Denise

That’s how you found yourself riding his cock after dinner—the TV was on, playing a random movie that he had chosen for you both to watch.

Moans and whines echoed from both of your mouths, making the movie unable to truly be heard, but it wasn’t like Dennis cared at that moment. Juices from your sloppy pussy had dripped all the way down to his length just to stick at his balls. “Dennis, fuck… So good, your cock’s so good.” His hands, a tad timid, tried to search the fat of your hips to grab on it and pull you down on his hard shaft. The angry red mushroom tip of his was already kissing the velvety walls of your cunt.

Dennis’ head rolled onto the leather fabric of the couch, his body resting against the backrest. “Mhhfph, please… Please, go faster.” You heard him say, voice not the usual confidence he now used at work, so different from when he started out last year. You weren’t sure if you truly wanted to give him what he wanted; after all, this was a lesson for him. But your pleasure mattered more at the moment, and you nodded. “M’okay, wait…” You voiced at him, hands moving to his shoulders to keep yourself steady.

Your hips started to roll and bounce faster on his cock—cock that seemed to go so much deeper inside your warmth, tip hitting at your cervix as you changed to angle. “Fuck, yes! Right there!” You gasped, pain and pleasure mixed before you started to drag his fat cock against your inner wall just to feel his tip hit that sweet spot of yours.

Your hips rolled and lowered, his balls sticking to the skin of your ass at the movements due to the amount of wetness there. Loud squelching noises echoed from your pussy as his cock filled you again and again.

Dennis’ hands moved then, now grabbing at the fat of your thighs, his lips parted and pupils blown out. “Ah! Yes, please… Your pussy feels so good. Need more, please.” He begged you, making your walls clench around his shaft at the tone of his words. A gasp escaped him at the feeling and his blue eyes looked up to your face. His forehead was sweat-covered, curls resting there and sticking to his skin due to the efforts and activity. 

His hips started to thrust up to meet your own when it lowered, his cock slamming inside your sloppy hole and nuzzling inside. You moaned at the feeling before harshly meeting him to bring them down. “No, no, Dennis. I told you not to move before, didn’t I?” Your words made him whine and squirm under the weight of your body, like his cock would explode if he didn’t move in the next three seconds.

His eyes were all teary as he nodded at you. “Yes—I know, but please… I promise to be good. I’ll wash my dirty clothes, and—I’ll stop eating your food.”

You very slowly rolled your hips against his own at the promise, your slick clit brush and rubbing against the hair above his penis. His grip tightened on your thighs like he wanted to move you faster, but he did nothing of the sort. “Promise to be a good boy?” You asked him, suddenly picking up the pace so his cock would be stimulated once more. It dragged all the way up and down to your gummy walls, his tip catching against the g-spot of your pussy with each thrust of your hips. Dennis gasped, his own hips jerking up to meet yours, slotting himself like he belonged there.

The nod of his head was frantic and a whine escaped him again. “Yeah, I… Fuck! Yes, I swear. I’ll be a good boy. Please, I just want to come.” He said, his voice all whiny and pathetic. You hummed, one of your hands moved between your thighs just so you could rub at your clit. It was all slick with wetness, a mess that had also migrated to your inner-thighs and around your puffy folds.

Dennis’ cock made a shlick noise each time it pushed back inside your wet pussy and his balls slapped to your ass, sticking there. 

You rolled your fingers against your clit, hips moving uncoordinately now as you tried to bring yourself to climax. It was messy, fingers playing with your cunt, Dennis’ cock deep inside your gummy hole and your moans mixing in the space. His hips thrusted up after a moment to help you out and you pushed the fat of your pubic area against his own so your clit would rub there with each thrust. Your free hand moved to the back of Dennis’ head just to tug on the short hair there, making him moan at you.

“Please, I need to come… Please let me, ah!” He cried out and your pussy clenched around his fat, wet-slick cock.

Just like that, your orgasm coursed through your body, making you breathless. Moving your hips quite literally overstimulated you but you kept going, even though your muscles were now twitching. “Dennis, fuck! Right there, don’t stop!” You cried out at him, your fingers now back against your clit to rub it fast and Dennis’ hips jerked up faster, cock slamming inside you.

Your eyebrows furrowed as the pleasure ran throughout your entire body just to finish inside your cunt; making you squirt. A gasp left your mouth and Dennis cursed as hot juices from your pussy splashed onto his lower stomach and chest, leaking from his body to the leather couch. “Fuck, yes! Yes, yes, mhhpfh!” You cried out as squirt flowed out of you a bit more before Dennis gasped too, hips stilling with his cock deep inside you. His hips tugged you down so you wouldn’t move as he filled you up with his semen.

The both of you were now messy, sticky and way too tired to move. His hands moved from your hips to wrap around your sweat-covered back so you would lay on his chest. You hummed with contentment, not minding the mess at all; even though globs of his thick, creamy white come dripped out of your hole to finish on his balls and down to the couch. 

The room was now filled with loud breathing and the smell of sex and sweat hit your noise. Dennis’ voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “Sorry, I… I came inside you. I didn’t even think, I—” You stopped him, shaking your head so he would stop worrying so much. “Don’t worry, I’m on the pill. I wouldn’t have let you come inside, otherwise.” He simply hummed at your words and a silence took over the humid, sex smelling room.

Then he spoke again, quieter. “It was… so fucking good. Really good.” You nodded your head at his words, nodding your head before lifting it to see his expression.

