent the whole night tangled together. He'd been making coffee, and she'd grabbed his phone, snapped the picture just as he turned around.

"So I can look at you even when you're gone," she'd said.

He didn't know she'd end up being the one gone.

He pressed his thumb to her face, tracing the curve of her smile.

Soon.

Soon, he'd find a way. Something drastic. Something that would break through the spell's hold and make her remember—or at least make her feel it, even if she couldn't name it.

Soon, he'd be inside her apartment. Inside her. Reminding her exactly what she was missing.

But for now, he tucked the photo back, turned toward the next siren, and launched himself into the night.

For her. Always for her.

The bell above the door chimed, and Jungkook walked in like he owned the place.

Y/N looked up from the register, head pounding, eyes barely open. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she was pretty sure she still smelled like last night's cheap perfume and regret. The hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes, a punishment for every shot Taehyung had convinced her to take.

She squinted at him. Him. The guy with the dangerous smile and the bracelet she didn't remember giving him.

"Morning," she grumbled, not even trying to sound pleasant.

He grinned. Actually grinned, like her misery was the highlight of his day. "Someone had fun last night."

"Someone regrets everything."

He laughed—that low, easy sound that did something annoying to her stomach—and walked past her to the counter. "Just the usual, please."

She turned to make it, moving slow, her head throbbing with every step. The espresso machine hissed, and she winced.

Behind her, she heard the door open again—a small commotion, a child's voice. She glanced over her shoulder.

A little boy, maybe seven or eight, had run in too fast, his backpack swinging. He collided with the table where Jungkook had set his bag, sending it toppling. But before it could hit the ground, Jungkook's hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes too fast, too precise.

"Sorry, mister!" the boy said, eyes wide.

Jungkook just smiled, crouching down to the kid's level. "It's okay, buddy. No harm done." And he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with an easy, affectionate motion.

Y/N froze.

The gesture. The way his fingers moved through the dark strands, the gentle mock-scolding in his tone. It was exactly how Spider-Man had ruffled that kid's hair in the interview she watched online. She'd watched the clip multiple times, her body heating each time—the way those gloved fingers had been so careful, so human, beneath the mask.

She blinked, shaking off the thought. No. That's ridiculous. Lots of people ruffle kids' hair.

But something nagged at her. The precision of the catch. The casual confidence. The way he moved.

Jungkook straightened, catching her stare. His eyebrow arched. "Something wrong?"

She realized she'd been staring. Heat crept up her neck. "No. Nothing. Your coffee."

She shoved the cup toward him, maybe a little too aggressively. He took it, amused, and leaned against the counter instead of leaving like a normal person.

She needed to get this over with.

"Listen," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "About last night. I was... a lot. I know I was all over you, and I'm sorry. I don't usually—I mean, I was drunk, and Taehyung was being an ass, and—"

"Cute."

She stopped. "What?"

"You were cute." He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "Not 'a lot.' Cute."

Her face burned. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came out. Just a stupid, flustered silence.

He smiled—that knowing, crooked smile that made her knees weak—and pushed off from the counter. "See you around, Y/N."

He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

She stood there, heart hammering, watching him disappear down the street.

Fuck.

She touched her cheek. It was hot. She was blushing like a teenager. And worst of all, she was thinking about him—the scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands when he'd caught that bag, the way his voice had dipped when he said "cute."

She shook her head, turning back to the register.

But as she wiped down the counter, her mind wandered. To Spider-Man. To Jungkook. To the way both of them made her feel seen in a way she couldn't explain.

Maybe I have a crush on him.

She bit her lip.

Or maybe I'm just that desperate.

But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. There was something about him. Something familiar. Something that pulled at the edges of her memory, just out of reach.

And somewhere across the city, swinging between rooftops, Jungkook smiled to himself, her blush burned into his mind.

Soon, he thought. Soon, you'll remember.

The city was settling into dusk, streetlights flickering to life as Y/N walked home, her bag slung over one shoulder. The hangover had faded to a dull ache, replaced by the restless energy that had been gnawing at her all day. She was thinking about Jungkook—the way he'd laughed, the way his hand had caught that bag, the way he'd called her cute.

She was so lost in thought she almost missed the commotion.

A sharp cry. An old man's voice, cracked with panic. "Help! Someone help!"

Y/N's head snapped up. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie was sprinting away, an old leather bag clutched under his arm. Behind him, an elderly man stumbled, reaching out helplessly.

"Hey!" Y/N didn't think. She ran.

Three blocks. Her lungs burned, her legs pumping, the thief weaving through pedestrians. She was fast—she'd always been fast—but he was younger, more desperate. He ducked into a narrow alley, reeking of garbage and stale urine.

She followed without hesitation.

The alley was dark, shadows pooling like liquid. She could hear his footsteps echoing, slowing. He was cornered. She rounded a corner, ready to tackle him—

And then he was gone.

No. Not gone. Pinned.

A figure in red and blue dropped from above, landing silently. The thief was already webbed to a wall, the bag dangling from Spider-Man's hand. The hero turned to her, the white lenses of his mask catching the faint light.

"You really need to stop running into danger," he said, his voice modulated, teasing.

Y/N's heart pounded—not from the chase, but from him. From the way he stood, the way he moved.

She tried to step forward, to get a better look at the thief, to see where he'd gone into the darkness—

A thwip. A strand of web shot out, catching her wrist, yanking it to the brick wall beside her.

She stared at her hand, pinned by the familiar white silk. Again.

"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, yanking at the web. It held firm. "You can't just—"

"Watch and learn," Spider-Man said, and in two quick moves, he had the thief subdued, the bag retrieved, a police call tapped into his comm—all while she stood there, helpless, a memory flickering in the back of her mind.

Webs. Restraint. A voice whispering in the dark. Hands on her wrists, pinning her down. A body pressing against hers, the rough texture of a suit, the heat beneath it.

She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.

He was in front of her now, the old man's bag tucked under one arm. He reached up and flicked the web on her wrist. It dissolved instantly, dropping her hand.

"You're free," he said. "Now go home. It's not safe."

She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him. "You can't just do that whenever you want! I was helping! I could have—"

She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest plate. "You don't get to decide when I'm in danger! You don't get to just—"

She pushed him. Hard. He didn't move, but she kept going, frustration boiling over, her hands flat against his chest—

And then her foot caught on a loose piece of asphalt.

She stumbled forward, off-balance, straight into him.

Her body collided with his, her hands instinctively grabbing his arms to steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, the fabric of his suit smooth and textured beneath her palms.

And something clicked.

The feel of it—the tight compression, the subtle ribbing, the exact way the material hugged the muscle underneath—sent a shiver through her. Her eyes widened. She didn't know why, but her hands began to move, sliding down his arms slowly, almost reverently. She felt the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the way his muscles tensed under her touch.

She looked up.

The mask stared back at her, white lenses unreadable. But she could feel him watching her, feel the sudden stillness in his body.

Her breath caught. She could see him beneath the mask. Not his face, but something else. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.

I know you. I've felt you before.

She lifted a hand, reaching for his mask, her fingers trembling—

He stepped back.

Just one step, but it was enough to break her hold. Her hand hung in the air, empty.

"I have to go," he said, his voice tighter now, less playful. He set the bag down. "The police are on their way. Stay safe."

And before she could say another word, he was gone—a blur of red and blue vanishing into the night sky, leaving her alone in the dark alley, the old man's bag at her feet, her skin still tingling where she'd touched him.

She stood there, heart racing, frustration and confusion twisting in her chest.

Why does he feel so familiar?

She clenched her fists. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't remember, a face she couldn't see.

And yet, he's a stranger.

She bent down, picked up the bag, and walked out of the alley, her mind churning.

Who are you?

The question echoed in the empty space where Spider-Man had been. And somewhere, high above, hidden in the shadows, Jungkook watched her go, his hands shaking, his heart aching with the weight of everything she didn't remember.

The bell above the café door chimed, and Y/N's heart did a little flip she immediately suppressed.

Jungkook walked in, all easy confidence in a loose black t-shirt and those worn jeans that hung just right on his hips. He ran a hand through his hair—still slightly damp, like he'd just showered—and gave her a small smile as he approached the counter.

"Morning, Y/N."

She should have said something. She should have smiled back, asked for his usual order, made some casual remark about the weather. But her mind was still reeling from last night. The alley. The webs. The way her hands had traced the suit's texture like her fingers remembered what her brain couldn't.

Instead, she just nodded, her movements mechanical as she punched in his order. "Americano."

He blinked, clearly noticing her clipped tone. "Yeah. Thanks."

She turned to make the coffee, her back to him, feeling his gaze on her. She could sense the question in his silence—what's wrong?—but she couldn't bring herself to address it. She didn't know what to say. Hey, I think you might be the superhero who's been haunting my dreams and my subconscious sex life, but I can't be sure, so just pretend everything's normal.

She slid the cup across the counter. He took it, their fingers almost brushing. She pulled back too fast.

"Thanks," he said again, slower this time, searching her face.

She just nodded and turned to wipe down the counter, even though it was already clean.

The café was quiet—a lull between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. Taehyung was in the back, restocking cups, humming something under his breath. Y/N busied herself with meaningless tasks, acutely aware of Jungkook settling into his usual table by the window, pulling out his phone.

He didn't look at her again. Or maybe he did, in brief glances she pretended not to notice.

After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt up just slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Y/N's eyes tracked it before she forced them away.

"Bathroom," he said, more to announce it than anything, and disappeared through the back hallway.

The moment the door clicked shut, Taehyung emerged from the stockroom, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Okay. Now's my chance."

Y/N frowned. "What chance?"

Taehyung didn't answer. He darted to Jungkook's table, where the worn leather messenger bag sat propped against the chair leg.

"Taehyung, what the hell—"

"Shh." He was already crouching, unzipping the bag with practiced ease. "He's so mysterious. I just want to snoop a little. See if he's hiding anything interesting."

Y/N's heart lurched. "Stop! Put that back." She hissed, crossing the café in three quick strides. "What are you doing? That's his private stuff—"

"Relax, I'm just looking." Taehyung's hands moved through the bag's contents—a wallet, a phone, a protein bar wrapper, a small notebook. "Boring, boring, boring. How does this guy have no personality in his bag?"

"Taehyung, I swear to God—"

He pulled out a crumpled piece of fabric. Dark red and blue, folded into a rough square.

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's a fan."

He unfolded it, and Y/N's breath caught in her throat.

It was a mask. A Spider-Man mask. The white lenses stared up at her, empty and familiar.

Taehyung held it up, smirking. "See? Fanboy. Probably wears it to bed or something." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly back into the bag. "Guess even mysterious guys have heroes."

But Y/N wasn't listening.

She reached down, her fingers trembling, and picked up the mask. The fabric was cool against her skin. She ran her thumb across the surface—the subtle ribbing, the tight weave, the exact texture that had pressed against her palms last night.

The same texture.

Her blood ran cold.

She remembered the alley. The way her hands had slid down Spider-Man's arms. The way the suit had felt beneath her fingers. The way her body had known it, even when her mind couldn't.

This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—

She looked up. Taehyung was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

She was holding Spider-Man's mask.

Jungkook's mask.

Jungkook is Spider-Man.

The realization hit her like a freight train, knocking the air from her lungs. She stood there, frozen, the fabric clutched in her hands, the truth burning through her.

He's the one who saved me. He's the one who webs me to walls. He's the one who watches me from the shadows.

He's the one I've been dreaming about.

She thought of the dreams—the vivid, explicit dreams where Spider-Man's voice had whispered filthy things in her ear, where his hands had pinned her down, where his body had moved inside hers like he knew every inch of her. The dreams where she had arched into him, moaning, pleading, coming undone.

Her face flushed, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.

Oh God.

She had been dreaming about him. About the man who had been coming into her café, smiling at her, teasing her, touching her—and she hadn't known.

But her body had.

Her body had remembered.

"Y/N?" Taehyung's voice was sharper now. "Put it back. He'll be out any second."

She forced her hands to move, folding the mask roughly and shoving it back into the bag. She zipped it closed just as the bathroom door creaked open.

Jungkook emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans. He glanced at them—Taehyung standing awkwardly by the table, Y/N frozen behind the counter—and his brow furrowed.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine!" Taehyung said, too quickly. "Great. Just—telling Y/N about a thing. A thing I saw. Bye."

He scurried back to the stockroom, leaving Y/N alone with Jungkook.

He walked to the counter, picking up his coffee, his eyes studying her. "You sure you're okay? You seem... off today."

She couldn't look at him. She stared at the counter, at the espresso machine, at anything but his face.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just tired."

He didn't push. He just nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Alright. I'll see you later, then."

He turned and walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

Y/N stood there, her heart pounding, her mind racing.

Jungkook is Spider-Man.

And she had been dreaming of him fucking her senseless.

She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and something else—something hot and hungry—coiled in her stomach.

She had questions. So many questions.

But more than that, she had a need.

A need to find out if the dreams were somehow real.

----------------

There's a specific kind of loneliness that exists exclusively in university boys who project their fear of intimacy onto women and ruin their perceptions of love solely to keep their fragile egos away from slipping through their fingertips and breaking down like blades of glass. 

Not because they're incapable of being loved. I'd say the situation is quite the opposite, actually. People like them are usually loved too loudly, too quickly. They become socially unavoidable before they become emotionally available— having mastered the art of making people feel personally seen while remaining uniquely difficult to access in return.

And maybe, that's where the actual problem begins.

Charm is easier to preform than vulnerability, attention is more addicting when you've never experienced a form of raw intimacy, and a real conversation probably feels worse than a pair of red, glossy lips. 

Every generation repackages the same socially gifted boy with commitment issues and calls him different names, swearing this one is different than the last.

But surprise, it's not.

This year's version just happens to wear leather jackets and lip rings to nine a.m lectures while also somehow possessing actual analytical skills in addition to social ones— perhaps the most alarming thing about Jeon Jungkook is that he isn't a business major. 

Because boys like Jeon Jungkook learn early that if they remain entertaining enough, nobody will notice how carefully they avoid stillness; as though silence might physically harm them. Does an engineering major make him interesting? Maybe. But does it fuel his hedonistic lifestyle? Not exactly. 

The bass is thudding loud enough to make the kitchen cabinets tremble with every beat, palpitating through the frat house in uneven waves. Alcohol that's cheap enough to poison you on an empty stomach spills over sticky counter tops, and the room reeks with the smell of warm beer mixed with something disgustingly similar to your ex boyfriend's cologne— you're going to throw up.

But you don't. Because, well, you can't. 

So you keep holding a cup of cranberry vodka in your hand despite accommodating a strong dislike for the drink, you keep your smile warm and flirty even though deeply missing the comfort of your bed and wanting nothing more than to rewatch Mamma Mia for the third time this month. And you keep bobbing your head along to the music even though you swear any house beat without proper lyrics would be enough to kill a fly. 

You keep your chin high and your posture straight because you need this. You need something tangible. A reaction, anything capable of sitting inside your palm until you can carry it home and pour into words later. Because you've already wasted at least three hours of your precious friday night here and you are not leaving unless you find something worth pocketing.

Luckily for you, said Jeon Jungkook is standing at the center of it all. 

His back is pressed against the kitchen counter as a girl keeps on kissing him as if the birth and death of her universe lies somewhere between his lips. Her fists are tangled in the collar of his leather jacket, tugging his body closer and closer into her smaller frame like distance is completely unnecessary, like she needs his body to melt and mold with hers to embody the entirety of proximity itself.

A familiar voice shouts his name from the living room, but Jungkook doesn't budge until someone else reaches over to steal the drink straight out of his hand, laughing into her mouth unapologetically.

He pulls away just enough to see whoever it is that's calling him, hands firming up on the girl's waist to stabilize himself. "Give me thirty seconds!" He shouts back casually.

The response is immediate. "You said that twenty minutes ago!"

"Then clearly I'm busy."

The girl in front of him rolls her eyes, hands loosening on his collar before dropping down to his chest. "You're an asshole."

"Mhm, you think?" He asks with a smirk playing on his lips, looking down at her. 

"Do you ever take a break or is your case of over sexuality a medical condition?" Mingyu complains, drinking the beer he has just taken from Jungkook's hand as their shoulders bump into each other.

Jungkook finally pulls away fully, shifting closer to Mingyu. "You're obsessed with me." 

Mingyu scoffs. "Unfortunate for Seoul's female population."

"Guys," Yugyeom interrupts, looking up from his phone with a sudden delight on his face, as if the light from his phone's screen has traveled and bloomed again behind his pupils. "Wave posted." 

The reaction arrives in less than a second, because Wave had long stopped being just another anonymous campus blog sometime during sophomore year. It became something students enthusiastically refreshed during lectures, sent feverish screenshots to group chats at ungodly hours. Because everyone somehow grew to love Wave— until they became the subject of it.

Jungkook closes his eyes briefly, sparing a fraction of a second to recollect the exasperation in his heartbeat, inhaling slowly. "I swear if this psychopath wrote about me again—" 

Yugyeom's grin widens. "Bad news, superstar." 

"For fuck's sake." Jungkook mutters, snatching the phone away from Yugyeom's hand while Mingyu's laugh echos loudly from besides.

The familiar layout of wave flashes straight into his eyes, light blue and dreamy and so fucking pretty for a blog this cruel. Well, cruel would be an exaggeration, if you weren't Jeon Jungkook.

"Oh my god." Mingyu gasps. "Second paragraph is crazy." 

"Crazy accurate." Jaehyun corrects, reaching over Jungkook's shoulder to keep reading.

"This person needs psychiatric help." He says flatly.

"Mhm." Jaehyun hums, taking a sip of his drink. "You say that because you secretly agree with everything." 

Okay, you see, that's the problem with Wave. 

