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He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.

“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now. 

You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”

“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”

“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back. 

He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual. 

The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could. 

It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong. 

“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.” 

The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours. 

The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him. 

His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face. 

That had been one year ago. 

After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account. 

So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)

Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought. 

Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine. 

When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.

Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend. 

Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero. 

He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.

Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night. 

A promise was a promise. 

Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.

“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.

He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that. 

He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully. 

“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?” 

He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable. 

“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”

You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer. 

“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.” 

The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.

“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused. 

“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes. 

“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”

“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.” 

“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”

“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully. 

You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him. 

“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement. 

The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions. 

Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday. 

Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.

Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room. 

Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins. 

And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out. 

“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…” 

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”

“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”

“Message already sent.”  

He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am. 

He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you? 

Oh fuck. 

You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–

“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.

The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now. 

He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and– 

“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him. 

You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful. 

“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?” 

You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.” 

The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch. 

He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.

You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams. 

This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago. 

It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it. 

“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?” 

“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment. 

“EV?” 

The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light. 

“Online.”

“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.” 

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye. 

Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe. 

This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him. 

But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head. 

There was only you. 

Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor. 

Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment. 

The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again. 

That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes. 

He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly. 

This was wrong. So wrong. 

His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.

He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you. 

What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.” 

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was. 

Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.

The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.

He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead. 

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–

“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.” 

“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier. 

It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything. 

“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants. 

That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer. 

“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”

He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.  

Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.

You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual. 

“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment. 

His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.

Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse? 

“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.” 

He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed. 

“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.  

You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat. 

The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin. 

“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.

White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth. 

“No.”

His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up. 

“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.” 

His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that. 

The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable. 

His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions. 

Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.

His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric. 

Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.

He hated it.

He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain. 

“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side. 

“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”

“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”

“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely. 

“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?” 

“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”

“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”

“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles. 

The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second. 

One second enough. 

“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”

The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”

He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be. 

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.

He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.

You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs. 

His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly. 

You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals. 

He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence. 

Too hard. 

Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure. 

It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out. 

“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.” 

He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it. 

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’

Fucking hell. 

“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”

You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him. 

His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with. 

“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide. 

“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?” 

You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed. 

His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation. 

Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.

It wanted more.

His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you. 

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly. 

“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm. 

“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”

“Breathe,” you reminded.

His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Just take her, man, she’s right there–

Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life. 

“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”

See? She wants it. She needs it so bad. 

He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.

Fuck it.

In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core. 

His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses. 

“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”

You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw. 

“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”

You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you. 

“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”

His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand. 

“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” He whispered.

You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air. 

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you. 

“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air. 

You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away. 

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”

Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours. 

“Can–can I–?”

You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs. 

Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert. 

His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life. 

“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”

He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound. 

“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”

His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right. 

“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”

Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers. 

“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“Not stopping, baby.” 

He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts. 

“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”

“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–

“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”

The plea undid you.

You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there. 

It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him. 

You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you. 

Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up. 

He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him. 

You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact. 

The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you. 

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger. 

You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first. 

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.  

Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand. 

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately. 

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”

You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.

He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him. 

When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver. 

He could feel it coming. The change. 

You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away. 

His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal. 

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.

That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out. 

“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.” 

He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”

A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–

“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused. 

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”

That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face. 

Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now. 

Good. 

He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room. 

His bed.

He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”

You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth. 

Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets. 

“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you? 

Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him. 

He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it. 

“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”

Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk. 

“Peter…” 

“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”

Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so. 

God. He was never going back. 

“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.” 

He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again. 

“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”

“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”

“Need what?”

“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”

He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up. 

“Yeah?” 

Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him. 

He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine. 

But something made him stop. 

“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”

The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through. 

“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”

You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again. 

He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands. 

The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”

“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow. 

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”

He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect. 

Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper. 

He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back. 

“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”

He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again. 

What? What is–

The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back. 

“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“

“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”

The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again. 

“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again. 

“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”

His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.

“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”

“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…” 

He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up. 

You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you. 

“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”

The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you. 

When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin. 

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths. 

You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–

“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.” 

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened. 

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”

“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath. 

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking. 

“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.” 

“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead. 

“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”

He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet. 

“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”

There it was. He said it. No turning back now. 

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you. 

“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”

“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation. 

You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again. 

Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did. 

There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth. 

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

And, of course, how to run.

But no matter how good you were, they were better.

Batman and Robin.

They were always there, always a step behind, always chasing.

Selina handled Batman, slipping through his grasp time and time again, leaving only whispered promises and stolen kisses in her wake.

And you? You were left to deal with Robin.

The first time you saw him, you nearly laughed.

A kid. Shorter than you, all bright colors and attitude, wearing a mask that barely hid the smugness in his expression.

Not like you were a kid yourself, right?