“You promised to not eat my food again, though, I remember that.” You voiced back at him and he chuckled, his eyes closed to relax. His cock was still in your sloppy hole, now softening slowly, though you felt him pulsate and twitch a few times.

“I say a lot of things during sex.”

“Stop eating my fucking avocados, Dennis.”

"oh fuck- shut up, will you? i'm t-trying... mmnh... to focus," you manage out. trying to sound stern is basically an impossibility when you've got his cock smushed inside you to the hilt.

his hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, thighs trembling beneath you as you sink down on him and then rock your hips back and forth while completely stuffed. this method doesn't give him as much pleasure as it does for you, but you don't care. this isn't for his pleasure, or your connection. all you care about is how deep he hits when you sink all the way, how your cunt's clenching so tight he can't stop shaking.

"f-fuck-!" he whines again pathetically through the lace in his mouth, drool soaking the crotch of your panties where they're pressed over his mouth and nose. his eyes are wide, glassy, fixed on the place where you meet him. it's humiliating how desperate he looks.

"you like getting used, huh?" you pant, beginning to bounce again so the overstimulation hits once more. you let his big, drooling cock drag and catch with each rough bounce. it makes that slick, wet sound every time you move.

"ah- ye-yeah, like it soooo much," he moans so loud it vibrates through your soaked panties, tries to say something, but you shove your panties harder into his face so you don't hear what shit he has to say. his cock pulses again and you can feel more warmth spill out of you, overflowing from the tip, dripping down to his balls in glooping heaps. "such a -shit- big fucking cock wasted on a nobody like ngh! you. y-you don't deserve it."

your voice cracks halfway through but you don't stop or pretend this is anything but using him like he's just a toy that happens to twitch and moan and cum without your permission. your hands are braced on his chest for balance, his skin hot and slick under your palms from how hard he's sweating, poor thing.

you push the underwear just enough to see his eyes, which are teary and rolled back. his eyes clamp shut when you drop down especially hard, and his whole body jerks like he's seizing. his stomach tightens under your hands but the second you grind down again deep, slow and mean, he lets out a strangled sob into your panties, soaked through with spit and the sharp scent of your cunt.

"mmnh, fuck, look at you," you breathe out, "you're crying, sweetheart. is it too much?" you coo mockingly, dragging your hips up until just his swollen tip is nestled at the edge of your cunt, nearly pulling out. the area where his cockhead enters you is smeared in cum and slick. he scrabbles at your arms, needing to be back inside you. then, without warning, you slam back down, clamping hard on him.

he screams behind the fabric. legs kicking. you begin grinding down hard as punishment until you feel another twitch inside you, his cock thickening, spurting another weak, creamy load. his fifth? sixth? doesn't matter.

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You quickly flopped over onto your stomach, evading his touch as you buried your face into the pillow, trying to hide your mortification. It took every ounce of confidence you had to share the thought with him, and his sarcasm wasn't making it much easier. "I just think it would be nice!"

The innocent wording only made him laugh harder. "Okay, so you think it would be nice if I fucked you as Spider-Man?" Confusion laced his voice, and you only groaned in response, frustrated by his teasing. He continued, "I mean, you're kinda already fucking Spider-Man, right?"

Another cry fell from your lips. "It's different!" You stated matter-of-factly, the words slightly muffled against the cotton fabric of your pillowcase. "I just think you look hot in the suit, alright? Sue me!"

Peter shook his head, amusement still reverberating through his chest. "So it's about the suit?" He knew it was about the suit, but he wasn't quite done teasing you yet. "Men in spandex just really get you off, huh? So I just put the suit on and thats it?"

Silence suddenly swept through the room, an unusual reaction. Peter quirked a brow at you as you lifted your head, just a few inches, but enough that he could see the red-hot blush spreading across your cheeks. "Yeah." You confirmed sheepishly, "And maybe, sorta, ya know—break into my room and fuck me when I'm not expecting it!"

The last bit of your sentence essentially blurred together, the words spilling out of your mouth at a record pace before you shoved your face back down into your cotton refuge.

Peter's jaw dropped, shooting up from his relaxed position as the words registered in his head. "You want me to do what?!"

Luckily for you, the conversation didn't last much longer than that. After a few minutes of relentless teasing, Peter let you off the hook and changed the conversation, letting your humiliation at your admission fade into the background until eventually you forgot all about it.

Peter, however, couldn't forget about it.

Despite his initial reaction of concern and hilarity, he couldn't help but become intrigued by the thought. In the past he had never considered bringing his vigilante identity into the bedroom, yet now the more he thought about it, the more he started to like the thought.

There was a certain thrilling factor to it all, of sneaking into your house and having his way with you as Spider-Man. He liked the concept of not having to be a hero, of not having to do anything but use you in whatever way he wanted—and more than that, he liked that you wanted that too. And so, he eventually decided to take you up on the idea.

Your heart nearly stopped beating as you suddenly collided against your bedroom wall, your hand instinctively reaching for your pocket so you could call Peter, but it was pinned in place before you could even get close.

When you looked towards your wrist you were comforted by the sight of a familiar red fabric covering the strangers fingers, your breathing beginning to even back-out now that you realized who the intruder was. "What the fuck are you doing, Pete?" You asked him gruffly, attempting to pull your hand from his grip. You expected him to let go, but he didn't, keeping you pressed firmly against the wall.

You almost spoke again, almost told him that whatever joke he was playing wasn't funny and to let you go—but then he leaned in close, his breath tickling your ear through the thin material of his mask. "Should've locked your window."