The issue had never really been the concept itself, because Wave has always been undeniably good. Jungkook can survive a day or two of public embarrassment. God knows he has spent the last two years of university building an almost concerning amount of immunity to people's uncalled opinions. The problem is that whoever it is that's sitting behind that stupid light blue website is unsettlingly gifted at noticing things they absolutely shouldn't. The tiny, quiet things people lock somewhere safe beneath their hearts and reveal only when they trust someone with their lives. 

It suffocates him sometimes, not that he'd ever say it like that.

"I'd rather die than agree with this hypocrite." He says instead.

Jaehyun nods dismissively. "Right."

The girl beside Jungkook leans over his shoulder, eyes laced with curiosity. "Wait, keep reading." 

"Use your damn phone." He shuts her off immediately, handing the phone back to Yugyeom.

Yugyeom grabs his phone in one hand while he shakes Jungkook's shoulder dramatically with the other. "Did you do something to this writer we don't know of?"

"Why are you acting like i personally asked to be publicly humiliated?" 

Mingyu shrugs. "Because you clearly enjoy it a little.

"I actually don't." Jungkook argues. 

Majority of the people around him dissolve slowly, disappearing into the crowd to find their own group of friends to gossip on the article that just got posted, leaving Jungkook with his own group of friends who unfortunately do not make up the IQ of a normal person even when merged together.

"Hey," Jungkook says like he suddenly remembered something so crucial, angling his body towards Jaehyun. "Have you seen Mark?" 

Jaehyun's brows pull together. "Thought he was coming later."

"He texted me like an hour ago." 

"Your secret little rendezvous?" Yugyeom asks knowingly, wiggling his eyebrows.

Jungkook scoffs lightly, rolling his eyes. "Shut the fuck up."

Mingyu gasps dramatically. "You're cheating on us with the music major?"

"None of you are funny." Jungkook says, shaking his head once before letting his gaze drift around the kitchen while Mingyu and Yugyeom start arguing about something else entirely.

Then he spots you.

Oh. 

Jungkook knows you. Okay, he doesn't exactly know you, but he knows of you. Through Mark, through Yugyeom, through this and through that but never truly by heart.

You, with a face carefully designed by gods, standing there mindlessly as if you aren't the textbook definition of beauty itself. You, who'd without a doubt get his cock rock solid in mere seconds by rolling your eyes and laughing at how dumb he is. You, who'd pretend to not be fazed by him while very obviously blessing him with flirty smiles and inviting eyes.

You would be…mildly inconvenient for him.

"Why are you staring at her like that?" Jaehyun asks from besides him. 

Jungkook tears his eyes away immediately. "You're seeing things."

Mingyu laughs loudly, chiming in a beat later. "You literally are." 

"Shut up." 

"You don't even know her like that." Yugyeom adds, grinning. 

"I know enough." 

Jaehyun lifts his brows accusingly. "That is?"

Jungkook opens his mouth, but closes it again in no time. Because somehow saying prettiest girl on campus who'd drop him to his knees by casually using words he has to mentally spell twice feels a little excessive for a girl he's never had a proper conversation with in his life. 

"Mark's friends with her, right?" He asks instead. 

Jaehyun nods slowly, a little suspicious. "Yeah." 

"Cool." Jungkook replies. And before any of his friends can say another word, he's pushing himself away from the counter and walking towards you. 

Mingyu gasps dramatically behind him. "Oh my god, he's approaching." 

"Act natural!" Yugyeom shouts over the music. 

Jungkook scoffs in exasperation, but he doesn't turn around, walking towards you as he flips them off by waving a hand behind. 

You notice him coming over almost immediately. Because Jeon Jungkook isn't exactly one to go unnoticed by many, and that sadly seems to cover you too. There is something annoyingly conspicuous about him, visible even in places that are so crowded you lose your friend within the bare minute of getting there. 

Maybe it's the broad shoulders, maybe it's the tattoos and the lip rings that usually wink at you before even he gets the chance to, or maybe it's the fact that everybody seems to orbit around him with a push and pull so heavy it feels like he's the center of gravity itself.

It's probably the shoulders. 

Miyeon, your gorgeous best friend, notices him too as his steps get closer and closer to where you are standing. Her lips twitch knowingly around the rim of her cup. "Well," She murmurs into her drink. "This should be interesting." 

Jungkook stops right in front of you before you can reply to your friend. "Hey." He greets easily. And annoyingly enough, his voice sounds exactly the way the rest of him looks.

You tilt your head slightly, half empty cup swaying between your fingers. "Hey yourself."

Jungkook blinks once before letting out a breathy laugh. "Oh, this is already going badly for me." 

Miyeon snorts into her drink, but you quickly nudge her arm before she says something she shouldn't. "I'm looking for Mark." Jungkook continues, gaze shifting back towards you. "Have you seen him?" 

"You're looking for Mark?" You repeat, cocking a brow. 

And for some reason, Jungkook's smile widens. "We were supposed to meet." 

The answer catches you a little off-guard. Not because Jungkook knowing Mark is strange. It's not, everybody knows Mark. But because there is something in the way he says it. He's saying it seriously, with intention. Like whatever they're meeting about actually matters to him and that's not something you can coherently place somewhere solid in your head.

"You sound committed to that." You say before you can stop yourself.

Jungkook squints his eyes. "I can commit to things."

You take a sip of your drink, taking your time with the action as your brows raise with something laced with accusation. "You sure?"

Jungkook's eyes widen just slightly as Miyeon turns away, trying to hide her laughter. But she cackles anyway. "That's crazy." He says, a loose grin forming on his face. "You know absolutely nothing about me." 

"You don't exactly strike me as somebody mysterious." 

"Yeah?" He breathes. "What do i strike you as?"

You roll your eyes, poking the inside of your cheek with your tongue. And whatever that happens in Jungkook's chest— it's deeply unfortunate. 

This is exactly his type, horrifically so. Pretty has never been an issue for Jungkook, he has been surrounded with pretty all his life. Pretty and mean, on the other hand, is apparently where the problem in his pants begin. 

But before either of you can continue, Jungkook's name is yelled from across the room. "There you are!" Mingyu shouts, throwing an arm around Jungkook's shoulders after he makes his way towards you. "Some girl is throwing up on Jaehyun's shoes because you disappeared." 

Jungkook closes eyes briefly, inhaling a long breath. "See? What's commitment if not that?" 

You laugh despite yourself, loud and real and so fucking pretty Jungkook thinks he might've forgotten how to breathe properly. 

"I'll tell Mark you were looking for him." You say. 

"Appreciate it." He says before stepping backward towards the kitchen, then pauses suddenly. "By the way," He starts, causing you to raise a brow. "You're prettier than your articles sound." 

Your expression freezes for a beat, lips parted and head still tilted. A lazy smirk dances on Jungkook's features before disappearing back into the crowd behind Mingyu, leaving you standing there with your drink still halfway raised. 

Miyeon slowly turns towards you. "What the fuck was that about?" 

Your eyes linger on the hallway Jungkook disappeared into, gaze floating like you've just wandered into an ocean with no trace of the start and end. Because no, you don't have an idea on whatever the fuck that was either.

Your phone buzzes before your thoughts can swallow you up any further.

namjoon: still awake?

Your eyes flick between the small digital clock on the corner and the text in the middle of your screen before your fingers move over the keyboard.

you: i'm at yugyeom's party

namjoon: you posted during a frat party?

You roll your eyes even though he can't see you, though you're sure he feels it behind the screen.

you: it was queued

namjoon: ah

namjoon: coffee at mine?

namjoon: you can sleep over

You lift your head at something Miyeon says, nodding your head without really listening to what she's talking about. You tuck your bottom lip into your teeth, weighting your options before deciding to give in.

you: wow, the honor

you: on my way

The city feels different after midnight.

Maybe not quieter, because noise never really dies down on friday nights. People like to laugh, dance, live. Because modern time doesn't really allow love anymore. Because people spare friday nights for themselves and keep it tucked somewhere they know it belongs. Because people yearn to belong and time doesn't like to stretch and bend around desire. It just moves. 

The city feels softer, as if somebody reached over and mellowed the space so that everyone could find a place for themselves. At least, that's exactly the way you feel when your uber drops you off outside of Namjoon's apartment building twenty minutes after you leave Yugyeom's place. The clock is ticking past two in the morning, and by the time you make your way upstairs, your feet are aching and your social battery has officially ran out.

When the door opens, Namjoon greets you with that same old warmth you've had memorized for nearly four years— almost the entirety of your college years. He gives you a hug before disappearing back into the hallway, informing you of how the coffee is almost done. 

His place is dim except for the kitchen, where a warm light spills in and drapes over the entire apartment in a yellow hue. It always smells the same here. Not in a weird way, not at all. Just very…specific. It smells like books that have already been read at least twice and expensive coffee beans that are too niche for you to have any understanding of— because to the normal person, they all just taste the same.

Definitely not to Namjoon. 

You slip your heels off by the door, following him into the kitchen after dropping your purse somewhere on the couch. "Do you want to lose all the sleep left in your system?" You ask, gaze dragging over the empty coffee mugs on the counter. 

Namjoon stands in the kitchen with his back turned to you, dressed comfortably in some gray sweatpants and a dark colored hoodie. His glasses sit low on his nose, hair falling onto his forehead in messy strands. "I'm writing something." He says, a soft smile forming on his face as he pours in the hot liquid carefully. "How was the party?"

You climb onto the counter, plopping your body onto the marble as your legs dangle above the height. You unashamedly stare at him for a moment, taking in the sweats and the glasses and the fact that he somehow still looks put together despite the hour. Because Namjoon looks a little unfair like this— annoyingly intelligent and completely at home.

"It was loud." 

Namjoon hums, handing you the mug. "The alcohol was terrible, i spent the whole night trying to keep Miyeon away from Yugyeom, and someone cried in the bathroom after throwing up on the floor."

"Sounds typical to me." 

You take a sip of the coffee, then groan immediately because it's still too hot to drink, before setting it down with exaggerated annoyance dancing on your face. You trail behind him into the living room, pulling your legs beneath yourself as you sink into the couch while he settles right next to you with his laptop balanced over one knee.

"You're actually writing." You say, eyeing him over the rim of your mug.

"I told you." Namjoon says, giving you a brief glance before he turns his attention back onto the screen. 

Your eyes absentmindedly drift towards the screen of his laptop, floating over the margins that are filled with notes, sections that are highlighted, pages filled with comments and edits that are all very Namjoon. And for a second, for the entirety of a thousand milliseconds that feel way longer than it actually is, your own laptop sitting abandoned inside the void of your apartment suddenly feels eccentrically heavier. 

"My advisor hates me." 

Namjoon doesn't look up. "Did he say that?"

You sink lower into the couch, sipping your coffee slowly without forgetting to blow onto it. You can not burn your mouth again, not a chance. "No, but he looked disappointed." 

Namjoon sighs. "I know it sucks and you want to strangle him to the depths of death, but he just has high expectations from you."

You groan dramatically. "It's so annoying." 

Namjoon hums, nodding along as his eyes scan through the screen. "How's the thesis going?" 

That's when you gift him the pleasure of absolute silence. Because unfortunately, deeply unfortunately, somewhere along the way, your thesis and Wave started bleeding a little too much into each other and now everything feels way too personal and disgustingly intimate. 

Not entirely, of course. Wave is still just a tool for you to learn and observe without tracing everything back to yourself. But lately, it has started to feel a little less objective and a little more on the edge. 

You didn't lose the hang of it, not really. You're still the same girl writing with the same devotion for the same purpose. Just…there has been small slips here and there, noticeable only to people who know you well enough to search for them. 

You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth. "It's progressing." 

Namjoon's eyes drift towards you, and your gaze lifts until it catches his own in the air. "Why are you looking at me like that?" You ask when he stares at you for a second too long. 

"You don't sound too truthful." 

You scoff, then roll your eyes before grabbing the nearest pillow and throwing it in his face. But being the man he is, Namjoon catches it without looking. Damn him. 

"You write about Jungkook a lot." He says suddenly. 

You shrug. "He's easy material." 

"You've written about him four times by now."

You pause, squinting your eyes as every piece of writing you've ever published in the last two years flashes through your eyes. Because there is no fucking way you've written about that tattooed excuse of sex on legs for four entire times. "Four?" 

"Four." He repeats. 

You drop your shoulders in defeat. "You're very unlikeable tonight." 

"I'm just providing you with my opinions." He says, typing while speaking. "You can't ask for help if you aren't going to take my advice." 

You pull your knees closer against your chest. "I don't ask for your opinions." 

"You called me crying over an econ elective last year." 

You sit up immediately, placing the mug onto the coffee table. "Okay, first of all, it wasn't entirely like that—" 

"I distinctly remember you saying, and i quote, what do i do now, Joon, my future is over." He states dramatically, voice disgustingly sweet and high pitched as he mocks you.

You stare at him, frozen and absolutely horrified. "I was vulnerable." 

Namjoon hums, and you let yourself fall backwards dramatically against the couch cushions, throwing an arm over your face as if that's enough to physically protect yourself from embarrassment and humiliation. 

It doesn't, of course. Because nothing ever really preserves you from embarrassment when it's Kim Namjoon you're talking about.

A comfortable silence settles into the living room, allowing you drown yourself inside the small indicators of life around you. You can hear his keyboard clicking softly as he keeps working on something you have no idea about, the occasional scratch of the ceramic mug against the wood table, the faint jazz pieces playing from the speakers hidden somewhere further inside the apartment. And just as you were about to part your lips and make a comment on how his furniture is so outdated, he beats you to it.

"Oh." 

Your arm slowly lowers from your face, eyes squinting and peaking above it. "What?" 

"Are you still helping Mark with that project?" 

Oh yourself.

Everything in you physically stills, slowly and painfully, like dread is begging to be felt properly until your bones ache and sizzle with the weight of it. Because you— catastrophically, miserably, terribly; had forgotten all about it. Not in a small, oops, i should probably text him back way either. No, you had forgotten in a way that bordered on a severe case of friendship betrayal and negligence. 

You close your eyes, inhaling a long breath. "Hypothetically speaking…" 

Namjoon finally looks up. "You forgot, didn't you?"

You did, and of course he notices. Because if Kim Namjoon has spent four years studying journalism, he has spent six studying you.

Namjoon had become one of those people that had entered your life quietly yet stayed just as loudly, making himself impossible to imagine a life without in absolutely no time. Just like wine or Wave or the concerning amount of mediocre sex you've been having since your last boyfriend. 

You had met him during the first few weeks of your freshman year when he was already a junior and head editor of the university journal. Back then, he existed in your head less as a person and more as a terrifying academic urban legend you'd never admit looking up to. But you didn't have to admit it out loud, because even the older students spoke about him with an obnoxious amount of respect.

You hated him. 

But obviously, that didn't last long. As you kept sharing nights filled with stories, words and worlds no one knew existed besides the two of you, he started to matter. He'd remembered your exam dates, bought you coffee during finals, edited your essays at three in the morning. He'd answer your phone calls involving emotional breakdowns over electives and boys and broken sink pipes, then solve whatever crisis you were having in little to no time. 

So naturally, somewhere along the way, your editor had turned into an older brother and became annoyingly good at reading you— so much that you're sure he keeps a version of you that's all bare and vulnerable somewhere hidden in his furthest drawers.

Because he knows you. Good enough to notice the tiny moments where Wave feels a little too personal. To notice the way that sometimes, your thesis blurs into the rest of your life and you get caught up in the gravity of it all, so much that the project you'd promised to help with weeks ago somehow slips away from your mind despite Mark being one of your dearest friends. 

Because Namjoon doesn't forget, and Mark will definitely kill you if you don't show up at his studio with breakfast and two cups coffee by tomorrow morning. 

Musicians who are brave enough to lay their souls open between rhymes and harmonies have always felt intimate.

Music is vulnerable, always has been. Everyone knows that. But there is something utterly naked and personal beyond the in reach vulnerability of it all. 

It's the little things.

The version of them that existed on a random Tuesday in October, the argument they never really recovered from yet still shaped them into whoever they are today. The person they almost loved, the one they did love…They leave pieces of themselves behind between late nights and early mornings, and it never matters whether it's accidental or not. Because everything they touch transitions into something that carries their traces and that's enough to feel their souls on top of your own.

And, i think, that truly sums up Mark Lee as a person. 

Because Mark has always felt like someone composed of the little things. He'd attach songs to memories you won't realize matters until months later, respond to texts even if it wakes him up from his sweetest dreams. He'd turn feelings into poems and records then archive them in anything that's permanent. 

In college, people tend to think popularity belongs to the loudest person in the room. But despite being loved through the depths of the ocean until the very end of Milky Way, Mark Lee has never really been loud.

Just unforgettable. 

Three days later, you find yourself standing outside of Mark's studio with two iced coffees in one hand and a kind of resentment that's loud yet entirely unserious in the other. Because Mark has spent the last forty eight hours guilt tripping you through frantic phone calls and dramatic text messages. And you, for some reason, can not for the life of you bring yourself accept the fact that you've forgotten your promise and properly apologize.

At least you got the coffees. 

You push the studio door open without knocking, because Mark has never once respected your privacy and therefore doesn't exactly deserve it in return. As the door falls unleashed and sunlight spills until it drapes over you in a golden glow, there are a few things you expect. A Justin Bieber song Justin Bieber himself has probably forgotten about, unfinished coffees and half empty beer bottles scattered around the room, maybe even his ex girlfriend lounging somewhere in the corner because you're almost entirely certain Mark would slip straight back into her heart if she ever left it even slightly open. 

But Jeon Jungkook is not one of them.

He's sitting besides the mixing desk, leaned back comfortably in his chair wearing a black hoodie with headphones hanging around his neck, one leg bouncing lazily beneath the table while he scrolls through something on his phone.

He looks up from the screen when the weight of your presence becomes impossible to ignore. He blinks once, twice, then smiles. 

Shit, he has dimples.

"Well," Jungkook says slowly, leaning back further into the chair as he drags his eyes over you. "This just got better than i expected." 

Your reply comes immediately. "No." 