“You’re kidding,” You had said, eyeing the small figure in bright red, green, and yellow. “You’re Robin?”

From the way Selina warned you about Robin, you expected… something else.

Not this short, flamboyant boy in pixie boots and wearing that shit-eating grin.

Robin bristled at your tone, crossing his arms. “Yeah, and?”

“You just seem… smaller than I expected.”

He scoffed. “You’re, like, barely taller than me.”

You hummed, amused. “Still taller.”

It should’ve been easy. You’d spent months training under Selina, learning how to evade, how to slip through fingers like water. He was just a kid—a kid in bright colors, a cape to slow him down, and all energy and attitude.

But Robin was fast.

And relentless.

No matter how quick you were, how well you knew Gotham’s rooftops, he kept up. Every twist, every jump, he was right there, like a shadow that refused to be shaken.

He grinned through it all, like the chase itself was the fun part.

By the time you finally lost him—ducking into a hidden alley, heart pounding, breath sharp—you realized something.

You weren’t annoyed.

You were excited.

For the first time in your life, you were looking forward to something.

And it became a game.

Every time Selina clashed with Batman, you and Robin danced around each other, locked in your own little battle. He was all quips and acrobatics, relentless determination wrapped in bright colors, and you matched him move for move.

And then, somewhere along the way, over the years, the game changed.

It was subtle at first.

The way his hands lingered just a second too long when he grabbed you. The way his breath hitched when you leaned in, voice low and teasing.

And then, one night, after a particularly close chase—

“You’re slowing down, Birdie,” you teased, perched on the edge of a rooftop, looking down at him. “Getting tired of chasing me?”

Robin huffed, rolling his shoulders, the movement fluid yet tense, like he was shaking off exhaustion—or frustration. He was older now, no longer the scrawny kid you used to outrun on Gotham’s rooftops. He’d grown into himself, his frame broader, his stance more grounded, more sure. The suit, once bright and almost ridiculous in its vibrancy, seemed different now. The red looked richer, darker under the moonlight, the shadows clinging to the fabric, emphasizing the sharp angles of his body. His cape, now black and lined with gold, draped over his shoulders with an ease that made him seem more intimidating, more like a real threat than just Batman’s sidekick.

And then there was his voice—lower, rougher, with an edge that hadn’t been there before.

An edge that reminded you of Gotham’s Dark Knight.

Gone was the high-energy bravado of a kid playing hero. Now, when he spoke, there was weight behind his words, something firm, something undeniably commanding. It sent a strange thrill through you, though you’d never admit it.

“Who says I’m not letting you get away on purpose?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Awfully generous of you.”

“Maybe I like the chase,” he said, stepping closer, his gaze sharp. “Maybe I like you.”

The air shifted.

Your smirk didn’t waver, but your heart did.

For the first time, you didn’t have a quip ready.

And then, just as quickly as it came, the moment passed.

He grinned again, all mischief and ease, like he hadn’t just thrown a wrench into your entire world.

You rolled your eyes, shoving down whatever had just coiled in your chest. “You really should work on your flirting, Robin.”

“Is that a challenge?”

You leapt off the rooftop, and this time—

You let him catch you.

You were nineteen now.

It wasn’t that you weren’t grateful to Selina—she’d taken you in when you had nothing, taught you everything you knew. But you weren’t a stray kitten anymore. You had your own ambitions, your own scores to settle, and it was time you made a name for yourself.

Tonight was supposed to be the first step.

A simple break-in. A massive corporation with deep pockets and even deeper corruption. You weren’t just stealing from them—you were stealing leverage. Blackmail, blueprints, the kind of information that could buy you power.

Everything had been going smoothly—until he showed up.

“Still breaking into places you don’t belong?”

You didn’t need to turn around. You knew that voice—low, smug, and just the right amount of irritating.

Robin.

Or, as you liked to think of him now, Gotham’s Most Persistent Pain in the Ass.

You smirked, still focused on the files flickering across the computer screen. “You know me, Birdie. I just love a good challenge.”

“You’re getting sloppy,” he countered, stepping closer.

You caught his reflection in the screen—older now, taller. The bright colors of his suit had been traded for something darker, more tactical. His stance was solid, muscles tense, ready to spring.

You sighed dramatically. “You gonna fight me, or just lecture me to death?”

“I was thinking both.”

And then he moved.

You barely had time to react before he was on you, reaching for the drive in your hand. You twisted away, knocking over a chair in your retreat, and bolted.

The chase was on.

You darted through the office space, leaping over desks, twisting through narrow hallways, all while Robin stayed infuriatingly close. You could feel him at your heels, relentless as ever, and for the first time in a long time, you wondered if you might not shake him this time.

Then you saw it—a maintenance door left slightly ajar.

You shoved through, sprinting inside just as Robin reached for you. His fingers just barely caught the back of your jacket, and in his effort to stop you, he yanked.