From there, things escalated much faster than you had anticipated. In a matter of minutes the two of you had moved from the wall to the bed, your clothes already discarded on the floor as he mercilessly stripped you down to nothing, likely tearing the fabric as he pulled it from your body.

You had always thought Peter was hot, but seeing him like this? Was downright pornographic.

His hands were rooted on either side of your hips, the mask lifted just above the tip of his nose, his gorgeous dark eyes still covered by the whites of the fabric. His sweet lips were latched to your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin, leaving little bruises in his wake.

"Tell me what you want, baby." It burned as his dug his nails into your flesh, his hips moving painfully slow as his cock pressed up against your already soaked pussy.

He refused to fuck you, not until you asked, and so you desperately tried to move your hips against his, finding some pleasure in the feeling of the tip of his dick rubbing against your clit. "Want me to fuck you?" He asked again, more specific this time, "Want your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man to fuck this pretty little pussy?"

You could only whimper in response, nodding along in a state of pure delirium. His grip on your hips tightened enough to leave a bruise, the sensation eliciting a lewd gasp. Peter moved to your ear, leaving a trail of wet kisses as he traveled up your neck. "I asked you a question, sweetheart." He purred.

"Yes!" You cried out, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as your frustration built. He was holding you in place, refusing to let you move against him, not letting you find the friction you needed to quell the burning feeling building in your stomach.

You'd never experienced this side of Peter before; having gotten used to the slow and passionate version of him that you loved so much. Under the 'guise of his secret identity, though, he seemed to gain an unfamiliar sort of confidence, a roughness he had never unleashed on you before. And you liked it.

"Good girl." Peter praised, and with super-human agility he quickly flipped you over, taking your place against the mattress as he placed you on top of him.

He didn't give you any time to adjust, a single hand sliding down your thighs to forcefully shove your knees further apart, burying his full length inside of you with one swift movement.

You could barely hold up any of your own weight, falling against his chest as pathetic whimpers poured from your mouth as he bounced you up and down on his cock, his hips sloppily meeting yours as he attempted to drive himself even deeper.

"So good," he murmured against slick, salty skin, drunk on the feeling of your pussy squeezing him, "feels so fucking good."

He was definitely gonna do this again.

You know his name before the lean, fair-skinned patrician man turns up at your front door. He trails you through the house, politely declines your offer of a beverage. 

“You ever played tennis before?” He asks. 

You haven’t. Before your husband arranged this for you, you hadn’t so much as given the sport more than a passing thought. You don’t have the heart or confidence to tell that to a man that’s made tennis his whole life, so you just give him a small, guilty smile and say no, you haven’t. He nods, waves you off, insists that it’s fine. 

“We’ll start with the basics.” 

-- 

Two months of lessons on the basics make your arms tired, and your hands sore. But where your swings are clumsy and your grip is weak at first, you can see improvement in the way that you move. Your steps are less clumsy when you go after a ball; you’re more aware of the service line and the base line; your forehand stroke from contact to your left shoulder is smoother; your rotation and follow-through on your backhand is coming along, but has a long way to go. 

Art’s instruction is calm and steady. He explains technique as much as he demonstrates it. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t scold, just lightly corrects. When you do something well, his encouragement is constant and free-flowing. Every accurate move and motion is met with, “Nice,” or, “Perfect,” or, “That’s it.” 

On the days when you don’t have a lesson with Art, you practice. You order a tennis ball machine to work on your forehand and backhand. You attempt (and fail) to learn how to slice on your own. You try anyway—you can only imagine the way his eyes might light up if you manage to surprise him. 

You’ve tried to ignore the rising interest that you have in Art, but you can’t help the little…Crush that’s developed. He’s just so attentive, and kind. When you find yourself smiling these days, it’s often because of something that he said, or did. You can’t remember the last time your husband made you feel giddy this way. It was probably when you started dating—before you’d made the decision to marry for comfort, rather than love. Your husband is practical, rarely physically affectionate, more heavily involved in his job and social circles than with you. 

But you’ll have to find a way to thank him. He’s given you a hobby, and a man that grins at you like you just painted the goddamn Mona Lisa when you serve your first ace. 

-- 

“So, tell me about the Mark Rebellato Academy.” 

Art smiles, dipping his head as he reaches for his coffee. It’s taken a few months, but you finally convince him to have something to drink with you after practice. Your chef is blessedly out shopping for ingredients for dinner, so you have the kitchen all to yourself. Art has watched you putter around, seeming surprised that you know where everything is. You can’t blame him; the kitchen is chef-grade, and you don’t cook much these days. 

“Did your husband tell you that’s where I went?” 

“No.” 

“Then how do you know?” 

You’re too embarrassed to admit that you’ve done some googling, and watched a couple of clips of him interviewing before and after his matches. 

“I’ve just heard,” You fib. “Tell me about it?” 

He leans back in his seat, eyes skating across your face as he seems to consider something. 

“What do you wanna know?” 

“Did you enjoy it? I mean—” It feels like a dumb question once it’s out, and you hurry to redirect, “With what you know now, if you had the choice, would you have learned how to play tennis somewhere else?” 

He considers for a moment, trailing his finger over the side of his cup. Your gaze flits to his fingers, and your own flex around your mug handle. You’ve spent far too much time looking at and thinking about Art’s fingers—their length and quickness; the slight roughness of his calloused hands; the lingering tan line from where his wedding band used to sit. 

“Yeah,” He admits, drawing your full attention back to his face. “I would. It was foundational, you know. I’ve been thinking of sending Lily there.” 

“Lily?” 

A bittersweet smile twists his lips. “My daughter.” 