Jungkook blinks, eyes widening just slightly. "I…didn't even say anything." 

"You thought of it." 

He cocks a brow. "Thought of what?" 

You roll your eyes, dropping your purse onto the table before leaning your hip against it. "You know what." You say, and he silently stares at you for a second longer before the corner of his mouth starts twitching. 

This doesn't make sense. Not at all. 

Because certain people feel attached to certain places long before they step into them. Mark belongs in studios and beneath the stars and somewhere right in the middle of your heart. Namjoon belongs beneath the warmth of yellow kitchen lights and homes that silence everything else until it's quieter than the rest of the world. Miyeon belongs anywhere between flowers and pretty cafes that somehow never match up to her beauty. 

And Jungkook…Jungkook belongs beneath flashing lights that paint his features in colors that would look good on nobody but him. He belongs in crowded spaces and with girls who lean in a little too close whenever he speaks. He belongs anywhere loud and alive.

Just not here. Because music feels too intimate for him somehow. 

"You know." He says after a moment, still smiling. "I thought there was a chance i imagined you." 

You let out a low chuckle, crossing your arms over your chest after placing the coffees onto the table. "That's a little dramatic." 

"I'm being dead serious." 

"Well, you approached me." You say, tilting your head slightly, letting your eyes drift over him before they return back to his face. "And you don't seem to have that strong of an imagination."

"You're mean."

You groan playfully, leaning your hip against the armrest of his chair. "That's so not true." 

A small smirk plays out on his lips. "Good thing i like my girls with a little attitude." 

Pardon? Your girls?

"You're being very brave today." 

Jungkook stares at you for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek in a way that's not rude, just playful enough to carry traces of something cocky beneath it. He lets the silence melt and sit right in the middle of your bodies for a beat too long, then speaks.

"You're flirting with me right now." 

Your head snaps towards him immediately, and you almost choke on your own saliva. Not because you're shocked. How can you be when he has built a whole persona on candied words and pretty girls and an ego that's definitely bigger than what's between his legs. It's because he says it so easily, and you hate that. 

So no, absolutely not. You, flirting with Jungkook? No way in hell. 

You narrow your eyes. "No, I'm not." 

"Mhm." He hums, swinging left and right in his seat with a growing grin on his face. 

Okay, no. That's enough. You're not doing this any longer. You don't want Jeon fucking Jungkook to think he has a chance at having you naked and open and wide on his stupid iron man mattress. You don't want to demonstrate the size of his cock with your hands when Miyeon asks on girls night, and you most definitely don't want Mark walking in on you bickering like two horny teenagers with the self control of fucking rabbits in heat. 

So you change the subject. 

"You sing?" Brilliant. 

And peculiarly, his smile softens a little at your question. Not drastically, not enough for the entire room to shift and bend around him until it's his breath only you're drowning inside. But it's enough. Enough for you to notice the way something gentler briefly peeks through before hiding again. And you, for some reason, find yourself reaching over and folding it carefully to hide somewhere safe amongst all the other precious details people accidentally leave behind. Somewhere only you carry the map of and know how to find again. 

Jungkook glances up. "Sometimes." 

Sometimes. 

It's funny how he says it, like it matters too much that his tongue can not carry the weight of it, so he just shrugs it off like it's anything. Sometimes, he says. As if Mark would ever involve someone who does it just whenever. As if Mark would ever reach for something that's sitting right in middle of his soul and hand out a piece of it to just anyone. 

"You look judgemental." He adds.

You shrug. "I'm just surprised." 

Jungkook's eyebrows lift at your answer, like he knows there is another thought sitting beneath it, quietly waiting for the permission to exit. But before he can get the chance to ask about it further, the studio door suddenly swings open. 

Mark walks into the room with an amount of rush that should be concerning for this time of the morning. His hair is messy, bag is tucked beneath his arm and an iced americano is trying to balance clumsily between his fingers as he tries finding a place to squeeze himself in.

"Okay, first of all. Traffic should be considered the worse case of masochism the human kind has done to itself." Mark rambles, barely waiting for the door to close behind him before speaking, words tumbling out of his mouth in consecutive complaints. 

"And you," He kicks the door shut with his foot before continuing, pointing a finger at you. "After forty eight hours of emotional neglect, show up with iced lattes? I don't drink lattes. That's for pussies who don't understand coffee." 

You roll your eyes. "I do something nice and you still complain." 

"You completely forgot me and brought coffee out of guilt."

You pause, looking down at the table before speaking again. "It's still coffee."

Jungkook laughs quietly besides you before Mark cuts in again. "Okay, so basically," He breathes, gesturing around the room. "This is my senior project, the one I told you about three weeks ago and you forgot because you apparently don't care about me anymore. It's a short film of my album with a narrative concept." He turns to Jungkook. "He's singing." 

Your eyes drift around in silence, taking in the headphones and the sheets filled with lyrics and the fucking sometimes he threw at you as if it meant nothing.

"And you," Mark angles his body towards you. "Are helping with the writing." 

"Mark," You argue, because what can you possibly be writing? Music? You don't do music. You write people, you write anything between stories and analysis but not music.

"Don't Mark me right now. You agreed to this weeks ago." He says as he rolls his eyes, chugging down his coffee. "The story. You're writing the narrative and the emotional structure, obviously."

Oh. Right. 

Because of course Mark wouldn't just make music. No, he has always been incapable of touching one art form without dragging five others to it. Because Mark Lee is a man of passion and he won't do anything without making it entirely his. 

"Apparently you said music without context feels lonely to Yoongi's trap arrangement last week." Jungkook says without really looking at you, swinging mindlessly in his chair. 

Your head snaps towards him. "How do you know that?"

Jungkook blinks once, like he hadn't expected to say that out loud yet did anyway. His eyes flicker between you and Mark before he collects himself back together and shrugs casually. "Mark talks about you." 

That's…annoyingly sweet of him. 

"You talk about me?" You coo with a voice disgustingly candied, head tilted as you reach for Mark's arm. 

"Oh my god." Mark groans dramatically, but he doesn't pull his arm away. "No, because Jungkook, don't let her fool you. She acts all nice and sweet then suddenly you're buying her food and driving her to places." 

You open your mouth immediately, ready to defend yourself. You turn towards Jungkook, response already on the tip of your tongue, ready to be spilled— only to stop.

Because Jungkook is already looking at you. Not in a weird way, not in the way boys usually look at pretty girls when they think nobody is noticing. Just…gentle. His smile is still there, only now it has grown and molded into something smaller. The kind that doesn't really ask for attention, the kind that simply stays there because it wants to. His eyes feel softer too, like's he's really listening, sitting through the spaces of your presence until he feels it permanently engraved into his mind.

It feels a little precarious. 

And perhaps the most annoying thing about Jungkook is that the disappointment never really arrives.

Because eventually, the conversation shifts and folds itself until time starts passing in a kind of haziness where it melts into something thinner. Mark disappears into one of his passionate spirals regarding symbolism and the basics of music theory and you somehow find a way to contribute just as passionately despite not exactly having the qualifications to do so. 

That's normal. That doesn't surprise you, it has happened enough times to not be the slightest of a deal. But Jungkook, Jungkook surprises you. 

Maybe not dramatically, maybe not in ways worth writing Wave articles about. It's the little things, tiny things that somehow fill in the entire space and make their way into the dearest corners of your heart. 

Like how he listens with his entire body, the way he turns towards whoever it is that's speaking and stays there, like he genuinely thinks people deserve to be heard all the way through. The way he never interrupts Mark despite the fact that Mark tends to over explain things as if he himself personally invented art and human emotion. The way he nods along quietly, asks questions at exactly the right moments without ever interjecting anyone and reaches over to hand you your drink when you start looking for it. 

And somewhere in the middle of the complexity of it all, Jungkook sings. 

Mark points towards the recording booth in the middle of his nth rant today, and Jungkook pushes himself up from the couch besides you with a small sigh before disappearing behind the glass doors of the booth. And for some reason, your eyes follow him through each passing second, because simply standing behind a microphone with overhead headphones should not look this different on somebody. 

Because suddenly, he's stripped out of everything you've subconsciously built for him. And for some stupid, sick, twisted reason, Jungkook looks ridiculously hot like this. 

He adjusts the headphones over his ears before leaning towards the microphone slightly, eyes lowering as Mark presses something on the screen. 

His voice happens a beat of two after the music starts, and it happens big. Like waves crashing into rocks, like starts falling down the sky, like spring melting into summer and summer clashing against fall. 

It's stupid. 

He's not bad, god, you wish he was bad. No, not at all. Because Jungkook sings exactly the way the listens. Softly, fully, like he throws himself into it before realizing he's doing it. Like somewhere in the middle of every rhyme and every note and every breath, there are pieces of him patiently waiting to be discovered. 

You understand why Mark chose him. 

Jungkook drops beside you onto the couch with a tired groan after Mark decides he's poured enough of his soul for today, and you find your eyes grazing over him as he scrolls through something on his phone. 

"You're staring." Jungkook says, not even looking up from his phone.

You blink. Fuck. "Excuse me?" 

He hums, lips twitching beyond his control. "Mhm." 

You angle your body a little more towards him. "I literally wasn't." 

He nods, still not looking at you, but he's still smiling. 

You stare at his profile for a little longer as Mark works over the keyboard in silence, then find the words escaping your mouth before you can hold them in. "You sound different when you sing." You say quietly. 

Jungkook stills a little. Just a tiny, little falter that happens in his body. His eyes lift slowly from the screen, then catch yours before speaking. "Different?" He asks.

You shrug immediately, trying to fold the conversation into something drastically more casual. "Just less annoying." 

Jungkook laughs, shoulders shaking beside you. "Less annoying." He repeats, grin growing. 

You roll your eyes immediately. "Don't let it get to your head." 

"You know," He says after letting a beat pass, and you turn your head back towards him. "You say very mean things for someone who can't seem to stop staring." 

Your brows lift in offense. "I do not stare." 

He blinks. "You do." 

You scoff. "You're delusional." 

Jungkook hums softly. "Earlier, when Mark was talking—" 

You don't let him speak. At least, you try. "No."

"And then when i was recording—" 

"Jeon." 

He's fully smiling now, like he's getting the most ridiculous amount enjoyment he possibly can get from this. You stare at him in silence, lips parted and expression faltered. Jungkook stares right back at you, that stupid smile never really leaving from his lips. And for some sick and twisted reason, your stomach does a tiny little flip that irritates you through the entirety of your skin and bones. 

Then, as if god has finally acknowledged the depths of your suffering, Mark cuts in exactly at the right time. "Oh my god." He gasps. 

Jungkook blinks from next to you, gaze drifting onto him. "What?" 

Mark doesn't respond for a moment, and that's deeply concerning for a man who'd speak even at the verge of death.

You slowly sit up. "Mark?" 

His frozen state continues for a beat longer before he suddenly springs up from his chair. "No no no." 

"What's wrong?" Jungkook asks as his brows pull together, leaning onto his knees. 

"I," Mark starts, looking down at his feet before he slowly, dreadfully searches for your eyes. "I'm late." 

Jungkook scrunches his nose. "You're late for what?"

Your eyes widen when the realization slowly stretches then breaks through you. "Oh my god." You breathe dramatically. 

"Stop saying oh my god!" Jungkook snaps, thoroughly lost. 

Mark closes his eyes, taking in a long, guilty breath. "I'm supposed to be meeting up with Yerin." 

Jungkook's phone falls onto the couch. "You're meeting your ex?"

"You're late to meeting your ex." You correct. "And you're wearing that?"

Mark looks down, eyes taking in the gray sweatpants and the black hoodie he has worn so much it's practically another color now. "Oh my god." 

He quickly gathers up his belongings, then slings his bag over his shoulder before making his way to the door. He's able to take approximately three steps before he suddenly stops, and slowly, very slowly, turns to you.

"Can i take your car?" 

You blink a few times before responding. "Absolutely not." 

"Please," He begs, bending above his knees with impatience. "Please, I'll do anything. Imagine if she thinks i stood her up. She's going to leave me for good this time and I'll be left to crumble and die in my own sorrow." 

After two or five separate sequences of long inhales and deep consideration, you give in. "If you scratch it, I'll kill you."

He runs over to you fast. "Thank you, thank you. Oh my god, i love you." 

"Okay, okay. Stop." Before you even get the chance to return his hug, he's already grabbing your keys and shoving it into his bag. Jungkook stares from besides you silently until the very last second of Mark's departure, then bursts into laughter the moment the door closes shut. 

"Stop." 

"I'm trying." Jungkook says between fractions of laughter. 

You sigh. "No you're not." 

"I'm literally trying my hardest." 

Liar.

Because now, he's laughing properly and somehow it's the prettiest thing you've heard all week, minus his singing— which is a whole another problem of its own— and you feel yourself physically falter at the sound of it. 

You stare at him for a minute longer before eventually drifting your eyes towards the studio doors instead. It's irritating how you're now painfully aware of everything else all over again. Spring air brushing softly against your skin through the window, the distant sound of laughter and conversation somewhere across campus, the way Jungkook is seated close enough that if you shift half an inch closer your shoulders would probably brush. 

"So," Jungkook has finally, and thankfully, stopped laughing. Though the smile is still sitting there loosely. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys, swinging them around his finger. "Guess I'm driving you home." 

You were about to mindlessly give into defeat when suddenly, you remember one, tiny little detail. 

Jungkook doesn't have a car.

You breathe slowly. "You ride that stupid motorcycle." 

His brows lift immediately. "That stupid motorcycle?" 

Your lips part, then close again when he cuts you off, lips twitching cockily. "You remember."

You scoff loudly. "You spent like twenty minutes talking about it." 

"Mhm." 

"And your personality is unfortunately very loud." 

"Mhm." He hums, tucking his phone into the back pocket of his jeans as he mindlessly collects his things. "You remember." He repeats with a growing grin.

"Stop saying that." You complain, following him behind through the door. 

And ten minutes later, you hate yourself. 

Genuinely.

Because now, you're standing outside beneath spring air and bright streetlights while Jungkook straddles his motorcycle like this isn't singlehandedly the worst thing that has ever happened to you. 

Because suddenly you're surrounded by things you've never considered before. Like leather jackets and silver rings and tattooed biceps you want to suffocate and die inside. 

You don't tell him that, of course. 

He glances at you over his shoulder before slipping on his helmet. "You coming?" 

There is a moment where he is met with a complete, utter silence. Because, first of all, you've never been on a motorcycle before. And second of all, there is a very physical, very obvious problem with motorcycles. 

Where the fuck are your hands supposed to go? 

Jungkook watches the way something between conflict and irritation flashes across your features, expression faltering slowly. He pauses along with you, then smiles knowingly. "You've never been on one." 

And the way he says it is absolutely stupid. Because he doesn't ask, it's not a question. He has somehow read you devastatingly well and has made a statement about it. One that is entirely correct. 

"I have not." 

"And you're scared." 

Excuse you? 

You blink. "Scared?" 

Jungkook says nothing, then places both of his legs on the sides of the vehicle as he patiently waits for you. You stare at him for long enough, then with the amount of dignity one can preserve in situations involving pussy clenching tattoos and massive biceps, you walk over. 

"Need help?" Jungkook asks as you struggle deciding how to position yourself. 

You shake your head immediately. "No." 

Lies.

Because an entire thirty seconds later, you're still trying to figure out how people get on these things without publicly humiliating themselves. 

"You know," He starts carefully, voice softer now." "I can help."

You look up slowly. "How?" 

"Come here." 

Your eyebrows pull together. "What kind of instruction is that?" 

He sighs softly, calling your name. And for some stupid reason, the way your name rolls and falls out of his mouth does something irritating to your nervous system. 

You hate that. 

Because suddenly, the air feels warmer than it did thirty minutes ago. Because suddenly, he is patiently looking at you with those pretty brown eyes of his and the space between you feels so small that the lack of distance physically blows your breath away. 

He holds a hand out towards you. "Come here." He repeats. 

You stare at his hand, then at him, then back at his hand. And for reasons you will absolutely be denying later, you place your hand in his.

Jungkook's fingers close around yours immediately. Warm, firm and unreasonably effortless, as if he doesn't even think about the action twice. 

He gently guides you forward and suddenly you're standing between his arms for one devastating second too long as he explains something about where to place your foot and how to balance and honestly—

Honestly, you don't hear a single fucking word. 

Because Jungkook is standing too close. Because his voice is low and his presence is warm. Because somewhere above you, he quietly lets out that sweet laugh again and you think that's the exact moment you realize this might be becoming a bigger problem than you ever thought. 

"You listening?" He asks. 

No, you're not. Not even a little.

Some men are just plain irritating.

The kind of men who make you think you're special after two dates. The kind of men who act as if their love and desire for you is past the lethal dose, long sitting far away from what's acceptable after taking you out for one drink. 

They start remembering your birthday, then your coffee order, and then the stories you tell absentmindedly. They pay attention in all the ways that matter until suddenly, they don't. 

They start disappearing slowly. Late responses transition into cancelled dates and cancelled dates drag over white lies and empty promises. And before you know it— they're gone. 

Some people become memories and some people insist on staying as habits. Unfortunately for Kim Yugyeom, habits are significantly harder to quit.

Campus looks a little prettier at night, with string lights tangled carelessly around trees to soften the sharp corners of concrete sidewalks and buildings that usually look painfully monotone and disgustingly gray beneath daylight. Music that's floating around blends into laughter and conversations until everything feels like it's dipped into something warmer, casting the green scenery in a dimly golden hue.

People become prettier at night too. Like darkness reaches over to soften and hide all the sharp edges daylight stubbornly insists on exposing. You think it has something to do with poor lighting and the desire to dress each other up in a way that's aligned with our own fucked up fantasies, but that doesn't change the fact that you'd much rather time stops at nine in the evening instead of morning.

Miyeon walks beside you with a cup of vodka and something fruity in her hand, complaining passionately about one of her professors as if he has something personal against her and is failing her out of spite. When, in reality, she has been way too caught up in toxic ex boyfriend drama and seasonal depression.