Hard.

The force sent you both crashing through the doorway, tumbling down a short flight of metal stairs in a mess of limbs and curses.

You landed first, sprawled on your back against the cold floor. Robin landed on top of you, knocking the breath from your lungs as the door behind you slammed shut with an ominous clunk.

A silence settled.

“…Did you just tackle me down a flight of stairs?”

Dick groaned, pushing himself up slightly, bracing himself on his arms—his body still pressed against yours. His breath was warm against your cheek when he muttered, “You fell.”

“You pulled me.”

“You ran.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly beneath him—only to realise just how close you were.

The space around you was tiny.

Metal shelves lined the walls, stacked with old equipment and cleaning supplies. The air was thick with dust and stale air, and the dim, flickering light overhead barely illuminated anything.

You and Dick were practically pressed against each other.

And worse?

The door wasn’t budging.

It’s like it automatically locked you both in the moment you entered.

Dick must’ve come to the same conclusion because he exhaled sharply, muttering a quiet, “Fantastic.”

You turned to face him, looking him up and down. “Aww. Trapped in a tiny, enclosed space with me? Try not to look so excited, Birdie.”

Dick clenched his jaw, shifting his weight, and—

Oh.

That was… interesting.

For the first time since you met him, he was the one who faltered. His breath hitched, his fingers twitching slightly where they rested against your waist.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, voice dropping to a whisper. “Never been this close to a girl before?”

His gaze flickered to your lips before he caught himself, schooling his expression into something unimpressed. “I hate you.”

“Uh-huh,” you hummed, tilting your head. “That’s why you’re still on top of me?”

Dick tensed. Then, with a sharp inhale, he pushed off you, moving to sit up—only to immediately hit his head against one of the low shelves with a dull thud.

You laughed.

Dick glared, rubbing the spot where he’d smacked his skull. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Oh, of course.”

You pushed yourself up, stretching out your legs as much as the tiny space allowed. Dick was sitting against the opposite wall now, knees bent, arms resting over them. The space was too small for either of you to fully move without touching the other.

A slow smirk curled at your lips as an idea took root.

You shifted, closing the distance, swinging a leg over his to straddle his lap.

His whole body stiffened.

“W—What are you doing?” he asked, voice suddenly very unsteady.

“Getting comfortable,” you murmured, leaning in just slightly. “You don’t mind, do you?”

His breath shuddered.

This was new.

You’d spent years teasing him, pushing his buttons, testing his patience. But this—the way he was looking at you now, wide-eyed, breathless, trapped beneath you with nowhere to go—this was different.

You could feel the way his heart was racing.

You dragged your fingers down his chest, slow and deliberate. “Still think I’m getting sloppy?”

Dick exhaled shakily. “I—”

He stares unabashedly at the way your plush thighs brush against his sides when you shift to make yourself comfortable, he feels the way heavier breasts push against his chest as you leaned closer.

Dick wasn’t an idiot.

He knew you were doing this on purpose.

You can feel Dick’s eyes, despite it being hidden behind that damn domino mask of his. It was all over your face, and for a moment—you saw the way his breath hitch when his eyes landed on your lips.

That only fueled you more.

And without a second thought, you kissed him.

The second your lips met his, the tension snapped.

Dick made a quiet, desperate noise against your lips, his hands grasping at your waist, unsure whether to pull you closer or push you away. You made the decision for him.

His hesitation lasted seconds before he gave in, melting beneath you, responding with an eagerness that sent a thrill down your spine.

You nipped at his lower lip, earning a shuddered gasp, and God, you’d never seen him like this—needy, breathless, completely at your mercy.

“Is this what you wanted?” you murmured against his lips, your hips shifting just enough to make him choke on a breath.

His fingers dug into your sides as he struggles to maintain control.

He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “Fuck—Cat… no—” Despite the words, his body betrays his desire, hips twitching up to meet yours, his hands sliding up your back.

Dick kisses you again, soft and deep, pouring his desperation and desire into the embrace. And you didn’t waste a second to kiss him back, your hips slowly moving against his thigh, seeking out any sort of relief while also trying to provide Dick some.

And Dick—

He whimpered, soft and pathetic, adorable coming from him.

Your hand moved to cup his face, your thumb stroking along the soft skin of his cheek, leaning down to deepen the kiss.

"You're so pretty." You murmur softly, pulling away slightly to stare at him, your hand making its way to remove his mask. But Dick’s hand immediately caught your wrist, stopping you.

“N-no, wait, mask stays on, Cat. We can’t—“ He didn’t finish the sentence as you rolled your hips against him instead, body jerking in his hold. Somehow the gravity of the situation just stills in his head for a moment. “Shit, shit, wait—we should talk about this, right?”

“What’s there to talk about?” You mutter out, as you press kisses along his jawline. “You want this—I want this. We both want this, don’t you agree?”

You could feel his breath, ragged and shallow.