“Oh!” It catches you off-guard.  

“Tashi, uh—” He clears his throat, “Lily’s mother, my ex-wife. She and I are thinking about schools.” 

“I’m sure they’d be glad to have her. Does she play tennis?” 

“Little bit. She didn’t start until last year, but she's a natural.” He clears his throat again, presses, “Are you and your husband planning on having kids?” 

“Oh god no.” You blurt it out, and realize as he raises his brows that you’ve spoken too quickly. You lean back in your seat, stirring your coffee quickly to distract yourself from your growing embarrassment. “He actually has kids already. Two girls, seven and ten. They’re at boarding school and they stay with their mother when they're on vacation. I haven’t gotten to spend much time with them.” 

“...He seems to be pretty busy.” 

“He is.” 

“So it’s just you in this big house?” He tips his head to the side, brows knitting with curiosity. “What do you do all day?” 

“Play tennis.”

He grins, chuckling, and your stomach flips at the sound. 

“It shows, you know,” He says. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I can tell you’re practicing without me. And,” He leans across the table, running his fingers lightly over the exposed skin of your bicep, “You’re getting stronger.” 

You wonder if he can see or feel the goosebumps that break out across your skin at the gentle sweep, his gaze heavy on yours.

“I have a good teacher,” You murmur. Art’s lips twitch with a soft smile, his hand gently cupping your arm. 

“Just good?” He plies. 

“The best. A real pro.” 

His smile widens, and the flash of his tongue sweeping across his lower lip makes your face go hot. You know that you’re caught when Art’s touch becomes firmer, pulling your arm toward him just a little. 

The sound of approaching footsteps startles you, and you hurriedly tug your arm away. The sight of your husband makes your heart leap into your throat. 

“There you are,” He smiles. “Art, how’s she doin’?” 

“She’s killing it.” 

You don’t dare look at him, but you can feel the weight of his attention lingering on you still. You just give your husband a smile, tipping your cheek up obligingly as he leans down to kiss it. 

“Actually, Art,” Your husband straightens up, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m glad I caught you. There’s a charity event for a local club this month. It’s for uh…What is it?” He squeezes your shoulders for answers, and you have to keep from rolling your eyes. 

“It’s a charity tennis match to raise funds to fix up the local courts. They need resurfacing and they’re raising funding to keep the fees down.” 

“We could use a sponsorship from the foundation,” Your husband adds. 

“Honey,” You glance back, wary of insulting Art. But—

“I’ll do it,” Art agrees. “Send me the details.” 

“Excellent,” Your husband grins. “Maybe we could coax you into a match or two.” 

You don’t chastise him this time—not when you see something light up in Art.

“Maybe.” 

--  

You haven’t seen Art play before. You’ve specifically avoided it. You’ve known that when you saw it, you would be too intimidated to do a damn thing on the court with him. But now, you can’t stop watching him. You don’t even care that you probably look so out of place—where everyone else is watching the ball, you’re just watching him. 

His movements are so neat, so precise. It’s like watching a dance. He’s running the poor guy on the other side of the net up and down the court. And the sounds that he’s making—god. Every little grunt and groan is weaving increasingly filthy thoughts in your mind. You already know that you’ll seek out the memory of those sounds, as you reach between your legs later. His shirt clings to his chest, showcasing the muscles that you’ve always suspected he has. Strands of hair plaster to his forehead as sweat drips over his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, over his jaw. 

When he scores a match point and he looks toward the cheering crowd—when his eyes land on you instantly, without having to search—it’s like you’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. You can’t think, or move. You barely have the focus to applaud, but you manage to raise your hands and clap. 

-- 

Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch. 

Coffee becomes a post-lesson ritual. He starts to stick closer and closer to you as he follows you into the house until he begins to rest his hand on your lower back, guiding you to your door. He keeps nearby when you’re making it, brushes droplets of sweat off of your forehead or neck. Every touch is electrifying; you have to make a concentrated effort to keep your hands steady, your face neutral as your heart pounds and your stomach floods with butterflies. 

He pushes you harder on the court, and you force yourself to meet the level that he sets for you, even when you don’t feel confident in it. But you want to make him proud. 

It spurs you to lunge a little too far. 

The sharp stabbing pain in your left ankle makes you shriek, and you tumble to the ground, dropping the racket with a clatter. You hear the pounding of his feet, glance up just in time to see him clear the net before he’s on the ground at your side. 

“What hurts?” 

“My ankle,” You grit out, hissing softly as he helps you straighten your leg out. He smooths his hands over your calf, leaning over you and gently guiding your foot in a few different directions. You whimper as he starts to guide your foot to the left. 

“Okay, okay,” He soothes, “Let’s get you inside.” 

For as much as you damn the throbbing in your ankle, you thank it a little, too. You lean heavily against Art, making the slow, arduous journey back to the house with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle. 

When your husband comes home, he finds you with on the couch with Art coming back in from the kitchen, an ice pack in your hand. 

You’d hope for concern, but your husband frowns, glances at the swelling knob of your ankle, and simply asks: “What did you do?” 

“She lost her balance.” Art sits down on the other end of the couch, soothing you as the chill of the ice pack makes you shift with discomfort. 

“Are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?” Your husband presses. “We have dinner at the Fineman’s.”

“I'm still going, don't worry about that."

“...Tomorrow might be a bit soon,” Art warns. 

“I’ll be okay. It’s just a sprain, right?” You tip your brows up, hoping, praying that he’ll agree for your sake. His fingers flex around the ice pack, jaw ticking as he clenches it. He doesn’t say a word as your husband sighs heavily, grumbles, “I hope so. Still, we should put a pause on the lessons until she’s fighting fit again.” 