Anyone who says spring depression is not real is lying. Because your best friend has been going through one for the entirety of march and april and may and you're not sure if it'll pass by july.

But it's fine. You love her and Mark loves her and you're sure she will be fine. Yeah, maybe Yugyeom is six feet tall with a face carefully structured by the higher powers above us. But he's utterly stupid and completely undeserving of the crazy stupid love provided by your gorgeous best friend.

"No because explain to me why participation counts in my grade." Miyeon complains beside you, taking another sip of her drink as if she has the attendance and exam results to cover up the mess caused by her miserable participation grade. 

You blink. "Because participating matters?" 

Miyeon stops walking like you've offended her beyond all measure, then turns to you very slowly. "The institution has corrupted you." 

You let out a laugh immediately, shoulder bumping against hers as the crowd thickens around you. "Maybe your GPA is a little important and passing isn't always enough." You add with a playful smile. 

"You've changed." 

"Okay." You drag out the word until she physically can not hear anything after the o.

"Namjoon did this to you. You were fun and sexy until junior year and now you're a disgusting hard copy of that man." 

You scoff. "Leave Namjoon out of this." 

Instead of responding to you, Miyeon narrows her eyes through the crowd before you can properly defend both yourself and Namjoon's imaginary honor. Your eyes follow her line of sight without thinking too much of it, and you still just a second after Miyeon does. 

Because standing near one of the food trucks with drinks sat carelessly in their hands are Mingyu and Jaehyun. But that's not the point, Mingyu and Jaehyun are fine, you've actually shared that infamous econ elective with Jaehyun during junior year and he surprisingly turned out to be sweet and worth a couple hours of your precious time. 

Jungkook, on the other hand, is not ideal. But not ideal is also fine, you can bear with non ideal to an extent. What's thoroughly, completely, utterly impossible, is Yugyeom.

God truly does not love you. 

Miyeon physically freezes besides you. And, I repeat, she doesn't subtly falter. She stills. 

Then, Jungkook looks up at exactly the wrong moment, finding your eyes and catching them in air before anyone else gets the chance to steal them away. His eyebrows lift slightly in amusement before a smile slowly spreads across his face, and it feels a little concerning the way he does it. Because Jungkook smiles like he means it. Like the smile happens to him before he can realize and reconsider. 

His line of sight is followed before any of you can do anything about it. It starts with Mingyu, then Jaehyun. Which is fine, because we've already established that Mingyu and Jaehyun are harmless. 

But Yugyeom? Not even close. 

"Oh no." Mingyu says the moment he spots you. And honestly? Very fair reaction. 

Because unfortunately, Kim Yugyeom has always had an exceptional talent for creating versions of Miyeon you hate. 

Jaehyun lifts his drink awkwardly. "Hi?" Very brave of him. Very brave.

Miyeon smiles immediately, too animated and too polite, before you can even think of interfering and softening the impact of it all. 

"Hi Jaehyun." She says, tone too normal despite the situation.

"Miyeon," Yugyeom greets, voice casual and light like her name belongs naturally inside his mouth. Fucking hypocrite.

"You cut your hair." 

No.

No, you're not doing this right now. Absolutely not. Because, okay, first of all, what kind of thing is that to say to your ex girlfriend of two whole years? And the worse part of it all? Miyeon cut her hair three months ago. Three, entire, months.

Yugyeom blinks one whole minute after the words leave his mouth when no one responds to him, like the sentence leaves his mouth and arrives back to him sixty seconds later. But it's already late for realization. Too fucking late. 

A long silence passes, and you feel it physically sizzle and slice right through the surface of your skin. "Right." Miyeon mutters a beat later, and you close your eyes with a long, suffering inhale. 

Somewhere in the middle of the discomfort settling over everybody like a layer of second skin, you catch movement from the corner of your eye as if the situation isn't terrible enough. 

Jungkook, of course, is already looking at you. Because he seems to have made it into a habit. 

Miyeon laughs beside you. "Three months, by the way." 

Yugyeom falters. "What?" 

"My hair," She starts, letting her eyes drag over him. "I cut it three months ago." 

It's a little funny now. You know, the entirety of the situation. You do everything in your power to not stare at the two of them, gaze drifting around your surroundings instead. And it turns out that you, as of right now, are not the smartest person in the room. Because across from you, Mingyu suddenly becomes deeply interested in the swirl of his drink, and Jaehyun seems to be counting the birds in the sky. Jungkook? That, you don't know. Because you're sure he's still looking at you and that's the second thing your eyes are trying to avoid. 

"Right." Yugyeom says again, like saying right enough times might eventually make the situation right, even though it won't. Because none of you are stupid— well, except for Yugyeom himself, it seems. 

Then, Mingyu suddenly claps his hands once, and the sound echoes so much louder than he intended it to. "Okay!" He exclaims with an amount of enthusiasm that should genuinely award him an Emmy. "Amazing! Love this energy. It's so deeply casual." 

Miyeon laughs again, a little softer than the one she let escape minutes ago. It's not enough to bounce and spill and take over the atmosphere the way it usually does. But for now, it's enough to let you breathe.

"Sorry," She says through another laugh, shaking her head. "No because, you're unbelievable." 

Yugyeom squints. "What did i even do?" 

You scoff. Obviously, that's not surprising. Kim Yugyeom deserves a hundred more of those. But Mingyu and Jaehyun scoff along with you. And, oh, Jungkook too. 

Maybe society has hope after all. 

That's when you stop keeping up with their conversation, because their steps slowly get closer and closer to each other and farther and farther away from you until the volume of their voices lower down enough and exist only for the two of them.

Not that you're complaining. Not at all. You're thoroughly relieved and you do not want to hear another word of this pointless conversation.

Mingyu leans over and lowers his height next to you. "How traumatized are we?" 

You laugh, relaxing a little. "A solid eight out of ten." 

He places a hand over his chest dramatically. "Thank god." He exhales. "For a second i thought i was alone in this." 

You laugh again, and peculiarly, somewhere in the middle of cheap drinks and Mingyu defending his dignity like his life depends on it, your shoulders begin dropping one by one.

Everything softens after that.

Mingyu gets distracted after spotting somebody from one of his classes and suddenly starts passionately discussing basketball statistics with Jaehyun. Miyeon and Yugyeom slowly become figurines in your peripheral vision— still there, still existing, but further now. And somehow, Jungkook ends up right besides you. 

Maybe not intentionally, maybe not obviously— but he does. It happens in that natural way he seems to be very adamant on keeping recently. 

You become aware of him in pieces. The warmth of his shoulder besides yours, the sound of his laugh whenever Mingyu says something ridiculous, the traces of alcohol and masculine cologne in his scent whenever wind shifts in your direction…Tiny, stupid things people leave behind accidentally.

And unfortunately, you've spent your entire life collecting them. 

"You're less guarded tonight." 

You blink, then turn around slowly, eyes locking with Jungkook who is looking at you over the rim of his drink, a smile sitting loosely against his mouth.

"I'm always like this." 

Jungkook lets something between a breathy laugh and a scoff through his lips. "Liar." 

You roll your eyes. "You think you've got me all figured out." 

He shrugs. "I just pay attention to you sometimes."

Fucking flirt. 

You're only half listening to Mingyu's latest spiral on getting cheated on with a girl when Jungkook's phone vibrates against the grass. Jungkook glances down, picks the phone up, then groans when he reads whatever text that has been sent to him.

"What?" You ask.

"Mark," 

Your brows pull together in confusion. "What did he do?" 

Jungkook lets his head fall back slightly. "He forgot the hard drive at the studio." 

Jungkook stares at his phone for a beat longer, exhales, then turns towards you. "Come with me." 

And he is met with silence. Because for a moment, for a long, dreadful sixty seconds, silence surrounds you too. Music still continues behind you but it feels distant now. People laugh, lights glow, but all of it feels very far away. Solely because of the way he says it.

Because Jungkook doesn't ask. No do you want to come? No you can if you want. He just tells you to come with him as if he already knows the answer. 

You narrow your eyes, trying to play it off. "Is that confidence i'm seizing?"

"No." He says, smile growing into something gentler. "I think it's hope." 

Oh.

Jungkook pushes himself up from the grass, then extends his hand towards you. Not dramatically, not enough to create a whole deal out of it, but enough for your eyes to drop down to it automatically then back to him as if a hundred different scenarios have just flashed across your mind. 

You take his hand. 

By the time you reach the studio, you're a little warm. Not because of walking, not because of the weather, but because of something you absolutely can not say out loud. 

Jungkook pushes the door open, then lets you walk in first. Warm light spills through the room and reaches straight into your pupils the moment you step in, and you physically have to tap your thigh twice to recollect yourself back together. 

Space feels a little different when it's just the two of you. 

Jungkook walks ahead towards the mixing desk, still looking through his phone. "Mark said he left his hard drive somewhere." 

You hum, eyes drifting around. But it all feels absent, a little pointless. Because you're painfully aware of the tiny things all over again. Jungkook pushing his sleeves up, the way strands of hair falls into his eyes, how the sound of his voice fills in the empty room…

Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's exhaustion, or maybe it's the way spring nights make people a little delirious. Stupid pollens.

You let a quiet breath escape and turn away before your brain decides to become any more humiliating than it already has tonight. "How does a music major forget a hard drive?" You ask, voice bouncing a little too loudly through the empty studio.

Jungkook shrugs. "It's Mark." 

Fair.

You snort quietly and drift towards the couch instead, letting yourself drop against the cushions while Jungkook continues opening drawers and moving papers around an unnecessary amount of concentration. 

For a minute, for the short time being, neither of you says anything. And maybe that's your first mistake. Because lately, silence with Jungkook has become as dangerous as vodka on an empty stomach.

Your eyes lift before you can stop them. That's definitely your second mistake. 

Because Jungkook had pushed his sleeves higher at some point and now his forearms are exposed beneath the dim lights of the studio and you miserably need those long, tattooed fingers curling inside your pussy. 

He crouches beside the desk, pushing his hair back before another strand immediately falls over his forehead again. "Found it." He says, and your head snaps back up.

Jungkook, unfortunately, is already looking at you. Not at the hard drive, not at the desk, just you. And for a second, neither of you says anything. Because maybe this is one of those moments where silence becomes too delicate for words. Moments that sit so carefully between people that speaking feels like touching glass with bare hands.

Your stomach tightens embarrassingly beneath your ribs as Jungkook's eyes drag all over you before they settle and stay on your face. He takes a step closer, then another, and then speaks softly. "What?"

Your brows pull together despite yourself. "What what?"

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You keep staring." He says, voice lower now. 

"And you don't?" You reply, voice barely above a whisper as you rise up to your feet. 

"I do." Jungkook replies. There is barely an inch between your bodies now, his breath hot and heavy on your skin. "But i don't lie about it, pretty girl." 

Your entire body stiffens at that. But it's not the pretty girl, not at all. It's the way he says it. Because Jungkook doesn't rush you, he never does. He doesn't smirk, doesn't tease. Just stays there looking and waiting. Like he is giving you room, like stepping away is still an option. 

And the worst part is, you don't want to step away. 

Silence stretches and stretches until it begins feeling alive. His eyes drop down to your lips, then lifts back up. For one devastating second, Jungkook looks at you like he is trying to memorize something. Like he's collecting little things too. 

His hand lifts, thumb softly tracing over the line of your jaw. "I've been patient for so long." He speaks over your lips. "And i know you feel it too. But i need to hear your words if you really want this to happen." 

Your breath catches and flips over halfway through your throat, chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm. "Jungkook," 

"Tell me," He starts, thumb stopping by the bottom of your lip. "If you want me as bad as i want you. Because— fuck, I've been good, i've been patient but i'm terribly desperate and i need to know if you are too."

"Please," You try, but you've already stopped thinking altogether. 

"Please what, baby? I need you to use your words."

"Kiss me." You fit the entire weight of those words in a tiny little breath and Jungkook's lips are on yours in an instant. 

The kiss starts out slow, his lips moving against yours gently as if he is savoring every ounce of its taste on the farthest corners of his tongue. Your hands find the nape of his neck, pulling and pressing him closer until distance can't bear existing anymore. 

Jungkook's hands drop down to your waist, tugging you closer so that your hips clash against his. You whimper into his mouth, and he swallows it without wasting a single second. 

Because Jungkook has been waiting.

This isn't what the does, not at all. Jungkook has never been a patient man. Not with desire, not with girls. He takes and gets taken in blinks and fractions and seconds— easy, casual, weightless. 

But you, you've turned into something devastatingly different. Because for weeks now Jungkook has been wanting without touching, looking without taking— ever since you laughed and rolled your eyes prettily at Yugyeom's party that night. He has spent nights thinking about your lips, mornings replaying the sound of your laugh and entire conversations searching for traces of hidden meanings beneath your words like a man slowly losing his goddamn mind. 

Jungkook doesn't wait. He doesn't ache over girls. He doesn't sit awake late at night remembering the way they looked at him beneath dim studio lights or think about the possibility of their hands touching his. But with you— fuck. 

With you, he has become unbearably aware of himself. You've made him patient in the cruelest way possible. Because now he notices everything and god, the pretending has been killing him. 

And now you're kissing him back as if you've been just as gone. And that thought alone is enough to fold and mold his brain into something disgustingly mushy and achingly dizzy.

"More," You moan between kisses, body practically begging for his touch. 

Jungkook's stomach flips upside down. "Yeah? Want more, pretty? Want me to touch you?" He squeezes the plump meat of your ass through your jeans, and your hips jerk into his with the feeling. 

His hands roam all over your body before stopping right at the hem of your top. His fingers fiddle with the fabric before he pulls away to look at you properly, and you give him your consent dressed up as a weak nod. 

Jungkook pulls your tank top over your head, eyes stuck on the way your boobs bounce beneath the lace of your bra with the movement. He physically, loudly, groans at the sight before plastering wet, open mouthed kisses on the soft skin. Your head falls back in pleasure, hands tangling in his soft locks. Jungkook pushes his head further into your tits before he reaches over your back and unclasps your bra in one swift motion. 

Your ass hits the armrest of the leather couch when he lowers himself to take a nipple into his mouth, fingers toying with the other. You moan in short, consecutive whimpers as his tongue laps and flickers over the hardened nub, the wetness in your panties growing and growing. 

His cups your pussy over the your jeans, fingers pressing into your core over the fabric. The pressure is utterly mind blowing because the course denim stretches and digs into you further, causing you to cry out in pleasure. 

"Touch me properly, Jungkook." You force out, desperate to feel him on your bare skin. 

Jungkook scoffs between kisses. "Greedy, aren't you?" 

He unbuttons your jeans, fondling with the zipper for a beat too long before he can unzip and get you out of it. 

He pushes your panties aside with two fingers before sliding them into you. Your cunt sucks him in immediately, already way too wet and way too impatient for any form of foreplay. 

Jungkook tilts his head to look at the way his fingers are slipping in and out of you. "Shit, pretty. Look at that. You're gripping me." 

"Jungkook," You cry out, hands curling around his biceps for support. "Need— need your cock, please." 

He lifts his eyes up to look at your face properly, then sketches and carves every line of your expression onto the deepest corners of his heart. 

He slowly pulls out his fingers, then draws circles on your swollen clit before pulling away to take off his own clothes. His shirt flies away first, and you can't help but gawk at the bare sight of his chest. Arms, shoulders, abs— you're lucky if you don't cum right then and there. 

He gives you a small, knowing chuckle before unbuckling his belt, tossing the jeans somewhere across the room along with his boxers. Your lips are parted beyond your knowledge, eyes stuck on the hardened sight of his length. 

You've never seen a cock as pretty as that.

You're not sure if you'd ever even thought a cock was pretty— because usually, to you, they're far from that. But Jungkook, god, Jungkook is so fucking pretty with a tip so pink you think you want to suckle on it like a lollipop and a length so massive you desperately want it to choke you. 

You wouldn't be mad if your cause of death had suffocated on cock written on it all uppercase in bold letters. 

And Jungkook just laughs. He fucking laughs. 

"Don't worry, pretty. It's all yours." He says, kissing your lips once more before motioning to turn over. "Now turn around and bend over for me." He adds, pushing your back lightly so that you're completely bent over with both hands gripping on the armrest of the couch. 

Jungkook drags his tip across your folds, spreading your slick all over your cunt before he slowly pushes it in. You feel his tip first, letting you adjust to the stretch as he sucks in a sharp breath at the warmth of your walls. You moan loudly when he presses half of his cock into you, fingers firming around the cushion. 

"Oh god," You breathe, uncontrollably pushing your ass higher into the air. He slams in the rest of his length at your movement, and your back arches even deeper. "Fuck, Jungkook. You're so— so big. I can't."

"You can, princess. I know you can. You'll take every inch like a good girl. Gonna make me proud, aren't you?" 

He completely slides out out slowly, and before you can whine at the emptiness Jungkook slams himself back in. You moan loudly, head empty and thoroughly dizzy. 

Jungkook starts fucking into you, one had gripping firmly onto your waist as the other toys with your nipple from the back. He is filling you up so good you're going to lose your goddamn mind. You feel so full, stretched and stuffed to the fucking brim. Your walls suck him in desperately, walls clenching and tightening around his fat cock as he pounds into you recklessly.

"Yes, fuck. Wanna be good for you." You mutter messily as his thrusts get deeper and deeper, cock twitching inside your wetness. 

"I'm close." You breathe. 

"I've got you." He says, and you hate how assuring the words sound. 

You let yourself go just as he starts playing with your clit from behind, stimulating you as you milk your juices around his cock. He helps you ride out your high, chest pressing onto your back as he plasters small, reassuring kisses on your shoulder.

You feel physically nauseous at the domesticity. 

"Switch with me." You say after coming down from your orgasm, straightening as his cock slides out of you.

Jungkook's body falters, brows pulling together. "What?"