There was no escaping the sheer intensity of it. Every inch of his body was pushing into yours, and his movements—though tentative—were driven by an undeniable need. His hips, for all his effort to hold back, shifted instinctively, and for a brief second, you felt the unmistakable press of his body against yours. And in one swift motion, you removed his domino mask, tossing it aside as your eyes met his baby blue ones.

He looked at you with wide eyes, clearly torn between wanting to pull away and wanting more. You could practically hear his heart racing in the thick silence.

He swallowed hard. “I—” His voice cracked, and for the first time, you saw it. The boyish cockiness was gone, replaced by something more raw, more real. He was trembling slightly, unsure but wanting, and it made something stir in your chest.

You slid your hands up his chest, fingers brushing over the outline of his suit, feeling the heat of his skin beneath the fabric. His reaction was immediate—he let out a quiet, shaky breath as his hands slid down your back, pulling you even closer.

He kissed you again, this time with more force, his lips hungry, as if he couldn’t get enough. His hands roamed, brushing against your sides, your waist, his fingers lightly pressing against the curves of your body. You could feel him struggling to stay in control, his movements growing more erratic, more desperate, but still so careful, as if he was afraid of pushing you too far.

“Damn it,” he muttered between kisses, his voice tight with frustration. “I hate that you’re making me lose control.”

You smiled against his lips, pulling back just slightly. “You don’t have to hate it, you know.”

His eyes met yours again, and there it was—vulnerable, unsure, but undeniably drawn to you. “I—” He paused, exhaling slowly, as if gathering his thoughts. “I want this. But I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t have to know everything,” you said softly, running your hand down his chest once more. “Just go with it.”

Dick’s body reacted immediately, the way his hands moved to your back, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough. You could feel the desperation in him, the way his movements grew more fervent, more insistent, as if the moment had finally overtaken him.

There was something so intoxicating about it—the way he kissed you with such intensity, like every second he spent with you in this confined space only heightened the tension between you. You could feel his body pressing against yours, his every movement a silent invitation, a challenge. His hands, once hesitant, were now roaming freely, touching you with a fervor that made your heart race.

Dick reaches up with one hand to cup your breast, thumbing your nipple through the fabric of your suit, and you let out a guttural moan.

“That’s it, baby, don’t hold back.” You mumbled, your hand grabbing a fistful of his hair, tilting his head up to meet his lips once more.

And don’t hold back he did. His hand fondled with your clothed breast, while the other made its way to the zip on your back.

Dick's gaze lazily makes its way up your form, greedily taking in every inch. He gently bites down on his lower lip, face starting to look flushed as he lets his guard down. Bending forward, you close the distance between your mouths, nipping gently and taking that plush lower lip for yourself. He gasps, but gives as good as he gets, tonguing into you with a little groan. When he tries to take control and deepen the kiss, you smirk and pull back, drawing a pouty little sigh from him.

"Ah ah, birdie—let me do all the work, yeah?" You scold him. His forehead came to rest on your shoulder, his warm breath mixing with yours.

“I’m sorry, I just—” You placed a finger on his lips, clicking your tongue.

“Don’t apologise.” You murmur, lifting his head up as you start to press kisses all over his jawline once again, trailing down to his neck. Dick whines softly at the sudden shift, mewling your name.

He grinds against your clothed cunt, the fabric of your suits making it easier to hurriedly slide against each other.

Dick wishes he could feel how tightly you’d wrap around him instead of this but he needed release now, and this was the quickest way to get it.

But you notice his neediness.

You noticed how much he was aching to be inside of you.

He was bucking into you desperately, moving his hands to grope your tits and roll your nipples between his fingers.

“There you go… Good boy, keep going.” You whisper, your hand trailing down to the hem of his pants, tugging at it.

Dick inhales sharply as he feels your fingers brushing against the waistband of his pants, his hips twitching in anticipation. He's breathing heavily now, chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.

“Ah fuck…” His voice is strained, torn between wanting to give in completely and the lingering hesitation. “I want to... but we should... shit.. but we should be careful.”

You tilt your head at that, your hand resting against his growing arousal, rubbing against it painstakingly slow. “And where’s the fun in that?”

Fuck.

Despite his words, his hips lift slightly, seeking more of your touch. “Please, just... let me...” He swallows hard, hands gripping your waist as he looks up at you with hazy, desire-filled eyes. “...let me make you feel good.” His fingers slip beneath the fabric of your bottom, brushing against the bare skin of your stomach, leaving tingles in their wake.

“Tell me what you want. I'll do anything... anything you want.” His voice is a needy whisper, one you knew you couldn’t resist now.

Your eyes darken with lust as you take in the sight of Dick beneath you, seeing the desperation etched into every line of his body. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his heart is pounding against your chest, the tremble of his fingers as they dig into the fabric of your suit.