Art finally tears his eyes from yours, a tight smile on his lips. 

“Of course.” 

-- 

“How’s the ankle?” 

It takes you a moment to scrounge up an answer. You can’t believe that he called. You knew that Art had gotten your number when you started taking lessons with him, but he’s never used it beyond texting to confirm a lesson time now and again. 

You look down at the still-swollen flesh as it strains against the thin strap of your slingbacks. 

“Fine,” You lie, “It’s um—” You glance over your shoulder, listening for your husband. “It’s not that bad.” 

“Good enough to walk on?” 

Hardly. 

“Yes.” You think you’ve gotten away with it, but when you hear Art sigh and chastise, “You should rest,” You know that you haven’t.

“I have,” You insist, “All day.” 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yes.” 

“You can tell him no, you know.”

Your mouth works wordlessly, body going hot with indignation. You can’t think of a thing to say. You can’t tell him that he’s wrong, that your husband’s connections are the lifeblood of his business. You can’t tell him that if your husband’s business falls apart, you won't be able to afford those tennis lessons, and then how the hell are you supposed to see Art again? 

You just yank your phone away from your ear and hang up. 

-- 

I invited Art. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but your husband’s statement makes you feel like you’ve swallowed your tongue. You haven’t seen or spoken to Art in nearly two weeks. Your doctor recommended putting off any physical activity, which your husband surely relayed to him. He was the one whose name was on Art’s checks, after all. 

Your husband has always thrown a massive party to kick off the summer. Every year, 150 of your husband’s closest family, friends, and business associates flooded into the house. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that your husband invited Art after the performance he had given at the fundraiser—$25,000 from the foundation, and ticket sales went through the roof when it had been announced that the Art Donaldson would be making an appearance. Your husband owed Art a lot, and probably saw this as an opportunity for him to network, to take on more clients. He had been evangelizing Art’s training to any of your friends that would listen—how good you are on the court, how engaged and energetic you seem to be these days. 

It’s one thing to know that you’ll have to put on a happy face for the crowd, but to know that Art will be among them makes your insides twist with nerves. You can’t stop thinking about the way that he had spoken to you when you were hurt; his calm, steadying demeanor as he’d gotten you inside; the careful coaxing and gentle touch that he’d used as he’d taken your shoe off and examined your ankle more closely. 

You think about it now, as you strap on another pair of heels. Your ankle really is doing well, though you have a little lingering pain in shoes like these. You’ll likely be on your feet for the length of the party; it’s going to be a long night. You look over yourself in the mirror, self consciously tipping your ankle from side to side for anything that he may spot or catch out. But there’s nothing, you reassure yourself. You slide your hands over the skirt, plastering on a smile as your husband pokes his head into your dressing room. 

“Almost ready in here?” He asks. 

“All set!” 

-- 

He doesn’t come over to you. On the crowded patio, you can feel him watching you—you’ve gotten so used to seeking out the sensation that you can’t ignore it now. The first true look at him is agony. He watches you from just a few feet away, a glass of champagne in hand as he speaks with your husband and the Finemans. He openly looks you over, eyes drifting over your body to the flash of ankle revealed by the slit in your dress. He tips his head to the side just a little, squinting before his eyes flit back up to your face, lips twitching with a small smile. 

You want to hate how good it feels; you want to be angry with him for his smug knowing, his insistence of You can tell him no, you know. But it feels so goddamn good to have his attention again that you can’t bring yourself to be annoyed. You know that you’re staring—that you both are—and you force yourself to turn away and excuse yourself from the conversation you’re in. You go inside, murmuring your thanks for the waitstaff that pass you along the way.

The house isn’t nearly as busy as the patio, and you're able to slip into your darkened study unnoticed. You leave the lights off, certain that if you turn them on, people will be drawn in to bug you, like moths to a flame. The party’s lights and music filter in through the partially-closed blinds. 

You lean against the desk, circling your ankle and wincing a little. You’ll hide for a few minutes, let it rest—

Your breath catches in your throat as the door opens. You expect your husband, ready to scold and usher you back to the guests. 

You only have a second to get a look at Art before he shuts the door behind himself, plunging the room back into darkness. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk as you use it to ground yourself. 

“...Do you need something?” You ask, voice wobbling with nerves. 

“Wanted to come say hi.” 

“Well. Hi.” 

You hear him chuckle, his footsteps muted by the carpet. 

“Thanks for the invite.” 

“It wasn’t my idea.” It’s not polite to admit, but you want it to sting him, just a little. Maybe it does; in the dim of the room, you can’t see Art’s expression as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet from you. 

“Do you want me to go?” He asks. You know what you should say, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

“No,” You whisper. You feel the heat of him as he comes closer, his hands resting on the desk and caging you in. You bite your lip as gently brushes his nose against yours. 

“He isn’t taking care of you.” 

“My ankle is fine.” 

“I’m not talking about your ankle.” He lifts a hand, smoothing it over your hip as your breath mingles. Art’s fingers drift from your hip to stroke over the apex of your dress’s slit. His fingers slip further down, and you nod as he palms your thigh. Before you can say or do a thing, Art sinks to his knees. He curls his hand around your left calf, lifting it. You shiver as his lips press a gentle kiss to your ankle. His hand and lips travel up, easing the fabric of your dress higher with each second. The first brush of his knuckles against your panty-covered clit makes you jolt. Your hands dig into the wood of the desk as his fingers hook between the fabric and your skin. You lift your hips without a word, allowing him to draw them down. 