You roll your eyes, pulling away. "Sit, Jungkook." 

Jungkook somehow obeys without another word, dropping his body onto the couch beneath you. You hold his shoulders from above, placing your legs at both sides of his hips before reaching for his cock. 

Jungkook's breath stutters when you take him into your hand, pumping him a few times before aligning him with your entrance. You slowly sink down onto his length, and you both moan simultaneously when you take every inch of his dick into your pussy. 

"Shit," He moans, your name dancing prettily on his tongue. "You're so hot." 

His fingertips dig into the soft skin of your hips, head thrown back lazily as he moans through parted lips. You bounce on his dick with every ounce of energy that's left in you, thighs aching as he twitches inside your walls. 

Jungkook lifts his head a little to properly take in the sight of your bouncing tits, nearing his high. 

"Where do you want me?" He asks, voice low and breathy. Your stomach churns at the question, nails scratching his broad shoulders. 

"You can cum inside." 

He's going to die. He is going to fucking die but at least he'll die a proud man with his cum stuffed inside you. 

And just as Jungkook was about to close his eyes and release inside you, your phone rings.

His lips part to say something, but you beat him to it. "Just shut it off." 

Jungkook's hand weakly finds your phone, pressing the close button twice without looking at it. Of course he doesn't look, he'd be insane to drift his eyes away from the way your soft, perky tits are bouncing up and down in his own hold. But the ecstasy lasts so long as fifteen seconds until your phone rings again.

Jungkook flips it over this time. The name on your phone's screen flashes right through his eyes and he feels his heart stumble and drop straight into the rock bottom of his stomach

joon <3

he whispered hotly against your ear before placing a soft kiss against it.

“kookie…” you breathed.

you bite your bottom lip hard as his hand found your soaked panties, fingers finding your swollen pussy folds and the amount of arousal you were producing for him.

he groans at the feel of it and how your clit throbs right against his thumb.

“you're so wet already, you like this huh? risking it with him right there.”

you nodded, heart pounding.

the fear of getting caught any moment only seemed to heighten the moment and make you even hornier.

it made you feel naughty and shameless but you ached for him so much.

your lips part wantonly when he pushes your panties aside, his middle finger traced the shape of your slit, swiping against your clit in a way that makes your entire back arch.

you buried your face in the pillow to muffle your moan.

“mmph!”

he has teased you so much in the earlier texts and the masturbation has left you so sensitive.

it felt like you could cum any moment even before he touched you properly.

the pleasure of building quick and sharp

you pulled him close, fisting the back of his hair, his tongue traces the seam of your lip which you parted willingly until both your tongues intertwined in a sloppy hot makeout.

the tip of his finger penetrated you along with the sex motions of his tongue.

he swallowed the cute little noises escaping you while he panted.

he growled when with one slippery impatient rock of your hips, you took his long finger all the way inside.

“yesss.”

you let out a cry louder than you intended, from the relief of having some part of him inside you.

“sweet girl you need to be—”

jungkook's rushed voice got cut off for a second, a sudden creak made you both freeze, wide lustful eyes locked onto each other.

you heard the noise of sheets rustling, followed by a sleepy voice.

“….the hell was that?”

‎"Ughhh!!!" You're very close to actually ripping all the hair off your scalp. You're even closer to the balcony of your 7th-floor apartment, and you really wanna jump.

‎You stare at Eunha, your 6-month-old daughter who's currently screaming at lord knows what.

‎You've done everything you could think of, you tried feeding her milk, but she refused. You tried to entertain her with toys, and she's still crying.

‎"What do you want, Eunha??" ‎You can't help but get louder, and it only makes her cry even more.

‎This isn't the first time it's happened. Eunha would cry like this for hours and then fall asleep. The next time she wakes up, she's as cheerful as Jimmy Fallon on his show. You don't understand the psychology behind this, or what goes through her head.

‎And this horrifies you.

‎When you decided on keeping the baby, you didn't really know you'd turn out to be so bad at being a mother.

‎But can you really blame yourself?

‎You're only 22, working a great job with lots of workload, and parents who abandoned you because of the shame you brought them when you got pregnant at 21.

‎And not to mention, the father of Eunha, a 22-year-old boy who's just as dumb as a 14-year-old one. He still refuses to believe that Eunha is here, despite knowing he was the first boyfriend you've ever had. You really don't know what you did to deserve this.

‎It was 11 pm by the time Eunha finally fell asleep. You're currently trying to finish your tasks for the day before 12 am, and you curse the company while doing it. No doubt it's a good company; it supported you financially during your delivery, accepted you for the way you were, gave you the best colleagues ever, and pays you well. But why do they have to make you work while you're on maternity leave? You could really use some time to sleep right now, but no, you have to complete this bullshit work right now.

‎Around 45 mins later, you're done for the day, like done done. So you shut your laptop and make your way out of Eunha’s room, towards the bathroom to freshen up.

‎But the moment you start washing your face, oh lord, why's Eunha crying again?!

You quickly wash your hands and run to your baby girl. She already has her arms in the air as if expecting to be picked up. You keep cooing to her, singing lil songs she likes to listen to or swaying her in the living, but nothing works.

‎"What do you want, baby? Pls tell mommy."

‎At this point, you're crying too. Your eyes are filled to the brim with tears. And you want to cry just as loud as Eunha.

‎But your emotions come to a halt when you hear your doorbell go off. "Who could that be?" you think to yourself.

‎It was midnight, on a Wednesday, and you weren't expecting anyone.

‎You quickly wiped whatever tears had escaped your eyes and put down your still crying baby in her crib as you came to your living room to check the intercom.

And woah, what's your hot neighbor doing here?

‎You jump towards the main door and unlock it as quickly as you can. Once you do, Jeon Jungkook comes into view.

‎Well... to introduce Jungkook, he's a pediatrician who works at a lavish private hospital at the end of the street, turned thirty last month, and is super duper attractive.

‎You still remember the day you moved in here at the beginning of the year. He'd spent nearly an hour helping you haul those heavy ass boxes into your apartment without complaining once. As a thank you, you'd invited him over for dinner the next day.

Definitely a mistake, because ever since then, you'd been crushing on him like some lovesick teenager.

You'd run into him in the elevator, at the grocery store, at the chemist, even once at the neighborhood noodle place. And with every conversation, he somehow became a little harder to stop thinking about.

‎Oh, did we mention he invited you to his 30th birthday at a bar? Yeah, that night was crazy. He'd assured you it wasn't going to be some wild party packed with a crazy crowd and that you'd actually enjoy yourself. Well... you did. If it wasn't for your baby girl waiting for you to pick her up from your best friend's place, things might've gotten a little more interesting than just a make-out session.

‎The tension had been there ever since that night, and you may or may not have avoided him a little. But it was for both your sakes. You weren't entirely sure you'd be able to control yourself if you ended up alone with him again.

‎But there's no reason for him to be here right now; still, you greet him with a quiet hello, and he returns it with an equally soft one.

‎Another thing you've noticed? You don't know why, but you turn so fucking awkward in front of him while he looks like the calmest, most composed person you've ever met.

Though... the piercings on his left eyebrow and lip always say otherwise.

‎"Is Eunha alright? I, actually, could hear her crying for a while now, so I thought I should check on you. In case you need any help?"

‎His concerned voice takes you out of whatever observation of you had started building about his piercings.

So you reply to him with, "Oh yeah, well I don't really know what's up with her. She's been crying nonstop, and I have tried doing everything..." You move aside, making way for him to step inside.

‎As he slips off his shoes and walks into your apartment, he catches the panic and frustration you've been trying so hard to bury beneath your voice.

‎Though he's never been inside before, he barely spares your apartment a glance. Right now, his mind is occupied with figuring out why your baby won't stop crying.

‎"When did she last eat?" he asks once he reaches her room, standing beside the crib Eunha was in.

‎"8 pm, she ate properly, even burped 10 mins later and drank some milk cause she needs that to sleep."

‎Jungkook almost reaches to pick Eunha up before looking at you as if he's asking for your permission. You nod your head, giving him that.

‎And to your surprise, the moment Jungkook picks Eunha up, she stops crying.

Her small brown eyes, still filled with tears, are now staring at his handsome face, who just picked her up.

"Hunh?" The sound slips out before you can stop it.

‎Jungkook holds Eunha close against his chest, her tiny face already buried in the crook of his neck as his large, warm hand gently rubs circles over her back. Soon he's slightly rocking her body and gently swaying her left and right.

‎Your eyeballs almost leave their sockets when you see Eunha's arms reach around his neck. She doesn't even do that to you, what the heck.

‎Your daughter's a bit too comfy with this stranger.

‎And in the next 10 mins, Jungkook is already sitting on the couch in the room with your baby, sleeping peacefully in his arms.

You stand there speechless, completely dumbfounded as to how the fuck he managed to do that. Eventually, you walk over and take the seat beside him.

The moment you're about to bombard him with questions, he carefully stands up and lays Eunha back down in her crib. The two of you walk outside her room, into the living space of your apartment.

‎"How did you do that?" You couldn't control your tongue, brain buzzing with confusion.

Jungkook lets out a chuckle as he finally looks around your well-decorated apartment. He sits beside you on the larger couch, leaving only a small space between the two of you.

‎He smiles before continuing, "That's my job, Y/N. I'm a pediatrician, remember?" You nod your head at his words.

‎"No, but still, you gotta teach me that." He laughs at your words, trying to make the environment a little lighter.

‎"Hey, it's nothing much. You just have to hold them with all the warmth and love you've got. They tend to feel that comfort."

‎You raised your eyebrows at his words, wondering if he meant that you didn't love your baby.

‎As if he immediately caught the cue, Jungkook continued, "That doesn't mean you don't love her; you're the only person who will love her the most. But infants, they need to feel it.  Because they don't really understand words or actions, so they need that assurance."

‎He turns his body towards you, his knees brushing against yours.

‎His eyes don't leave your face, quietly taking in everything you've been trying so hard to hide. The way your shoulders refuse to loosen, your fingers twisting anxiously in your lap, your breathing just a little too shallow. The exhaustion in your eyes wasn't just from the lack of sleep anymore. It was the kind that had settled somewhere deep inside your chest and refused to leave.

‎Jungkook watches you for a moment, his expression softening with quiet understanding before he finally speaks. "Y/N, I can clearly see how hard you're working for her. And it must be so difficult for you to be... you know, alone in this. So, I understand what you’re going through."

‎His eyes are full of concern. Not just for Eunha anymore, but for you too.

‎You don't remember the last time someone was genuinely concerned about you. Accepting that kind of comfort from your neighbor should've felt weird. Instead, it felt oddly natural.

"Yeah, I do wish I could be better at this. I don't want Eunha to go through a bad childhood because of me.

‎Your eyes were now fixed on your hands, noticing the chipped nail polish you put on months ago.

‎"I just feel like I'm not enough for her." Your voice was going soft with every word you were speaking.

‎"You're more than enough for her, Y/N. You feed her on time, you maintain her hygiene, and you do everything you're supposed to. So don't think any of that, okay?" You could only nod your head at his words.

‎He was right; you're doing everything correctly, so why does it feel like there's still something missing? That you still can't understand your own baby.

‎"I... I don't know why... why can't I give her the comfort or the safety she needs to feel?" You ask quietly, your face slowly lifting until your eyes meet his.

‎"Maybe because you're too busy trying to be her father," Jungkook says it gently. The words are blunt, maybe even a little cruel, but not once does his voice carry judgment.

‎"You know, Y/N... when a father raises a child on his own, he naturally grows into that role. He learns how to provide, how to protect, how to stay strong for them. And mothers... It's a little different.

‎He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "There's something people call a motherly instinct. It's not something you're born with; it grows. It grows every time you hold your baby, every time you comfort them, every time you simply exist with them. And society doesn't really help either. We've been raised believing fathers are supposed to earn for the family, keep everyone disciplined, make sure everyone follows the rules. The rules they set." A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

‎"That doesn't mean fathers love their children any less. Most fathers would give up their lives for their families without thinking twice. But their love often looks different. Fathers usually try to protect their family from everything outside those walls... trusting that the mother will protect them from everything inside them."

‎His eyes settle on yours again. "But in your case... you're trying to be both."

‎Silence settles between the two of you, as he watches your face, almost waiting for the pieces to fall into place.

‎"So..." you murmur, more to yourself than to him. "I'm only trying to fill that role for her. I'm trying so hard to replace what's missing... that I'm taking away the chance for her to still have a mother."

‎Jungkook slowly reaches for your hand resting in your lap; his fingers wrap around yours with surprising gentleness.

You suddenly understand why Eunha had fallen asleep so easily in his arms.

‎"Exactly. You don't have to stop being her father; you just have to let yourself be her mother too."

‎His voice is barely above a whisper, and his thumb gently strokes across your knuckles.

‎"Spend time with her without worrying about doing everything right. Let her see the love you already have for her."

Your eyes stay fixed on your joined hands and almost instinctively, your fingers weave between his as if seeking the same love.

‎God, you now feel what Eunha feels all the time. Cause you feel the same too. Your baby's exactly like you.

‎You chuckle at the thought. Jungkook notices that, "A penny for your thoughts?"

You look up to find the sweetest smile on his face. "Nothing, just little realizations."

‎Why? Why are his eyes full of so much comfort and something you can't point out? Why does he look so handsome right now? Why's he so fucking sweet?

‎You don't even notice your gaze drifting to his lips before dropping back to your intertwined hands. But Jungkook did.

‎He notices the way your shoulders have finally begun to loosen. The tension that had been wound so tightly into every muscle of your body slowly melting away beneath the silence.

‎"Y/N?" He calls your name in the softest voice.

‎"Hm?" Your eyes lift to meet his once again.

‎"You should take a break too."

‎You're too busy getting lost in his eyes to actually process what he'd said.

‎"What?"

‎A tiny smile ghosts across his face. "I said you should take a break too."

‎He lets the words settle before continuing, ‎"You're still so young. You deserve to breathe too. Try taking out time for yourself. "‎

You blink, finally hearing him this time, "How, Jungkook?"

‎Jungkook's heart tightens at the genuine question from someone who looked as though she'd forgotten what it felt like to put herself first.

‎His eyes wandered across your face, the dark circles beneath your eyes, and the exhaustion behind them.

‎But you still looked so beautiful. So tender.

‎He felt this urge to protect you from everything that's gnawing at your mind, give you the comfort you've been lacking, and all the love you deserve.

‎A loose strand of hair falls on your face, which he tucked away gently. Gosh, He's so whipped.

He can't keep his heart under control anymore, especially when you're giving him those eyes. But he needs to control, cause he remembers the last time he kissed you and how you've been subtly avoiding him since.

‎He doesn't wanna ruin this for you. He just wants to be there and provide comfort in any form you want him to.

‎"You want me to help?" he asks, his tone making it clear that he wants you to be a hundred percent sure.

‎At this point, you don't even know where this conversation is headed. All you know is that somewhere along the way, the knot in your chest had begun to unravel. You're wrapped up in this weird feeling of... solace, and you don't want to let go.

‎You couldn't form words anymore, so you settle your response with a nod.

"Can I ask you something first?

‎Jungkook nods. "Anything."

‎You hesitate, but you still voice out your question. ‎"Why... why are you so nice to me?"

‎You glance down at your hands as the question hangs between the two of you for a moment.

‎You really don't understand why he cares for you. You know that he's kind to everyone, but he still manages to make you feel special, like you are more to him than just a neighbor.

‎Though after the kiss you shared last time, you hope it's the latter.

‎A chuckle leaves him, and he shakes his head to himself. ‎"I've been trying not to be. "

‎He lets out a small sigh, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

‎"Not like it's working, though."

‎His thumb absentmindedly brushes over your knuckles before he stills it.

‎"I don't know what happened or how it happened, but now that I think about it... I just started caring."

‎Your eyes widen at his words, and your heart races at the sight of a shy Jungkook, his ears and neck flushed red in front of you.

‎Now you feel so guilty for the fact that you've been avoiding him. Maybe it wasn't only you. Maybe what you felt wasn't wrong.

‎"That night... on your birthday..." ‎Your voice comes out as little more than a whisper, but Jungkook speaks before you can continue.

‎"We don't have to talk about that night."

‎Your eyelids flutter before you continue.

‎"Still... I shouldn't have acted the way I did. I just wanted to tell you..." You pause for a moment. "That I don't regret anything that happened. It's just..."

‎Your voice trails off.

‎Jungkook lets out a quiet sigh before continuing, ‎"Me too, Y/N. But I know you've had a thousand other things on your mind."

‎His voice stays calm. ‎"The last thing I want is for you to feel like you have to carry my feelings too."

‎He shifts slightly, decreasing the space between the two of you. ‎"I'm here because I was worried about you. That's all that matters right now."

‎He offers you a reassuring smile. "So tell me, Y/N, how do you want me to help you?"

‎The apartment falls quiet again.

‎For the first time that night, the silence doesn't feel suffocating. Eunha's soft breathing drifts in from the nursery, and the weight that had been pressing against your chest for months feels just a little lighter.

‎Gazing into his starry eyes now reminds you of that night. They hypnotise you in such a way that you just want to get lost in them.

‎Jungkook's eyes stare right back into yours, and he can't help but notice your shifting gaze between his own eyes and lips.

‎But he waits for you to make the move; he wants you to do it. He wants this to be about you.

‎As if some force was pushing you closer to Jungkook, you're now only inches away from his face. His soft breath falls onto yours.

‎You look him in the eyes again, only to find him staring at you like you're the only person that exists for him.

‎That look, that was it. You couldn't think about your actions anymore as your lips touch his.

‎You move your lips over his and Jungkook immediately syncs with you.

‎Damn, why's he so soft? He smells like vanilla and tastes like coffee. You can kiss him for the rest of your life.

‎When you break away to take a breath, Jungkook rests his forehead on yours. His warm hands separate from your interlocked ones, and he holds your jaw gently. Like you're the most fragile thing, and he wants to be very careful with you.