Slowly, teasingly, you slide your hand lower, palming the growing bulge in his pants. You can feel him, hot and hard, straining against the confines of his costume.

Dick lets out a strangled groan, his hips bucking up into your touch, seeking more friction.

Boldly, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his pants and slowly, torturously, begin to tug them down. The fabric resistive at first, but with a final, sharp tug, you yank them down, exposing his bare skin to the cool air of the room.

Dick's cock springs free, long and cute and perfect, the tip already glistening with precum. It twitches as the air hits it, and you can't help but lick your lips at the sight. You wrap your hand around his shaft, feeling the weight of him, the heat, the way he pulses in your grip.

Dick is panting now, his eyes glazed over with lust as he stares up at you, taking in the sight of you looming over him, his cock in your hand. He looks wrecked, destroyed, completely at your mercy, and it sends a thrill through you, a rush of power and desire.

You stroke him slowly, teasingly, watching as he writhes beneath you, his body arching into your touch. You can feel him leaking more, his cock throbbing in your hand, and you know he won't last much longer at this rate.

So you lean down, your breasts brushing against his chest as you murmur in his ear, your breath hot against his skin. “That's it, baby... just like that. You feel so good... I can't wait to taste you.”

You take your time, stroking him with long, deliberate movements from base to tip. Your hand is soft and warm, encircling his thick shaft completely as you work him over. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way he throbs and twitches in your grip.

Dick's breath comes in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he struggles to maintain control. His eyes flutter shut, brows furrowed in concentration, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Soft, breathless moans spill from his lips with every upward stroke, the sounds growing louder, more desperate as you continue your ministrations.

As you pick up the pace, pumping him faster, his reactions become more intense. His hips start to lift, meeting your strokes, fucking up into your fist with a desperate hunger. Quiet, strangled moans spill from his lips, each one making your own desire peak in response.

“Fuck... Dickie, you like that, huh? Like how you’re fucking my fist, don’t you? Such a good boy..”

You watch, as Dick’s face contorts with pleasure. His brows furrow, teeth sinking into his lower lip hard enough to leave indentations. The tendons in his neck strain as his head tips back, throat bared to you in a silent offering. His eyes, when they meet yours, are hazy and dark, the blue of his irises nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils.

The wet sounds of your hand moving over his cock fill the small space, obscenely loud in the charged silence. You can feel him leaking more, his precum making your strokes slicker, easier. His cock is red and angry, the head an almost painful shade of pink, the slit weeping with his desire.

You lean down, your breasts brushing against his heaving chest as you bring your mouth to his ear. Your lips brush the shell of it as you whisper, your voice low and heavy with lust. “That's it, baby... doesn't it feel good? Doesn't it feel amazing to have my hand wrapped around this big and needy cock of yours? I can feel how much you want it... how much you want me...”

Dick shudders, his body wracking with sensation as he listens to your words. A broken whimper escapes him, his voice hoarse and wrecked as he manages to gasp out, “F-Fuck… please, (Name)… I need you so bad…”

You never knew how much you needed him begging for you until now. And god did it feel good.

You can feel his desperation, his absolute need for release. And you're going to make him work for it. Slowly, torturously, you increase the speed of your strokes, squeezing just a bit tighter, twisting your wrist on the upstroke.

Dick is panting now, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His face is flushed, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched tight as he tries to hold back. But you can see the way his body is tensing, the way his cock is throbbing harder, leaking more steadily against your palm.

“(Name)... I can't... I'm gonna... fuck, I'm gonna...” His words dissolve into a guttural moan, his entire body going rigid.

You feel his cock throb and twitch in your grip, and then with a hoarse cry of your name, he's coming undone. Thick, hot ropes of cum erupt from his cock, painting your hand and his stomach with his release. His body shudders and jerks through each wave of pleasure, his hand gripping yours like a vice.

You work him through it, stroking him through each aftershock, feeling his cock pulse and twitch against your fingers until finally, he collapses back against the wall, chest heaving, skin sheened with sweat. He looks utterly debauched, hair disheveled, lips kiss-swollen and parted around shallow breaths. His eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, struggling to regain some semblance of coherence.

Slowly, you bring your hand up to your mouth, making a show of licking his spend from your fingers, my tongue swirling around each digit, ensuring he can see every last bit of him disappearing between your lips. Dick watches closely, his chest still rising and falling rapidly, a fresh wave of desire washing over his eyes as he takes in the sight of you licking his cum off your hand.

“Mmm, you taste good, Dick,” You purr, wrapping your hand around his re-hardening shaft, giving him a slow, teasing stroke. “I could get used to this view—you, all wrecked and wanting, cock throbbing and ready to go again already.” You lean in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, “You really are an overachiever, aren't you?”

You can feel him shiver against you, his hips lifting slightly into your touch. You grin, pulling back to look at him with a wicked gleam in your eyes. Then, slowly, you reach back and unzip the rest of your suit, peeling the tight material down your body until you’re just left in your panties.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband and tug them down, baring your dripping cunt to his hungry gaze.