Art presses a kiss to your mound before he lowers his head, giving your lips a sweet, sucking kiss. You gasp softly as his tongue swipes across your clit. You look down despite the fact that you can’t see him well. You can just make out his blissful expression, his eyes closed as his laps broadly across your aching cunt. You lower your hand to his neat hair, winding your fingers through it, unable to help grasping it. His heady moan vibrates against you and you nearly cry out at the sensation. You manage to just catch it, the sound dying in your throat as Art buries his tongue inside you. He sweeps his thumb over your clit in rush, harried circles, panting against your heated flesh. You rock your hips down against his lips, tightening your grip on his hair as you guide him. He lets you do as you please, whining against your skin as your movements become less controlled.

“Art,” You warn, “I—Oh, oh god—” 

He hums in encouragement, sucking your clit back between his lips and lashing it with his tongue. Your jaw drops open, your hand shoving Art even more tightly against your skin as you cum suddenly. A stunned, breathy moan slips from your lips as Art leans back, smearing his lips against the inside of your thigh. 

You use your grasp on Art’s hair to draw him back up off of his knees, giving him a crushing kiss as he catches his balance. You swipe your tongue across his lips, whining against his lips as you taste yourself on him. He presses close, his hard cock straining against the fabric of his pants. You reach down, palming and squeezing his length as you trade slick, messy kisses. He steers you back onto the desk as you fumble to undo his belt, button, and zip. 

“Condom?” He asks. 

“Pill,” You reassure, shoving his pants down. You lap broadly across your palm, grasping Art’s length and guiding him closer. He brushes the tip of his cock against your still-throbbing clit, smiling as you whine. You’re going to ache tomorrow, but you’ve never been so happy to be sore.

“Art.” 

“Sssh.” 

“Please—” It’s hardly out of your mouth before he shoves his hips forward, seating himself fully with a single thrust. You bite down on your lip to quiet your moan, curling your arms around your shoulders. He rocks into you with firm, quick strokes, his mouth covering yours. You can hear things on the desk rattling with each thrust, kisses growing less controlled as he hoists your thigh up around his hip. 

“Oh, god,” You breathe, “We have to be quick—He’ll come looking—” 

“Not until you cum for me again,” He urges. “I need to feel it, sweetheart.” 

“Art—” 

“When’s the last time he did this? Hmm?” He presses, “When’s the last time he made you cum? When’s the last time he tasted you?” 

“Never,” You admit with a shiver. It seems to renew Art’s passion, his thrusts and hold growing more intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands hooking tightly in the fabric of his jacket. He yanks the front of your dress down, bowing over you and drawing one of your nipples between his lips. You whimper as he toys with the bud, tugging it gently with his teeth before swiping across it. You arch into the slick heat, using your leg to tug him even closer as you chased the swelling curl of your orgasm. 

“Just like that,” You urge, “Ffffuck—yes, yesyesyesyes—”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your hips buck down against his, pussy pulsing as he spills into you. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you slow and still. Art rests his forehead heavily against your neck, peppering gentle kisses across the exposed skin. You have to move—now. You don’t know if anyone heard you, but if someone did, you’re screwed. If no one did, your husband will probably be looking for you anyway, ready with a scold for neglecting your hostess duties. 

“...I have to go,” You warn softly. It takes Art a moment to move, but he does, gently drawing himself back from his still-throbbing cunt. You hear the clanking of his belt buckle as he tucks himself away, and you reach down, righting your dress where it’s been pulled away. You take up your panties from where they’d been discarded on the floor, tugging them on before you straighten your skirt and hurry out of the room. 

--  

“Can I see you?” 

It’s only been an hour since the last guest has left, and you are so, so fucking tired. You glance toward the bathroom door. You know that you locked it, and you’re certain that your husband can’t hear you over the shower running, but you can’t help but be paranoid.

“You just saw me,” You remind him. 

“Tomorrow,” Art clarifies. 

“Where?” 

“I’ll send an address.” 

You bite your lip, toying with your earring. Your pussy is still aching from the stretch of him, your ass sore from getting fucked on the desk. 

“...You regret it?” He asks. 

“No,” You don't give your answer a second thought.

“I’ll send an address. Whether or not you see me is up to you. Just…think about it. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

You lower your phone, hanging it up and watching his contact information blink away. It’s only a moment before a text with an address lights up your phone. You don’t have to think about it. You already know what you’re going to do. 

--  

You know that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Art has spent so much time in your home, so you feel entitled to look around a little bit. You eye the row of trophies on his mantle, photos of him playing when he was young. You come to a stop at a picture of him with a young girl, a racket in her hand and a medal around her neck. 

“Is this Lily?” You ask. 

“Yeah,” He nods. “First competition.” 

“Already getting gold,” You smile. “The Mark Rebellato Academy isn’t ready for her.” 

Art chuckles, nodding as he steps around you.

“You, uh…You want something to eat, or drink, or…?” He trails off, tucking his hands into his pockets as he takes a couple of steps back toward his kitchen. You turn to face him, taking him in more fully. 

“Art?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Why am I here?” 

He doesn’t answer for a few moments. You can see him weighing his options before he comes closer. 

“I…I’ve been thinking about last night.” 

Fear shoots through you, but you force yourself to stand tall. “Okay.”