‎Before you even process what had happened, his lips find yours again. This time, it feels more real. You kiss him back with the same effort, both of you devouring each other.

‎His tongue teased your bottom lip once, coaxing your mouth open. It slides over yours as he tastes every corner of your mouth. God, it feels like you're floating now.

‎Your hands find their way towards his hair, and you tug on a few strands to stay a bit grounded.

‎But the kiss deepened as he tongued your mouth, his teeth grazing your lips and tongue, while you let out a needy moan, which he swallowed eagerly.

‎You fiddle with his lip piercing with your tongue, and Lord knows for how long you've been dreaming about doing that.

‎You tug at the piercing, making him let out the cutest yelp, and that's probably the best sound you've ever heard.

‎Jungkook's hand from your jaw slides down towards your neck and then to your arms. You pull away from the kiss for merely a second to climb over his lap, before continuing to make out with him.

‎His palms now settle on your thighs, which land perfectly on both his sides. He grips them slightly while you couldn't help but grind over his half-hard dick.

‎He breaks away from the kiss and looks at your completely flushed face. He tucks away the strands of hair that had fallen on your face.

‎You were already out of breath, body heaving from the intense make-out session. Your hands that were caught in his hair now find their way on his chest.

‎He lifts your chin lightly to meet your eyes before he asks you, "Y/N, are you sure you're okay with what we're doing?"

‎You nod your head at his words, already leaning in to continue. But Jungkook places his hand on your chest to stop you. "Use your words and tell me if you really want this."

Your lips parted at his words as you licked your lip nervously, "I want this."

‎But he still seems unsatisfied with your answer. "You want what, darling?”

‎You feel something moving in your stomach when he calls you that. Wait, are those butterflies? How old are you? 15? Why are you getting so flustered just by his words?

You blink a few times and take a breath before continuing, " You, I want everything you can give me, Jungkook."

Your words feel final. Like you're a  hundred and ten percent sure.

‎Without wasting any more time, Jungkook kisses you again, and his hands start roaming your body. One of them traces up your spine, and the other hand finds your waist, thumb pressed against the skin.

He lets go of your now swollen lips as he presses chaste kisses down your throat. Each one is slow, tongue flicking against your pulse point. Your head falls back automatically, giving him better access.

The soft kisses didn’t last for long before his teeth scraped lightly, sucking deep purple hickies all over your neck.

“Ahh-ohh.” You let out a gasp at a particularly harsh bite, your nails digging into his shoulders. His tongue soothing the sting.

Your body arched, pressing your chest against him. Both his hands slide down to your hips slowly. Your breath hitches when his fingers slip under your hoodie, squeezing your soft skin.

He takes his sweet time bringing the fabric up; the contrast of his hands against your skin makes you shiver. His thumb brushes just below your belly button, and fuck, your eyes shut at the feeling. He pulled out the hoodie and threw it across the

He pulled back slightly, his eyes running over you, drinking in the sight of your flushed skin. The way your breasts heaved with each breath left him in awe.

“You’re so beautiful.” He said as he shifted you, now his one thigh between your legs. It pressed against your core, making you squirm.

His fingers ran over your body before stopping on your bra strap, and he leaned in close, you could feel his breath hot against your ear.

"Can I?"

You manage a shaky nod, pulse thundering in your ears. With a quick flick of his fingers, the fabric comes undone.

The bra falls off, and the way he looks at you- Jesus, it makes your pussy throb. His eyes rake over your exposed tits in pure appreciation.

His hands cupped your bare tits, and you threw your head back at the feel of his warm palm. His huge hands practically engulfed you, his thumbs brushed over your nipples, and your back arched into his touch.

His finger rolled one of your nipples, and you mewled at the feeling. Your hips rocked against his thigh, and he pressed his thigh harder between your legs.

“Feels good?” he asked you while his thumb circled both your buds before tweaking them at a fast pace.

“Mhmm, ahh,” you pant, your cunt now dripping onto his thigh.

“Tell me how it feels, darling, wanna hear you.”

“So- so good, Jungkook,” you gasp. Your fingers find the hem of his crewneck, tugging impatiently. Soon the fabric joins your discarded hoodie somewhere.

He pulls you back against him, and the feeling of his bare skin against yours makes you grind against his thigh once again. His hands grip your waist passionately while yours run all over his abs and the hard planes of his chest, each muscle twitching under your touch.

When his mouth claims yours again, this time it's hungrier. His tongue sucks yours in a way that makes your heart quicken, and you can't help your fingers curling around his neck to pull him closer.

Soon you break the kiss to breathe, but you can't help but stare at the view in front of you. His lips are slick and swollen, that silver ring glinting with both of your saliva. His hair is a mess from your fingers, and his eyes shine with adoration.

He leaned down, breathing hotly against your tits, as his tongue came out, brushing against the hardened peak. You squirmed pathetically over him, pushing your tits harder into his mouth.

He finally took the right nipple into his mouth, and the wet heat of his mouth made you slightly scream.

He sucked hard, his tongue swirling rapidly, and your hips bucked seeking relief, pressing against his muscular thighs.

“Jungkook.” you moaned.

“Fuckk, darling.” He moved to your other nipple, giving it the same attention while his hand focused on the other one.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured. His voice vibrates against your nipple, and you bite your lower lip to contain yourself.

“I could suck these all day.” he looks at you endearingly.

“Would you like that?” You couldn't speak; his tongue lapped at your nipple before sucking hard, pulling a string of moans from you.

“Answer me, baby,” he urged.

“Yessss,” you blabbered. You pulled him closer, your tits aching due to his persistent attention. He twisted and pinched your nipple, making your clit throb painfully.

“Oh my god!” he loved the way your nipples were all red and swollen because of him.

He kissed down your cleavage, his lips trailing over the soft skin of your tits, worshipping every inch of you.

“Just wanna make you feel good.” He groans as his hands slide down your sides towards your ass. He squeezes it hard through your silk shorts, and you couldn’t help but let out a whimper.

“So soft…” he hums in approval as he continues wringing your ass.

You lift your hips for him to tug your shorts down roughly, bunching them at your thighs. His palm slides up your inner thigh, his thumb slightly brushing over your clit through your panties. The pleasure makes you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your moan.

"You like that, darling?" His voice is soft and low.

You press a hum into his shoulder, his thumb drawing slow circles on your clit, making your thighs shake.

He pulls your panties to the side, grazing his fingers over your folds but never letting his touch linger for long enough. Your eyes squeeze shut as you ramble incoherent words against his skin.

Before you can even comprehend what’s happening, you feel your body being lowered onto the soft mattress of the couch. You open your eyes, only to find Jungkook on his knees, shuffling between your partly spread legs.

“Will you spread your legs for me?” he blabs against your panty-clad pussy, hands already on the side of your thighs.

You did exactly what he asked you to, as he sucked a spot just above your underwear before he went up again, circling his tongue around your navel.

You felt euphoric at how he was marking you all over with his saliva. His hands then reached for the last piece of fabric on your body, and his eyes met yours.

“Are you okay? Shall we keep going?”

“Yes, pleaseee.” Your hands reached for his hair again, nails scratching his scalp, making him let out such pathetic noises for you.

He kissed your clit over the panty before he slowly slid the fabric down your body, revealing your pussy.

Jungkook stared at you as if he found the seventh heaven. Your folds were swollen, clit peeking just beneath it, and he couldn’t look away from it, his tongue coming out to lick at his bottom lip.

Your breath hitched at how sensual he looked, his flushed cheeks and doe eyes making him look cuter.

Your wetness clung to the bottoms, and he could see the way your entrance clenched around nothing. He leaned down, pressing soft kisses against your inner thighs.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N.” his eyes locked on your cunt and the way it was oozing arousal.

His lips brushed your mound, and a desperate whine escaped you. He placed a kiss against your pussy mound, “Look at you, so wet f’me…”

His finger strokes your outer lips, spreading your arousal, the sensations making you feel ecstatic. “Jungkook, plea-unh.”

His fingers parted your folds, exposing your clit fully and blowing cool air on it. His eyes constantly checked you for any sign of discomfort but only found you sobbing out lewd noises at his action.

He spat on your pussy suddenly causing you to flinch, as he watched his saliva mix with your slickness. He parted your folds with his thumb, now exposing your clit fully.

“So fucking pretty,” he cooed.

He couldn’t hold back anymore, so he leaned in, his tongue licking you slowly from your entrance to your clit, and you cried out. He groaned against your pussy as his tongue lapped at your slit, his nose poking your clit.

“mmph-nghhhh,” you murmured curses as you bit into your hand, not being able to help yourself.

“You taste so sweet.” his tongue dived in, now entering your hole, fucking you in and out as your head whipped from side to side. He loved how you tasted, and you smelt sooo good.

He sucked on your folds, his tongue doing different motions until your arousal dripped onto his chin. His loud grunts vibrate against you, making your body quiver involuntarily. You closed your eyes tightly, lost in the feeling.

“Look at me, Y/N,” he coaxed, “Look what you do to me.”

His hands pulled you closer to him, and he pushed your knees until they touched your breasts, exposing your pussy fully in front of him.

“Jungkook- ahmm godd,” you chanted, while he dove back in, his tongue circled your clit before sucking hard and pulling a scream from you. Your hips grind against his face, chasing the pleasure.

“You’re doing so good, darling,” he urged.

He vigorously flicked your clit side to side, and you gripped tight on his hair.  “Yessss, grind on my face, ffuck-let me feel you.”

Your thighs shook violently, “jungkook i’m—” you hiccuped.

Your hips rocking faster and faster against his face, seeking relief. “I’m gonna come, Jungkook, pleasee hahh.”

He started eating you out harder, all while his fingers fucked your cunt, making your body tremble violently.

“Yeahh? Then cum for me, darling.”

His tongue replaced your fingers, thrusting back into your entrance as his teeth slightly grazed your clit.

“Ahhh-Jungkookk!” You screamed, your back arching off the couch. Your body jerked against him, as your cum hit him in the face.

Jungkook lapped you through your orgasm, not stopping till he made sure you were licked clean.

“You did so well for me, darling.” He kissed your quivering pussy softly, making you whimper.

Your hands ran through his hair again as his eyes met yours, lips glistening with your juices. He licked his lips clean, his cock still twitching in his shorts.

You lay there still trying to catch your breath, and you tried pulling him towards you. Jungkook stood up, his knees burning from staying bent for so long, as he sat beside you.

He dragged your limp body into his arms, placing your legs over his, drawing little patterns on your back. He pressed chaste kisses on your forehead, nose, and cheeks. You wrapped your arms around his ribs, face already snuggling against his chest.

Jungkook caressed your hair before you spoke, “That was probably the best orgasm I’ve ever had.”

His body convulsed with laughter as he placed a finger under your chin to lift your face and spoke, “I’m honored, darling, though you deserve all the best orgasms in the world.”

And fuck- he feels a flood of butterflies in his stomach from the way you’re looking at him with such dreamy eyes and the shy smile appearing on your face.

He’d do anything if that meant he’d get to see that smile of yours.

You stretched your neck upward, capturing his lips in the softest kiss, making Jungkook get goosebumps all over his body.

You broke away from the kiss some time later while Jungkook continued caressing your back.

“You hungry?” He asked casually. “I can make you something while you freshen up.”

You couldn’t help but look at him in shock, your brows contorting with confusion. “But what about you, Jungkook? You didn’t get to…”

He chuckles lightly, pushing the strands of hair away from your face. “I told you, Y/N, tonight was all about you.”

‘’But Jungkook-”

“I didn’t do this just to get something in return, darling.” He cuts you off mid-sentence.

Your face softens at his words, but you still speak, “But still, I don’t like leaving you like this.”

Jungkook breaks into a smile, his eyes glinting with slight mischief. “Aww, don’t feel sad. You can give me my best orgasm ever the next time we do this, hm?”

“We’re doing this again?” You ask, voice laced with surprise.

“You wouldn’t want that?” He got worried if he accidentally crossed the line, but you reassured him with a shake of your head.

“I’d love that!” You giggled as he playfully kissed your forehead.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence; both of your hearts felt full and content as you simply breathed together, sharing the warmth of the moment.

A piercing noise of your daughter crying comes through her room as you jerk against Jungkook’s body at the sudden sound. You quickly get off his body, looking for your underwear.

You run to her in just your hoodie and your panties, picking her up from her crib. Just like how Jungkook told you and what you saw him do, you gently rub Eunha’s back. You coo at her with several ‘what happened, baby?’s and ‘I love you’s, while gently swaying her left to right.

She slowly stops crying and falls asleep in your arms. Jungkook joins you too, now wearing his own crewneck, and he’s left in awe at the sight in front of him.

“You’re a quick learner, aren’t you, darling?” You turn around to look at him, only to find him gazing at you and your daughter with so much fondness.

“All thanks to you, Doctor.” You say with a teasing smile on your face.

At that moment, neither of you knew that the other person had wished for a life just like this. So maybe the Universe is finally listening to you, and this was a start to your manifested lives.

Hence, moral of the story, keep manifesting bitches!! and do listen to everything dr. jeon tells you. Okay bye byee!!!!

Taglist:

Jungkook sighs in relief as he opens the front door to your shared apartment. it's been a rough twelve-hour shift of doing diagnostic tests on vehicles, repairing gearboxes and spending time under bonnets. he steps inside, closes the door after him then kicks off his boots. the place smells amazing, rich with the scent of something delicious and chocolate. he rolls his shoulders, feeling the deep ache in his muscles from the strenuous work he's been doing most of the day. honestly, none of it matters now, not when he gets to finally come back to you. you, his entire universe,

he's been obsessed with you since the day you drove into his workshop in your small, pink car with a flat tyre. you had given him the sweetest, warmest smile he had ever seen. after some talk, he had found out that you were a nurse, the kindest nurse with the biggest heart ever. you could've had anyone gentle, yet you chose him – the greasy mechanic who would work so hard to give you everything you want.

months later, after finding out that you had feelings for him, he had rearranged his whole life for you. he quit his bad habits – spending nights at the bar with his friends, being out at strip clubs, running through woman after woman. now his world orbits around you. you're his everything and more. he'd kill for you, die for you. you're his sole purpose.

Jungkook runs a messy hand through his hair. he should probably get cleaned first, get his greasy attire off, he should get in the hot shower and wash the grime away. but he just wants to see you first. he follows the magnificent scent to the kitchen, where he finds you. you're already all clean in your little, silky pyjamas, bending forward to peek in the oven. Jungkook takes note of how your ass is stretched in the fabric, how your shorts are ridden up to show your cheeks. he heats up at the sexy sight. he is so exhausted, but one simple look at you is enough to make him melt into pure happiness.

when you notice that your goodies are nowhere near done, you straighten up. to your surprise and mild shock, when you turn you're met with the sight of Jungkook standing there and admiring you. your face instantly lights up and you give him the brightest smile.

"Jungkook!" you exclaim, already making your way toward him.

he holds up his greasy hands, chuckling, "baby, no, I'm all messy–"

you launch yourself at him, obviously not bothered by the state he's in. how could you ever be? you wrap your arms tightly around his waist and press your body against his harder one. the sweet, alluring smell of you hits Jungkook and his eyes flutter shut. hesitantly, his forearms come around you, not wanting to get dirt on you. but you wrap your arms tight around him, pressing your body against his hard one. your sweet, pretty scent hits Jungkook, his eyes flutter shut as he inhales it. you nuzzle your face into his chest, not caring about the grease stains on his shirt.

"missed you so damn much." he admits.

you squeeze him tighter, squashing your cheek against his hard chest. "missed you more."

he grins, his face breaking into the sweet and gentle smile only you get to see. "impossible."

you roll your eyes at him, not in the mood to argue. you lean up and press a soft kiss to his lips. Jungkook wants to give you a good kiss, wants to hold you close to him, but he holds back. "let me shower first, yeah? I'll hold you properly–"

"no." you say with a little pout. your hands slide up his chest, fisting into his shirt. "hold me properly now. kiss me nicely, Jungkook."

he sighs, knowing that he could never say no to you. to his sweet, pretty girl. his everything. his arms tighten around you, pulling you close. he leans down and kisses you. the kiss starts off soft and gentle, but you have other ideas – you deepen the kiss and insert your tongue in his mouth, letting your hands roam his chest and abs under his shirt. your fingers make their way down until they find his belt. Jungkook lets out a groan. his cock twitches in his pants as you press your body closer against his. you slide your knee between his legs, rubbing his growing erection. Jungkook grunts against your mouth, one of his hands slides down to grab a handful of your ass, he squeezes then smacks it, causing you to gasp into the kiss.

he pulls back to speak against your lips. "behave or else I'm gonna bend you over the counter and get grease on you."

you giggle and pull back to look at him. "go shower then. but hurry, I have something in the oven for you."

Jungkook pecks your lips one last time before reluctantly letting you go. you smile and caress his jaw, stealing one more kiss before he makes his way over to the bathroom.

––

the shower feels good, the hot water cascades over Jungkook as he washes away the grease and sweat of today. he stays inside for a bit longer than he needs to, enjoying the way the water soothes his muscles. once he's done, he turns off the water and wraps a towel around his hips. once in your shared bedroom, he dries himself and pulls on a pair of boxers, sweatpants and a shirt before walking back to the living room and dropping onto the couch with a sigh. he man spreads on the couch, tipping his head back onto the cushions. he's tired and his body is sore, but knowing that you're just a few steps away fills him up with so much of contentment.

a minute later, you appear carrying a saucer with a brownie sitting on it. you walk over to him and Jungkook's face breaks into a smile. he sits up and spreads his thigh wider, making room for you to sit on him.

"come here, baby."

you set the saucer down on the coffee table and plant yourself on him, straddling his lap with your knees on either side of him. you wrap your arms around his neck and his hands make their way under your little pyjama top to caress your waist. he holds you firmly against him.