Dick's eyes widen as he takes in the sight of you, his tongue licking his lips as he stares at your glistening folds. You grab his hand, guiding it between your legs, pressing his fingers against your aching clit. He inhales sharply at the contact, feeling the slick heat of your arousal coating his digits.

“Fuck, (Name).…you're so wet.” He breathes, his fingers starting to move on their own, stroking along your slit, feeling how ready you are for him. “Is this...is this because of me?”

You moan softly, rolling your hips against his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction. “Yes, birdie...it's all for you,” You gasp, your head falling back as his fingers find a particularly sensitive spot. “I'm so fucking turned on right now, and it's all because of you.”

You reach down and grab his wrist, guiding his hand to move faster, to press harder against your clit. You grind against him, coating his fingers in your slick arousal, your body trembling with need. You can feel how hard he is, his cock throbbing and leaking against your ass, and you know he wants you just as badly.

Without warning, you shift your hips, positioning yourself so that the head of his cock brushes against your entrance. You feel him gasp, his fingers pausing in their movements as he realizes what you’re about to do. You look down at him, your expression one of pure, unadulterated lust, and then you sink down.

You take him in inch by delicious inch, your walls stretching around his thick length, wrapping him in your tight, wet heat. You both moan at the sensation, your bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces, made to be joined like this. You don't stop until you’re fully seated on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside your clit, pressing against his pelvis.

“Oh fuck, Dick...” You whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sensual grind. “You feel so fucking good inside me.”

Your words seem to spur him on, and he starts to thrust up to meet you, his hips lifting off the ground to drive his cock deeper into your needy cunt. The room fills with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, your moans and cries of pleasure echoing off the metal walls. You can feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate, and you know he won't last much longer.

“Come on, baby,” You pant, your voice high and breathless as you ride him harder, faster, chasing your own release. “Come inside me. I want to feel you come inside me, Dick. Please...please come for me.”

With a final, harsh thrust, you grind down against Dick. His eyes widen as he feels your walls clench around him, your words pushing him over the edge.

He pistons his hips up harder, his heavy balls slapping against your ass with each punishing thrust. He leans in, burying his face between your breasts, his mask brushing against your skin as he suckles and nips at the soft mounds, leaving marks of possession in his wake.

“Fuck, (Name)...you feel too good,” he pants against your skin, his voice a low, guttural rasp. “So good...”

His words dissolve into a strangled moan as his thrusts become erratic, losing their rhythm as he teeters on the brink of climax. He's so close, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside your clenching walls, your arousal dripping down his shaft with each thrust.

“Ngh— fuck..” he hisses out, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he holds you down, making sure you take every last drop of his seed. You can feel the hot, thick ropes of his release painting your insides, dripping down onto his lap and the floor below, filling you up just as you'd begged him to do.

You're both panting hard, chests heaving as you come down from your highs. You slump against his chest, completely spent, your body still twitching with the aftershocks. Dick's arms wrap around you, holding you close, his face buried in your hair as he tries to catch his breath.

You can't help but smile, cupping his face in your hands and pulling him in for a slow, deep kiss. You pour all of your satisfaction, all of your desire, all of your growing feelings for him into that kiss. When you finally pull away, you're both smiling, both looking at each other like you can't quite believe this is real.

But then, Dick's eyes widen in realization as the final pulses of his release subside, his softening cock still buried deep inside your fluttering heat. A look of panic flashes across his face beneath the mask as the gravity of what just happened sinks in.

“I...fuck, I'm so sorry,” he starts, voice shaking with remorse. “I didn't mean to... shit, I shouldn't have...”

But you silence him with a searing kiss, your lips crashing against his in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of apologies. You pour every ounce of passion and hunger into the kiss, your tongue delving into his mouth, tangling with his own. For a moment, Dick is stunned, his body stilling beneath you as he allows you to plunder his mouth.

When you finally pull back, your chests heaving, you fix him with a stern look. “Didn't I tell you not to apologise?” you demand, voice low and firm. “I know exactly what I wanted, and I wanted this. I wanted to feel you come inside me, Dick.”

Dick swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “But I didn't use a condom,” he argues weakly. “I could have...we could have...”

You place a finger against his lips, silencing him once more. “Shh. I know the risks. But where’s the fun in not taking them?”

Dick's eyes search yours, a war raging behind those hidden depths. Slowly, hesitantly, he nods, your finger falling away from his lips. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Fine, you win, Cat.”

A slow, shy smile curves your lips as you lean in to press a soft kiss to his jaw, your body still nestled against his, his release cooling inside you. “Good,” you whisper against his skin. “Because I think we're going to be stuck in here for a while,” you say with a grin, glancing around at the small, enclosed space. “You’re going to have to deal with me a little longer, Robin.”