“I could lie and tell you that it should be a one-time thing, but I can’t remember the last time I got through a day without thinking about you. And I think you’ve been thinking about me, too.” Art stops as the tip of his shoes brush against yours, and you let your eyes slip closed as he rests his forehead against yours. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” He pleads. “Tell me to fuck off right now and I will never say another non-tennis related thing to you again.” 

-- 

When he fucks you, he curls close, chest pressing against yours as he catches your lips in a kiss. You sink back against his pillows, your head cradled by his broad palm as he rolls his hips achingly slowly. You don’t bother to hide your whines and moans, and you revel in his. Every grunt and whimper and groan that Art lets out lights you up. 

And when you cum, you don't have to quiet yourself. His name tumbles out of your mouth, cushioned between expletives as your nails dig into his shoulders.

--

"What time is he home tonight?"

You don't want to think about it. You want to stay in this cozy little bubble, trailing your fingers over his muscled chest as he massages your nape and kisses your forehead.

But you know that you'll have to let the world back in sometime.

"I don't know," You admit. "Late."

"...Could stay."

"He'll be suspicious if I'm not home when he gets there."

Art sighs softly, running his hand down to rub between your shoulder blades.

"This isn't going to be easy, is it."

"What?"

"Letting you go every day."

"Every day?" You tease, pushing yourself up to get a better look at him. "Don't get greedy, Mr. Donaldson."

He smiles, raising his hand and cupping your cheek. "Is it greedy to know what I want?"

You shake your head a little, lowering your lips to brush against his.

"Not when I want it, too."

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21

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peter slowly looks up from his textbook, his eyes stare at the box in your hand. he's quiet for a bit too long, 'um, a gift.' you break into a smile, 'for who? for you?' you shove it out, 'open it!'

he looks at it like it's poison, but carefully grabs it and sets it next to him on the other side of his leg. your shoulders drop, 'open it, petey!' peter shakes his head, 'i will later, let me finish this first.'

you boo at him, 'c'mon, nerd. you can spare two minutes, i'm curious!' peter ignores you and it doesn't sit right, 'who's it from?' suddenly you're thinking it's from someone he doesn't want you to know about.

'no one.' you don't like how he's brushing you off, or lying.

'really? you got yourself a gift, wrapped it and hid it? from yourself?'

your boyfriend shuts his textbook and looks at you carefully. peter grabs the gift box and runs his thumbs across a seam.

'it's for you.'

your eyes soften. 'i got it for national girlfriend's day but it's dumb so i didn't give it to you.' your heart melts for him, 'why do you think it's dumb?'

he shrugs, you hate when peter's unconfident. 'i don't know. i just don't want you to not like it so, i guess i took away that option.' it hurts to know he thinks you wouldn't like a gift from him. it's not about what it was, it was the thought that mattered most.

'well,' you rest into the back of the chair. 'if you don't want to give it to me that's fine, just make sure you get your money back.' it was too understanding for peter's comfort.

'i want to give it to you, i just don't want you to hate it.'

you frown at him, 'why would i hate it?' he could explain it to you, or you could just see for yourself. peter hands over the box, you take it with caution to make sure he could stop the transaction at any moment.

'open it.'

you're weary, you don't want to force him. 'are you sure?'

peter seems more confident, 'it's for you.' you slowly start to unwrap it, before you can get far you stop and look back up. 'if i don't like it do you want me to be honest?'

'i don't think you'd be able to hide it.'

you tear open the paper, a gift box stops you. when you peer up, peter looks away, you pull the top off and gaze at the gift. your chest swells, you can't do anything but gasp.

'peter, oh my god.' you can't speak, it's beautiful, you have no idea how he could think you'd hate it. you've always wanted something like it, you think you've mentioned it to him before too.

your lower lip wobbles, 'i love it, thank you.' peter stills, 'really?' you nod, you can feel tears blot at your eyes, they're nothing but admiration for the boy in front of you.

'i told you i wanted one.' you cry because you feel seen.

peter smiles in relief, 'you did.' you take a sharp inhale, 'and you listened.' he laughs, he doesn't know why he was so scared, 'i did.'

you peer at the box again, a silver necklace with a pendant. It had a 'P' engraved. you hide your face, you feel like sobbing. you've never had anything so nice.

you hear peter move around, then he's hugging you. you jump up and wrap your hands around his neck, keeping a tight hold on the necklace. 'i love it. i love you.'

peter's warm and soft, 'i love you, too.' you push him away to wipe your nose, before handing him the box of understandment.

Flash licks his lips, and Peter feels himself give in. To the anger that he swore he'd never feel- the agony he feels because he's always thought you liked him. That one day, you would put a resolution to this dynamic you had with him- he just never thought it would be like this.

Peter gets going. He takes his bag, his camera, everything he brought for your stupid party, and heads out the front door, slamming it a little too hard.

Flash moves, perturbed. "Looks like that psycho is getting into one of his moods again."

"Oh, no..." You don't know why Peter's run out the door like that, but you let go of Flash, who to his credit, doesn't really mind.

"Peter, Peter!" You call after him, wrapping your arms around yourself. It's cold outside and your drunken stupor does not help.

He stops in the middle of the sidewalk. The street light illuminates him, and you don't notice how Peter's hand is balled into a fist.

"Hey. Why are you leaving, what happened?" You look up at him in confusion.

Peter can tell you're still too drunk to really talk things out with him. The fact that you're even pretending to care with him right now hurts. But despite that... he still wants you to lie to him. To be compassionate- even if Peter knows it's fake, he feels like it's better than nothing.

Unfortunately, you're still rather drunk, and Peter has to steady you with the most chaste of touches. He watches as you stumble over your words, not once, not twice, but three times of trying to work up something to say. And he just... he doesn't want your half-assed, drunken pity.