"you made brownies?" he asks, his voice laced with wonder.

you hum. "for you." you say before reaching back to grab the saucer. you hold a piece of the brownie to his lips. "I came home and thought you'd like something sweet after a long day."

Jungkook's eyes soften even more. he loves brownies, they're his favourite. and the fact that you came home from your own exhausting day at the hospital and made some for him, makes his heart ache with everlasting love.

"you're too good to me." he murmurs before opening his mouth to take a big bite.

his eyes flutter shut as he chews what is definitely the best brownie he's ever had in his life. his expression changes to an almost angry one – the one he makes when something is extremely good to eat. fun fact, it's the exact face he makes when he goes down on you.

"hmm, fuck." he groans as he keeps chewing. "baby, this is so good."

you smile, delighted and feed him another bite which he happily takes. he eats the entire brownie and licks the chocolate off your fingers slowly. when he's done, he attacks your face with pepper kisses all over. you giggle and squirm on his lap, it only makes him hold you tighter and kiss you more.

"it was so fucking good." he says between kisses. "best thing I've had. second only to you."

you cup his face when he finally stops his assault. "is that so?" you ask before leaning in to kiss him.

again, the kiss is sweet, gentle and soft but you deepen it. it soon becomes passionate and heated. Jungkook inserts his tongue in your mouth and you do the same. your tongues explore each other's mouths hungrily. Jungkook's hands go higher, caressing your back while yours tangle in and tug on his damp hair. you carry on kissing for a long while, pouring your love and need for each other into it. when you finally pull back, panting, he holds you tightly. you hold him just as tight, burying your face in his neck, inhaling his scent. you could both stay like this forever – just simply wrapped in one another.

"how was your day, sweetheart?" he asks softly, caressing your back.

you tell him everything. all about your patients of the day, your colleagues and the rest of it. Jungkook intently listens, paying attention to everything you say. he tells you about his day as well – tells you about the cars he and his employees have worked on, the customers they've had and how badly he wanted to get home to you. you both stay like this for a while, you shift a little so your head is resting on his chest and his arms are locked around you. for a long moment, you both stay cuddled on the couch.

eventually, you both feel hungry, together you make something quick and easy and migrate to the dining table to eat. whilst eating, you continue talking and laughing. afterward, you take the rest of the brownies to the couch, put on a movie and cuddle together under a blanket. every now and then you trade kisses.

by the time the movie ends, you're both tired and decide to head to bed. once in bed, Jungkook pulls you against him, spooning you from behind. he leans over to kiss your lips before bidding you goodnight. content, you fall into a deep sleep.

–––

the next morning, Jungkook wakes up first as usual. he spends a few seconds simply watching you sleep, you look so beautiful and peaceful. quietly he gets out of bed, does his morning routine, makes coffee, breakfast and lunch for both of you. afterwards he gets ready for work, slipping on his uniform and boots. after a while you emerge from the room, sleepily. Jungkook thinks that you're so adorable. he greets you and peppers kisses all over your face, making you giggle against him. you do your own routine, drink the coffee and eat the breakfast he's made, ever so grateful to him. once you're ready as well, you both head out together.

Jungkook drives to your workplace with a hand on your thigh, caressing with his thumb now and then. once at the hospital, Jungkook reaches over, cups the back of your neck and pulls you in for a deep kiss. he inserts his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and exploring you. his hand on your thigh wanders further up, getting too close to your core.

"Jungkook!" you gasp against his lips, hitting his hand, with a giggle. "you're going to make me needy before work, you psycho!"

he grins against your mouth and steals another deep and dirty kiss. "good. then you'll think about me all day."

already starting to heat up, you pull away and grab your bag. "goodbye, you." you smile as you hop out, blowing him a kiss. Jungkook watches you walk toward the entrance, making sure you're all the way in before he drives off to his workshop. as he drives, he counts down the hours until he can see you again.

–––

days later, it's a chilly Sunday morning. a nice day off for you, but unfortunately not for Jungkook. he's already ready for the day – morning routine completed, breakfast eaten, work attire on. it's chilly, so you're buried under the covers. still, you reach for him with a sleepy whine, grabbing him and tugging him toward you.

"No, Jungkook. please don't go. it's Sunday, stay with me."

Jungkook's heart squeezes hard. he's supposed to be out the door already, but how can he go when you're like this? he sits on the edge of the bed, close to you.

"baby, I know. I've just got a few things to do. I'll be back as soon as I can."

you sit up and wrap your arms around his waist, breathing him in. "but I miss you already. you work too hard, kook."

Jungkook watches you for a long moment, his expression softening. he grins, loosens your arms around your waist and pushes you back down to lay so he can hover over you. "yeah? you miss me that much?"

he leans down and kisses you deeply, pouring his love into it. you kiss him back, sighing in contentment as you move your mouth with his passionately. after a while, Jungkook breaks the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, then down to your neck. he sucks and nips on your skin, leaving light marks.

"gonna be back to you soon, baby," he promises. "but I'm gonna make it up to you now, yeah?"

your eyes widen at his tone. "Jungkook..."

he keeps going, he kisses you lower, kissing your collar bone, your breasts over your thin pyjama top. he pulls the neckline of your top down enough to expose them to him. he leans down to suck them, causing you to arch up into him and tug on his hair. many days without physically intimacy has you made you both very sensitive and desperate. you moan softly and that sound goes straight to Jungkook's cock, causing it to harden in his pants.

he pulls back from licking and sucking on your breasts to look at you. "let me take care of you."

slowly, he works his way down your body. he kisses and sucks on your skin as he makes his descent down your body. he lifts the hem of your shirt, exposing your stomach, he leaves open-mouthed kisses on it and licks on it, making you giggle a little.

"kook, I'm cold..."

Jungkook grabs the blanket on the bed and pulls it over both of you. under the covers, he continues his sweet assault of kisses. he kisses along the waistband of your shorts before hooking his finger in and tugging it down along with your panties. he settles between your thighs, his broad shoulders keeping your legs apart. he leans and kisses your core, lightly rubbing his lips against your lips.

"so pretty. missed this." he murmurs against you.

you moan his name softly, music to his ears. he takes his time, making out with your pussy lightly, showing how much he actually missed it. he kisses your folds and nips at the bud. after his gentleness, he dives in, licking a long stripe from your entrance up to your clit. he does it multiple times, does it slowly so that he can savour your taste. he groans, causing you to whimper softly. he pecks your clit before bringing it into his mouth, he twirls his tongue around it making you arch up into him and grip his hair.

Jungkook eats you out with such ferocious passion. due to your busy schedules, it's been a while since he's gotten to go down on you. and now that he's here , he's determined to devour you whole. he licks harder, thrusting his tongue into your entrance while grinding his nose against your clit. his hands grip your thighs, digging in and encouraging you to squeeze them around his head. you whimper softly, growing more desperate for him. it fuels him up more, he eats you out with more enthusiasm. his tongue works faster, sucking and licking at your pussy. he's got you panting and writhing, sensitive but seeking more and more from him. it doesn't take very long before your thighs are trembling around his head, and your pussy starts fluttering around his tongue. Jungkook swallows your release, and slowly licks you through your orgasm until you're lightly pushing him away, feeling too sensitive.

when he's done and satisfied, he emerges from under the blanket with his nose, lips and chin glistening, his eyes dark. he hovers over you again and you pull him down into a passionate kiss, tasting yourself. you rub your knee against his cock, feeling the hardened, thick bulge in his pants. he hisses and moans into the kiss.

"kookie... I wanna help you." you whisper, reaching for his belt.

Jungkook takes your hand and brings it to his lips for a kiss before resting his forehead on yours. "you can help me after work."

you give him a disappointed pout which he kisses off your lips. "be good for me while I'm gone, yeah?" he gives you another peck. "I love you so much."

"I love you too." you murmur.

he steals one last kiss and forces himself up. with a small groan, he adjusts himself in his pants, gets his keys and heads for the door.

–––

the apartment feels too quiet after Jungkook left. you stay in bed for several minutes after, inhaling his scent and feeling his warmth that are both still faint in the sheets. you wanted to go back to sleep, but the ache and need made it almost impossible. that man and his mouth, he's only made you hungrier for him. after a long while, you finally drag yourself out of bed and wander to the kitchen to make some breakfast.

most of the morning goes by quick. you clean up, do the laundry, watch comfort shows. but you feel lonely and bored. Jungkook's supposed to be at home with you. but of course, you understand, he also had to be at his workshop. he's got a great reputation to uphold and customers to satisfy. he works so hard, his workshop is the best and most reliable in town. he built it up from nothing, so it's something he really values. you're extremely proud of him, but at the same time – not getting enough time with him makes your heart ache.

by early afternoon, you're curled up on the couch, reading a book when your phone starts ringing. you gasp, feeling a wave of happiness at the sight of the caller ID. you answer it and bring it to your ear.

"hi, baby," Jungkook greets, his voice rough and already sounding tired.

"Jungkook. I was just thinking about you." you say, barely being able to hide the excitement in your voice.

he chuckles warmly. "yeah? same, I've been thinking about you the whole day. how are you, baby?"

"I'm okay... although, I miss you like crazy. how about you? how are you? how's work? you sound exhausted already."

"it's busy as hell." he admits. you hear machinery and clanking of tools in the background. "but I'm good. just missing you. wish I was home with you instead of covered in grease."

you sigh and tell him how bad you miss him. afterwards you both fall into sweet talk. you tell him about all that you've done today, he tells you about work and his customers. you giggle at some of the stories he shares, he smiles warmly, loving the sound.

after a moment you finally ask the question you've been dreading. "what time are you coming home?"

Jungkook sighs heavily. "I'm gonna be late, sweetheart. I sent the guys home early since it's Sunday. I'm doing the heavy work by myself, it's gonna take a while. I'm sorry."

you bite your bottom lip and keep quiet for a long time. Jungkook knows that you aren't saying anything because you're upset. and nothing irks him more than upsetting you.

"hey...don't do that," he says gently. "I know you're upset. I'm really sorry, y/n. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

you hum softly. "I know you will. it's just... we haven't been spending much time together lately. I get it, you're busy and the shop is doing well, but we barely even get to be intimate... I miss it, kook."

Jungkook doesn't speak for a short moment, before he hums in agreement. "you're right. I haven't been making enough time for you. I've been pulling so many long days and extra hours. You deserve better than a boyfriend who's always at his workshop."

"you're the best boyfriend." you remind him. "I just want you."

"fuck, I know." he exhales a breath. "when I get home, I'm gonna make love to you. gonna fuck you so good, baby. make up for all the lost time."

you gasp, your body heating up at his words. "Jungkook..."

"you like the sound of that?" he asks, finding himself very eager to get home and make good on his promise.

"you know I do." you admit.

Jungkook chuckles. "you gonna wait for me, hmm?"

"yes."

"good girl," he praises. you hear more tools clinking in the background before Jungkook speaks again. "hey, why don't you go to the mall? I'll send you money. go spoil yourself, baby."

a smile tugs at your lips. "yeah, okay. that sounds good."

"okay, baby. have fun. see you later, yeah?"

"see you later, kook. I love you."

"I love you more, baby."

you hang up. soon after, your phone buzzes with a notification –  Jungkook’s sent a very generous amount of money. oh, how he loves to spoil you rotten. 

about two hours later, you run a nice, hot bath and sink into it. you sit in it for a very long time, letting the water ease the light aches on your body caused from the work this week. when you get out, you dry yourself and moisturise your body before slipping into something simple for the drive to the mall. you head down to your cute, little car – kind of the reason you had met the love of your life in the first place – get in and start the engine before pulling onto the road and heading toward the mall.

–––

at the mall, you wander through the stores, deciding to get some cute clothes and some provocative attire for later on. you pick some different kinds of dresses – beautiful, soft, see-through and silky ones in the prettiest colours. afterwards, your real fun starts when you get to the lingerie store. you spend a long time browsing, choosing pieces you know Jungkook will love and go crazy over. after an hour or two, you’re leaving the store with multiple bags.

by the time you get home, you excitedly unpack everything and lay them on the bed. your favourite has to be the matching set pink lace bra with the thin lace panties. so you try it on. upon realising that it fits you so perfectly and makes you look so sexy, you decide to take some provocative pictures. just to tease Jungkook a little. you send them to him, eagerly awaiting his reply. but after a few hours, you receive not a single reply from him.. you know that he’s busy, but still, you feel restless and in need of his attention since he’s supposed to spend today with you. a silly thought crosses your mind. why wait for him to reply when you could pay him a little visit? he sent the guys home so that means he’s all alone...

keeping the new set on, you throw over a pretty sundress, grab your keys and head out once again. the drive to his shop is close by, maybe like fifteen minutes away. once you;re there, you park your car in front and step out. the front door is locked, but of course you have your own key. you quietly open it and make your way inside, the smell of motor oil and metal welcomes you immediately. as strange as it is, the smell has sort of become very comforting to you. you walk further into the big workshop, hearing the clinking of tools in the back, along with a few rough and tired grunts that can only belong to your boyfriend. you follow the sound, finding Jungkook under an older, extremely rare Mercedes. seems to be a vintage, maroon model that definitely costs a fortune.

Jungkook is under the car, on his back on a creeper with his legs sticking out and his shirt riding up, exposing his abs along with the smear of grease on his skin. you bite your lip, admiring the majestic sight as you shamelessly press your thighs together. he has no idea how hot he looks so busy and focused, covered in the evidence of his hard work. when he’s about to reach for the spanner next to him, he turns his head in your direction and when he does, your eyes meet. confusion flashes in his, for a second he thinks maybe he’s hallucinating your figure, but upon realising that you’re not a figment of his imagination, a bright and boyish smile breaks across his face. he rolls out from under the car and stands up, towering you as he walks into your space. seeing him up close, you notice how sweaty he is, how messy his hair is. fuck, you would suck his cock so hard right now.

“baby? what are you doing here?” he asks.

you run straight into his arms, holding him tightly. again, he hesitates not wanting to get his dirty hands on you. noticing his hovering hands, you hook a leg around his hip, hoping he’ll get the message, and lift you up. thankfully he does. his strong hands go under your thighs as he lifts you up with ease, smearing some grease onto your skin. you wrap your legs around him and your dress rides up a little. you bury your face in his neck, breathing him in.

“I missed you,” you admit before pressing soft kisses along his neck. “you also weren’t replying to me.”

Jungkook lets out a little groan as holds you tighter, using the opportunity to breathe in your sweet scent. “sorry, baby.” he murmurs, now pressing soft and apologetic kisses on your neck. “I didn’t see them. I’ve been so busy under this thing, I lost track of time. I’m really sorry.” he pulls back to pout his lips. “forgive me?”

a little smile forms on your lips and your heart warms up. you lean in and kiss his lips softly. the kiss starts off so sweet and slow, but soon turns passionate and hungry. your mouths move hungrily together, expressing how much you’ve both missed each other. Jungkook shifts you higher, using the opportunity to move his hands from your thighs to your ass cheeks. after a moment of kissing, you eventually pull away, panting. you cup his jaw and caress his cheeks with your hands as you gaze into his endlessly loving eyes.

“what happened to coming home early?” you ask.

Jungkook’s face scrunches. he glances at the Mercedes then back at you with an apologetic expression. “I got a bit caught up.” he admits. “this beauty needed some love and servicing. it’s such a rare one. I’m sorry, baby. I really thought I’d finish it quickly.”

you shake your head, and let out a soft sigh before wiggling a little to make him release you from his hold. once you’re on your feet again, you turn to the car to look at it properly. it truly is stunning. you know how much Jungkook loves cars like this. he’s been talking about finding one like it for years, and honestly, you’ve fallen in love with the dream alongside him. you walk around the car slowly, trailing your fingers alongside the doors and bonnet.

“it’s beautiful,” you sincerely say before turning back to look up at him. “I can see why you got caught up.”

Jungkook follows your trail, smiling as he watches you admire his new, rare piece. “yeah? you like it?”

you hum while nodding. “a lot.”

“hmm. you should hear the engine.” he says excitedly, your heart flutters at that look on his face.

when you’re both near the driver’s door, he opens it for you. “come on, sit.”

you huff out a little laugh and slide into the leather seat. Jungkook leans in close to you and reaches over to adjust the seat for you. when he turns his head to glance at you, his breath fans your face. he pecks the tip of your nose, making you giggle.

“start her up,” he says.

you turn the key until the engine starts. “wow.” you breathe, listening to the rev. “it sounds amazing.”

to you, it truly does. but to the experienced mechanic, he hears something he’s not too fond of. something that needs to be fixed at once. “hold on.. switch it off for a second.”

he gets back under. the car moves a little as he fiddles with something, and again, you hear the sound of tools clinking. after a few minutes, he emerges again. from inside the car, you take a good look at him. there’s new motor oil smeared across his collarbone, dripping inside his shirt. his veiny arms and long, thick fingers are even greasier. it must be the ovulation demon speaking again, but you desperately need to fuck him. he walks back and leans back inside the car, crowding your space. this time he starts the engine. as it revs, it sounds even smoother. it sounds perfect. but you’re not so concerned about the car, your eyes linger on Jungkook. you lick your lips at the fine sight. you lean in and lick a long stripe across the side of his neck before licking his earlobe and then catching it between your teeth.

“can I take it for a ride?” you whisper. a little bit teasing.

Jungkook’s eyes darken. he glances sideways at you. he doesn’t answer you. he licks into your mouth, kisses you deep and nibbles on your bottom lip, causing you to whimper needily, before speaking. “not yet.” he says, roughly against your lips. “still got a few things to sort out. but soon, baby.”

“okay.” you whisper with a sweet smile, despite your mind wandering off to dark and filthy places.

he pulls back reluctantly and goes to the front of the car to close the bonnet. quickly you make your way out and walk over to Jungkook, closing the distance between you. he turns to look down at you, you use the opportunity to push him down until he’s on the edge of the closed bonnet. his eyes widen in surprise as you climb onto his lap and straddle him, looping your arms around his neck. your dress rides up high on your thighs as you settle on him.