Dick laughs, a real, genuine sound that makes your heart flutter in your chest, his hands sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. “You're insatiable,” he accuses, but there's no bite to his words, only a grudging sort of awe.

“But I think I can handle that,” he says, pulling you down for another kiss. “Especially if it means more of this.”

You nipped at his earlobe before soothing it with your tongue.

“You're just now figuring that out?”

—

Safe to say, Batman found you both a few hours later, and him and Selina lectured you both about the need for protection. (At least you were on the pill.)

All Rights Reserved © Works are exclusive to this Tumblr

He's pulling those puppy dog eyes again, drumming his fingers against his knees as he leans over the couch a little, bumping his head against yours.

"Hm?" You mumble, unfazed and preoccupied with tapping away at your phone.

"So you're not only depriving me of your blood, but also of your attention? You're a heartless woman, you know that?"

Dick knows damn well you do have a heart. In fact, his hearing picks up every single thump little of it inside your ribcage, pumping all that blood around your body.

He lets out a dramatic whine, one part offended and two parts pathetic.

You’re ignoring him and starving him.

“C’mon, baby..” He’s really pushing the ‘poor pitiful me’ look at the moment, head ducked down to hide behind his hair, eyebrows all raised and pouty lips in an exaggerated frown.

To him, this is truly a double standard. He doesn’t get it! He's seen you demolish an entire pack of KitKats in one sitting for when you thought you were being sneaky!

So like God forbid your vampire boyfriend feels kinda peckish..

Your eyes narrow slightly, unamused.

“You have blood bags in the fridge.”

Your words make him wince, bumping his forehead against yours again. You’re ignoring him, as always when he suggests this kind of thing.

He hates it! Why the hell would he want one of those disgusting blood bags if he’s got a wayyy prettier one in front of him?

“Please?” he’s batting his eyelashes at you and everything, pressing lightly kisses to the inside of your wrist - only to lightly scrape his fangs against the thrum of your pulse.

“Dick,” you frown, shoving at his jaw like you would do to a misbehaving puppy.

“I told you, blood freaks me out.”

Hours later, staring up at the ceiling.. he’s at a loss.

Batting his lashes and kissing all over your face with hushed little pleas didn’t work. That’s a new one.

Convincing you barely worked either.

He offered anything and everything.

Promises to wash your sore skin after, to take you out to that Italian place you like, even saying he’d buy you everything in the whole world, just for one singular drop to quell the ache in his fangs.

Eventually, he managed to wear you down just a little bit, don’t you love him?

You told him you’d think about it, that should’ve been enough to rein him in.

Unfortunately, it only made the dull ache in his fangs more prominent.

He won’t open the fridge, he won’t look at a blood bag, he hasn’t dared to pick one up in the last number of days.

Why would he? Especially if you look so sweet asleep, your head tilted back against the plush pillows, your pretty neck is just right there.

His keen eyes watch as you shift a little in your sleep, blissfully unaware how he’s spiralling internally.

Dick wonders how you’d react, wonders how much longer he can take this before he loses his mind completely.

Shifting closer to you under the soft covers, he gently rests his chin atop your shoulder, his cold hand gently sliding up your soft thigh to your hip, lightly thumbing over the lacy hem of your panties.

Dick knows you don’t mind that, you’ve let him do that before.

He wonders if you’d jolt awake in horror if you felt his fangs pricking your skin. That makes him frown for a moment, you’re not supposed to be scared of him, he loves you more than anything - with every single beat of his cold dead heart.

It’s not the actual concept of it that freaks you out, right? You said it’s just the sight of the blood. You wouldn’t see it, you’d be fine.

Still, for a moment he thinks about how you’d react, even if you weren’t as horrified.

Would you cry? Maybe.

It’s not like he’s one of those total freaks that gets off on seeing his pretty girl cry, right?

Wrong.

The thought of your tear-stained lashes, your shaky breaths has him pressing himself against your ass, his fingers slipping down into your panties.

“Fuck,” his words are hushed, fangs still aching - hips pushing against you as his half-lidded eyes lock on your neck, trying not to drool at the feeling of your warm skin under his lips.

“..hmm?” your little murmur makes him stiffen for a moment, his hand flat against your lower stomach, his body still.

“Sorry, baby.” he groans into your neck, about to lift his hand away despite the desperate need coursing through his cold veins.

“S’fine.” your words are a soft slur into your pillow, your warm hand resting over his to gently coax it back down into your underwear, your ass pressing against the tent in his boxers as you lean back against him.

You trust him so much it makes him want to gouge his own heart for you.

“You sure, Angel?” when you give him a sleepy nod his hips roll forward again. Then once more.

His rhythm is lazy, he’s not trying to startle you or wake you up properly.

He’s not trying to get off, or fuck you either - he just wants to be close to you, he wants to feel your heart quicken, he wants to feel your skin heat up.