He knows for a fact you don't love him. That it was a fake dynamic concocted by his own idiocy.

"P-Peter?" You mumble up at him. "I don't want you to be unhappy with me. What's wrong?"

Peter shuts his eyes, feeling embarrassed to have to comfort you, but he doesn't know what else to do.

"Nothing's wrong. I didn't have anything to do at the party, so I thought I'd go back home." Peter shrugs as if it was completely nonchalant on his part. "No offense, but I was bored out of my mind. And I don't fucking care enough to exchange niceties and make other people feel comfortable."

You flinch, and Peter feels bad for just a moment. Just a second. Becuase you're not sober, so you're not in the best state of mind.

But he's been playing the fool this entire time, and he thinks it would be nice if you felt the same for a bit. Just for a day or two. He really doesn't care to see what you get up to at your fun, cool party, with fun, cool drinks and slutty, slutty hook ups.

"I... I'm sorry. If I knew that..." You swallow, looking down at the sidewalk, feeling humiliated by Peter's comments. You've always tried to be a good friend for him- you've always wanted to do right by him.

But something about the coldness in his tone right now tells you to back off. And you do so, with a lump in your throat.

"I would tell you to stay, but, um..." You shake your head. "Have a safe walk home."

Peter nods tightly and moves quickly, telling himself that he doesn't care. He didn't see the tears hanging from your eyelashes. He does not care especially because you're willing to tamper with his feelings so much.

He thinks that you'll be fine. You'll have Flash whispering sweet nothings into your ear, pressing kisses on your cheek and neck, and you won't ever pay him mind ever again. He represses the urge to go and make things right- go and fix things so you won't end up with a douche like Flash.

Peter knows no one has ever cared about him. He knows he's a bit of a nerd, an anti-social weirdo, and even if you made the effort to bridge the gap... he feels it's better this way. Why change?

He works on not giving a fuck. He pretends to not care when Aunt May asks how the party was. He does not lie awake thinking about you in the throes of passion, mouth open, chest flushed and red as Flash begins his disgustingly inelegant thrusts. Especially because it should've been him doing that, him and you together, and since it isn't- he doesn't fucking care.

/

Peter is surprised to see you sitting at his dinner table the next morning.

He's half asleep, but entirely awake when he sees you. Your eyes are bright, misty, a little teary- you have clearly been waiting for him. It looks as if you've spent some time regretting what you did to him.

Good, Peter thinks. Good that you understand how I felt for once.

"Aunt May let you in?" Peter asks, and you meekly nod. Peter doesn't have it in him to scoff at you- you're too clearly upset and he, try as he might not to care, still doesn't want to see you cry.

He thinks for a moment that you might've done so last night.

"Peter. Please, talk to me." You stand up from the table, but Peter isn't really listening, because he's grabbing cereal and a bowl, and trying to ignore you.

"You said everything you needed to say yesterday." Peter shrugs.

"No way. We didn't even get to talk about anything before you ran off." You cross your arms, but your gaze is still soft. "What did I do wrong? Tell me, so I can make things right."

"Sure, tell me a few more of your pretty little lies. That'll help." Peter scoffs with a heaping amount of pessimism, and you look even more hurt than you did yesterday.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Really?" Peter shuts the fridge a little too hard after pulling out the milk. "Okay, play dumb. I don't really care anymore. You've been out all night, probably fucking Flash, and you want me at your beck and call to be... what? Some sort of pushover? Do you have any idea how ruthless it is to mess with people's feelings?"

You gasp, but Peter isn't finished.

"You never loved me. You never even liked me." He shakes his head, getting a resolute look of sadness on his face. "You know how hard it is to be me? Be a fucking loser who has to try so hard to even get people to like him a little bit?"

Peter bites back some of his resentment, knowing that he doesn't want your pity. "Never mind. I don't care, just live your life without me."

"Peter. How can you just-" You inhale, a tight short breath that has Peter feeling that maybe he said too much.

Oh well. Seeing you again had ignited those angry feelings, and even if he pretended not to care- he still needed to speak on it.

"Me and Flash aren't anything. We didn't even kiss, for crying out loud-" You run your hand through your hair, feeling insane. "I'm sorry. I should've watched how close I was to him. I got a little bit too drunk."

"Yeah, you did." Peter snaps back.

"I really, really like you, asshole." You shut your eyes, feeling bile in your throat from how Peter seems to be judging you so harshly. "I thought I did. I don't know anymore. I pretended not to give a fuck because you always- you seem so aloof, Peter, and it was easier to pull away because I didn't want to get hurt- but I'm actually fucking scared of losing you. I guess I should've made that more obvious."

Peter pauses. Feels his heart thump a little harder, this time with immense regret. He loves you, he knows he does, and hearing the same thing from you? The same feeling of inadequacy, of wanting to be enough but having to pretend not to care?

Peter grabs your arm as you try to leave. You're stubborn, but he shakes his head- he looks remorseful.

"I'm sorry." He pulls you into a hug, one that you don't respond to for a moment, until you tentatively hug him back. "I am an asshole. I love you a lot, you must know that. It's not an excuse- I just wanted you to feel as bad as I did."

"Well, mission accomplished." You mumble into his chest. "I'm sorry, too."

"I thought I was like, some fool that was easily duped by a pretty girl like you." Peter admits, and you laugh. "No, really. You're too good for me."

"Let me decide that, Peter." You shake your head at him. "Come on. Why don't we try this again?"