“if I can’t take the car for a ride...’ you lean in to speak near his ear. “can I take you for a ride instead?”

Jungkook’s eyes widen. feeling you press against him so deliciously makes his cock twitch hard beneath you. “baby...” he starts off, his voice so low and hesitant.

he looks down at his hands – dirty with oil and grease, then at his work attire. “I’m kinda gross right now. we should wait until I–”

you don’t let him finish. you shut him up by cupping his face to pull him in for a deep kiss. he groans into it, kissing you back, not being able to help himself. he inserts his tongue into your mouth, exploring your mouth, letting you do the same to him. you both make out desperately, like you’re trying to devour and consume each other. your noses are pressed together, causing your breaths to mingle as you both moan. you notice his hands hovering near your hips, like he’s uncertain if whether he should touch you or not. you grab his wrists and guide them down, making him hold you.

“touch me.” you whisper against his lips.

he groans and slides his hands under your dress, gripping your thighs and your ass, causing the grease from his hands to smear onto your skin. he pulls you hard against you, encouraging you grind on him to feel the thick and hard bulge in his pants. you grind against it again and again, rolling your hips on him so your clothed pussy rubs against him.

“fuck,” he grunts into your mouth.

he kisses you deep and dirtily again while you continue to grind against him, making his cock throb beneath you. eagerly, your hands make their way down to his pants so you can open the buttons and pull the zipper down. when you get his pants open, Jungkook lifts up his hips and helps you get his pants, along with his boxers down his thighs, just enough to free his cock. it springs free against his stomach, it’s hard, big and licking at the tip. you barely get time to admire it because Jungkook’s hands are on the hem of your dress so he can pull it up over your head and discard near his toolbox.

when his gaze is back on you, his throws his head back and curses roughly. “holy shit.” the pink lingerie accentuates your figure perfectly and Jungkook cannot be more grateful to call you his. you’re such a vision, so fucking perfect he might cry or bust a nut right now. he leans a bit down to latch his mouth onto your cleavage. hungrily, he kisses and sucks along the tops of your breasts, leaving open mouthed kisses and sucking marks onto you. you tilt your head back and moan loudly as he continues his sweet assault.

“these are so fucking pretty,”  he says hoarsely, tracing the fabric. “but they’re gonna get messed up.”

“I don;t care,” you breathe out needily. “I just want you, please.”

Jungkook takes a moment to admire you, his eyes lingering on the lace on your body. one of his hands moves behind to unclasp your bra, causing grease to smear across it as he unhooks it and pulls the straps down your shoulders before discarding the bra onto his tools. your breasts spill free, nipples already pebbled and begging for attention. Jungkook lets out a low curse before taking one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking it greedily and twirling his tongue around it. he moves to the other and gives it the same treatment before pulling back and biting down on your breast. he sucks on it, leaving marks. as he bites and sucks on one of your breasts, he kneads the other with his big, greasy hand.

you tug on his hair with one of your hands, holding him against your chest while your other hand makes its way between the both you so you can wrap it around his hard cock. its big and thick in your hand as you pump it, using your thumb to rub circles on the leaking tip, making him hiss and hum against your breasts. as he devours at your breasts, and you stroke his cock, you keep grinding against him, becoming awfully aroused.

“Jungkook... I want you inside me. please.”

with a wet pop, he pulls back from your breasts with heavy lidded, lustful eyes looking up at you. “I can’t prep you properly, baby.” he holds up his hand, showing you the grease and motor oil still on it. “you’re gonna have to take me like this. will you manage?”

you nod eagerly.

“you sure?” he asks, wanting to make sure you’re certain.

you cup his face and speak breathlessly. “Jungkook, just fuck me.”

Jungkook bites his bottom lip and he nods. he’s so eager for this as well. at this point, he’s dying to be inside you. “okay, sweetheart.”

his messy hands go down to your hips, tugging at your panties. you lift up so he can pull them down and take them completely off. once they’re off, he bunches it in his hand and without breaking eye contact, he brings it to his nose. he deeply inhales the scent, taking in the new smell mixed the scent of you. he hums appreciatively before tossing it down on his tools, along with your bra. afterwards, he firmly grips your ass cheeks and lifts you up. you reach between your bodies, wrap your hand around his cock again and guide it toward your soaked entrance. since you haven’t gotten any prep, you and him haven’t been sexually active in so long, and he’s so fucking huge – you know that this is going to hurt. but still, you sink down slowly. his tip enters you and you whimper. luckily, you’re so wet and eager, it helps with the burn. Jungkook’s grip on your ass tightens, controlling your descent on his cock so you don’t take him too fast.

“easy, baby.” he murmurs against your cheek before kissing it. he pulls you closer, so your chest is against his. “is it too much?” he asks.

you nod and your eyes water, but you keep going. you whimper as his cock thoroughly stretches your walls. he holds you comfortingly and whispers praises as he kisses you wherever he can, while you take him inch by inch. he’s panting, fighting the urge to thrust up into you. after a moment, you’re finally all sunken down on him, all the way. you drop your head onto his shoulder, panting hard against him as you try to adjust. he wraps his arms around you, one hand caresses your back soothingly.

“you okay, baby? talk to me.’

you nod and exhale shakily. “yeah...i’m okay. just really full.”

after a moment, you decide to move a bit. you roll your hips and lift up a little before sinking back down. Jungkook grunts deeply. “fuck, you’re so tight and soaked.”

you hum and go a little faster once the discomfort fades. Jungkook helps, using his grip on your ass, he slowly lifts you up and slams you back down on him. soon enough, the pain fades away completely and turns into pleasure. you begin to ride him harder, bouncing faster on his cock. you’re absolute ecstasy, so happy to have him like this again. Jungkook feels the exact same way. there’s nothing more relieving than being buried inside you. he’s in pure bliss.

“that’s it, baby,” he groans.

he helps you bounce harder, thrusting up into you so get in deeper. your breasts bounce near his face, he uses the opportunity to bury his nose between them for a moment, inhaling you scent before leaning back to lick and suck at your nipples again. his hazy eyes look at the grease marks his hands left on your breasts, alongside the hickeys he’s sucked onto you. he feels a deep sense of satisfaction, seeing how you look so marked up by him.

you rake your nails down his back and his broad shoulders, before threading your fingers through his hair to pull him in to peck his parted lips. both of you pant into each other’s mouths as your paces become more desperate. the workshop is filled with the wet sounds of your skin meeting his, your loud moans, Jungkook’s groans and praises.

“I’m gonna come soon,” you say breathlessly.

“me too, baby.” Jungkook admits, thrusting up into you harder.

you both keep going until you release first. your pussy flutters around him as you come hard with a cry. the feeling of you releasing around his cock pushes Jungkook over the edge as well. he buries himself deep inside you with a groan and fills you up. for a long moment you both stay panting and clinging to each other, reeling from the high. once you’ve both calmed down a little, you smash your lips together in a hungry and heated kiss. you hum into his mouth when his tongue slides into your mouth. eventually, Jungkook pulls back and scoops you up in his arms again, securely holding you under your thighs. he carries you to the side of the Mercedes, lets you down and turns you around so your front presses against the window at the door. your breasts squish against the glass, causing your nipples to harden at the slight coolness.

the position you’re in exposes your ass, and he takes advantage of it. he grips your ass cheeks and spreads them before delivering a delicious smack to one of them. Jungkook admires the greasy handprint he left behind, a perfect print of his hand. he feels a deep sense of possessiveness.

“look at that...” he murmurs proudly.

he leans in close so his lips brush your ear, he licks your earlobe and nips on it. “you gonna let me fuck you, baby?”

you whimper, feeling your legs tremble. the first round was phenomenal, but you do need more of him, so much more. to make up for the lost time. you nod eagerly. “yes...please.”

Jungkook hums before kissing along the side of your neck while roaming his hands over you. he gropes your ass, squeezes your breasts, and pinches your nipples. his cock hardens, rubbing against your soaked pussy. you push back against him, impatient and desperate to have him inside you again. he moves his hand away from your breast and lightly wraps it around his cock, rubbing the tip between your folds teasingly.

you whine and push back against him harder. “Jungkook, stop teasing me.”

“sorry, baby.” he whispers and kisses your shoulder apologetically.

he then lines himself up and pushes in slowly, stretching you again. you gasp at thefeeling. slowly, very slowly he keeps going, penetrating you inch by inch while he caresses your hips soothingly. every couple of seconds, he gently asks if you’re okay. you assure him that you are, and only then does he continue going in. he uses the grip on your hips to pull you back against him so he can sink in deeper until he’s completely buried inside you again. the fullness of him makes you moan.

“you good/” he asks, staying completely still for a moment, getting you used to him again.

“yes–” you say.

Jungkook starts moving, slowly thrusting in and out of you. it doesn’t take you long to get used to the stretch.  when you tell him to go faster, he doesn’t hesitate. his grip on your hips tightens, he makes you arch your back more, so the angle can be deeper. the movements causes your breasts to slide against the window, leaving humid marks on the glass every time he thrusts in and out. you moan as he starts slamming his hips into you.

“faster, Jungkook..”

he groans, more than happy to fulfil your demand. his pace becomes animalistic as he fucks you faster, causing the car to rock slightly. your hands press against the window for leverage as he relentlessly slams his cock into you. you’re feeling so cock drunk, so lost in the ecstatic feeling of being fucked so good and loved so much. you murmur incoherent things, your breath fogging up the window. after a while of snapping his hips into you, he leans in close to roughly speak.

“I’m close, baby.”

“me too..” you whimper.

after  a few more deep thrusts, you release again, clenching hard around him. right after you do, he’s burying himself deep and releasing as well. he fucks your combined releases into your pussy. he keeps thrusting into you until you’re complaining about being oversensitive. you both stay there for a moment, joined and panting. after a while you let out a soft laugh against the window. you turn your head to peep at him over your shoulder.

“you know?” you start off teasingly. “your service is so good. think I’m gonna need regular maintenance.”

Jungkook chuckles. “yeah? you think so?”

“hmm. gonna need it every single night.” you mumble.

Jungkook groans and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder before pulling out. for a second, he watches your combined releases dripping down your thigh before turning you around to face him. he pecks your lips, and then reaches for your discarded sundress.

“gotta give my girl what she wants.” he helps you slip the dress on. once its on, he pecks your lips again. “come on. let’s get going. we’re gonna need a nice long shower when we get home.”

you hum tiredly, watching as he pulls his pants up. “we can fuck in the shower too.” you mumble with a giggle.

Jungkook grins, finding himself extremely fond of the idea. “yeah, baby. we can.”

hii pumkins !! i lowkey had a mini panic attack while writing this + i was extremely stressed about some other things, so apologies if its kinda weird¿

Without a word, his other hand had already drifted down. Long fingers slid beneath the hem of the nightgown, first tracing the soft curve of your hip, then lower, finding the thin fabric of your underwear. He pushed it aside with an almost reverent slowness, as if he were unwrapping something precious, the cool air of the room touched your sensitive skin for a second before his fingertips found you.

He began touching your pussy with slow, precise movements, his middle finger slid between lips still swollen from sleep, parting them gently while his thumb drew small, warm circles over your clit. You felt the heat gather almost at once, your body answering before your mind had fully woken. A thin thread of wetness formed under his finger; he noticed, gathered it, and used it to glide more easily, stroking up and down with steady pressure that made you press your thighs together a little, trapping his hand between them.

“Shhh…” he murmured against your ear, voice low and rough, still thick with sleep. “Stay still a moment, princess.”

His body pressed closer. You felt the hard length of his cock, already awake, heavy and hot, brushing the curve of your ass through the thin fabric of the nightgown. While his finger kept stroking, just barely dipping the tip into your wet entrance and pulling out again, his hips began to move in a slow grind, rubbing against you in time with his fingers. The nightgown had ridden almost up to your waist, leaving your skin bare to the cool morning air and the heat of him.

Taehyung carefully slid a second finger inside, curling them upward right against that spot that made you gasp into the pillow. The soft, wet sound of your arousal against his fingers was quiet and obscene in the silence of the room.

His lips found your neck, kissing the sensitive skin just below your ear while his fingers worked deeper, more insistently now. The heel of his hand pressed against your clit with every stroke, creating a constant friction that made you arch your back into his chest. You felt every breath of his, every small sound that escaped him when you clenched around his fingers.

“So wet so early…” he whispered, voice vibrating against your skin. “All of this is mine, isn’t it?”

He pushed his fingers deeper, opening you gently, and began fucking you with them in a slow but thorough rhythm. Each thrust of his fingers made your hips move on their own, seeking more, the white nightgown had tangled around his wrist, the thin, almost transparent fabric a soft contrast against his tanned, sure hand.

When he felt you start to tremble, he sped up a little, his thumb circling faster over your clit, fingers curling exactly where you needed them, while his cock rubbed harder against your ass, leaving a damp trail on the fabric. Taehyung pulled you tighter with the arm under your head, forcing you to feel every movement, every brush, every pulse of his arousal against your back.

“Come like this…” he ordered in a rough whisper. “I want to feel you squeeze my fingers before I put it in you.”

Your moans grew louder, more open, spilling from your throat without control as Taehyung’s fingers fucked you deeper and faster. The wet sound of your pussy around them filled the room along with your gasps, and he noticed at once, in one smooth motion he pulled the arm from under your head and covered your mouth with his large, warm hand, silencing you against his palm.

“Shhh… you look so pretty like this,” he whispered against your ear, voice low and rough, almost shaking with want. “So wet, so open just for me… my sweet princess, trembling in my hand.”

His fingers didn’t stop, on the contrary, they moved faster, thrusting harder, curling right against the spot that made stars bloom behind your eyelids. The cool morning air brushed your hardened nipples as his body pressed tighter to your back, you felt his thick, heavy cock sliding between your cheeks, leaving a hot, wet trail on your skin.

You came with a muffled moan against his hand, your pussy clenching hard around his fingers, pulsing in intense waves, soaking them completely. Your legs trembled, thighs locking around his wrist, back arching into his chest as the orgasm shook through you, Taehyung didn’t stop moving his fingers, drawing out every spasm, whispering against your ear how beautiful you looked, how perfectly you squeezed him, how much he loved feeling you fall apart just for him.

When the contractions finally began to ease, he slowly withdrew his fingers, a glistening string of your arousal stretching between them. He brought them to his mouth for a second, tasting you, then brushed them over your lips beneath his hand so you could taste yourself too. Still not fully releasing you, he reached down to his own cock. You heard the soft sound of him adjusting himself, the thick, hot head of him rubbing against your still-sensitive, soaked entrance.

In the same position he pushed inside, slow, precise.

The head of his cock parted your swollen lips, stretching you inch by inch. You felt every centimeter, the thickness, the heat, the way your pussy opened to take him after coming. A low groan escaped him against the back of your neck when he was finally fully inside, hips flush against your ass, bare chest against your back, his arm wrapping around you again to hold you close.

He stayed still for a moment, letting you feel him throb inside you, filling you completely. Then he began to move.

Slow, very slow. Every thrust was deep and controlled, almost all the way out until only the head remained, then pushing back in to the hilt with deliberate precision. The slide of his cock against your still-sensitive walls was intense, almost too much, and every time he bottomed out he brushed that spot that made you tremble again. The soft, wet sound of his hips meeting yours mixed with the faint rustle of the sheets and the whisper of the lace curtains moving in the morning breeze.

Taehyung kissed your shoulder, your neck, the curve of your jaw while he fucked you with that almost cruel slowness. One hand slipped between your legs again, finding your swollen, oversensitive clit and stroking it in soft circles to the rhythm of his thrusts. The other held your hip, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, making you take every inch without hurry.

“Feel how I fill you…” he murmured against your skin, voice broken with pleasure. “So tight… so hot… you look so pretty taking my cock like this.”

Morning sunlight was stronger now, bathing the white sheets in gold. Everything smelled of sex and him. Every slow thrust pulled a gasp from you; every time he sank all the way in, a muffled moan. Taehyung didn’t speed up. He kept fucking you with that deliberate, deep, almost reverent precision, as if he wanted to memorize every sensation of being inside you just like this, on your side, pressed to your back, the white nightgown tangled and your body still trembling from the first orgasm.

His breathing grew more uneven against your neck, hotter, more urgent. The hand on your hip tightened, fingers digging into soft skin, and the rhythm, though still slow, became heavier, more intense.

“I’m going to—” he barely managed, voice cracked.

He pushed in to the hilt one last time and stayed there, trembling. You felt his cock pulse hard inside you, swelling a little more just before the first hot spurt filled you. A deep, low groan escaped against your neck as he came, hips locked against your ass, chest pressed to your back. Every pulse of his orgasm was long and thick, flooding you completely, so hot you could feel the contrast with the cool morning air still slipping through the lace curtains.

He kept trembling a little longer, giving tiny thrusts as if trying to bury himself even deeper while he emptied inside you. His hand returned between your legs, gently stroking your swollen clit, drawing out the last shivers of pleasure for both of you. The clothes were completely ruined, stained with both of you, and the scent of sex mingled with the sweet perfume of orchids and the clean smell of the sheets.

When he finally stilled, he stayed inside a moment longer, breathing hard against your skin. Then, carefully, he pulled out slowly. You felt the immediate emptiness and the warm trickle of his cum between your thighs, sliding over the thin fabric of the nightgown. Taehyung didn’t move away completely. He turned you gently to face him, settling you against his chest, and looked at you with eyes still hazy with pleasure and sleep.

He smiled, that lazy, soft smile he only ever gave you at this hour, leaned in, and kissed you. It was a slow, deep good-morning kiss. His lips moved against yours with tenderness, tasting you, while one hand rose to stroke your cheek and the other circled your waist, keeping you pressed to his bare chest.

“Good morning, princess,” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough and affectionate, and kissed you again, softer this time, as if he wanted to stay right there all day.

──── 𝘃𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗰𝘂𝗹𝘁