All sorts of awful things start to cloud his mind but his hips are still pressing against the soft plush of your ass. He’s throbbing in his boxers, hard. He doesn’t care. It’s not about that.

When you lean back against him with a soft little sigh, Dick swallows, his hand gently wandering further down into your panties, his fingers lightly brushing against your clit.

His hand shakes slightly, his Adam's apple bobs in his throat.

God, he can’t take the sight of your pretty neck like that.

His fangs hurt.

The way you’re letting yourself be so vulnerable with him makes something stir, gently dragging his fingers over your soaked slit.

Maybe that’s all he needs. He needs to distract you.

If his sweet girl trusts him enough to play with her pussy while she sleeps, is one little bite to your neck, that bad?

That makes him groan, louder than intended.

No, he can’t do it. That’s so extremely unfair to you.

He presses his hips against you again, his fingers tracing over each divot in your spine, while the other works between your legs, gently running his fingers through your throbbing folds.

“F-fuck,” he can’t help a small hiss when you lean back against him, your perfect little neck right beneath his lips.

“Huh?” the sound has your eyes cracking open, just barely, parting your thighs without a single word. You’re so good for him, he feels like he truly doesn’t deserve you - but your naivety seems to be your downfall.

His cock twitches against your ass again, precum staining his boxers, pressing against the fabric between you.

“Nothing.” he swallows, his breaths more laboured than he’d like them to be, voice shaky with need, “go back to sleep, Angel.”

“You’re alright, baby.” Dick insists.

He can’t tell who he’s trying to reassure.

His hand slides from your spine up into your hair, fingers pressing against the back of your head as he coaxes you back down a little more into the pillow.

His narrowed eyes are watching you now, leaning even closer to your neck as his hand slides back down your chest, dragging his tongue up the exposed side of your neck.

He can’t take it, he needs more.

Slowly, his lips part against your soft skin, savouring the moment once more.

He bites back a groan as his fingers press into your cunt, fangs hovering close to your neck.

“Sweetheart..” he swallows, voice cracking slightly as he speaks.

He should let you sleep. He can’t.

“Baby?” he tries to catch your attention once more, nuzzling his face into your neck - it takes a Herculean amount of strength not to just go ahead and bite you.

He can’t just do that, he loves you too much.

“Mhm?” Your response is a barely coherent mumble - not awake, not quite fully asleep. Just what he’s looking for.

He swallows, dragging his tongue along the side of your neck, his fingers still gently stroking at your pussy to distract you, his thumb running over your clit.

“Y’love me, right?” His lips brush against your nape, one arm firmly draped over your torso while his hand works between your legs.

You huff slightly, eyelids heavy.

“..course I love you,”

Dick knows that, he’s just trying to make himself feel better. Of course you love him, he doesn’t even need to hear you say it most of the time. Usually, the way your damn heart beats around him is enough of a giveaway.

Okay, fuck he can’t take it.

“..w-what the fuck,” you’re squirming against him now, shoulders shaking as the ache in your neck jolts you awake.

You can’t tell what to focus on, the pain or the feeling of his fingers moving against you, sinking deeper into the heat of your pussy.

“Don’t even think about it.” his hand slides out from your hair, moving to wrap his fingers around your neck so you don’t writhe too hard, the pressure making your blood flow smoother onto his tongue.

It’s been so long, he’s almost forgotten what fresh blood tastes like.

Unsurprisingly, yours is sweet. Just like you.

Between the fact that he’s holding you down and the blood loss, you don’t really have much time to react or protest.

His tongue drags up your neck once more, catching each little drop of your blood - he doesn’t want to waste anything, he doesn’t know when he’ll have this opportunity again.

Feeling you move, Dick stills for a moment, watching you in silence.

He’s bracing himself for you to yell at him. He’s gonna get an elbow to the face and spend the rest of the week on the couch, he can see it now.

He’s panicking internally for a few moments, until he feels you move - until he hears that sleepy little sob fall from your parted lips.

Is it fucked up that it turns him on?

“I know it hurts, Angel.” he’s panting, fingers starting to gently stroke your neck instead of holding it tightly when he hears a muffled little sob fall from your lips.

“I’ll make it up to you, okay?” His cock is rock hard now, hips grinding against your ass - he doesn’t notice, he doesn’t care.

You part your lips as if to say something but not a sound comes out, his hand under your jaw is the only thing stopping your head from hitting the mattress.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the blood loss, maybe it’s how stupidly horny you are but you just can’t think.

“..t-the fuck?” You swallow another little whimper, body almost limp against the mattress as you let him just tilt your head around in his hand.

Dick blinks for a moment, grip on your neck loosening slightly.

That wasn’t a sob this time, no screech of horror either.

You’re laughing.

Out of your fucking mind, dazed and fucking giggling as your blood stains his teeth.

It’s like you don’t even realise why you’re all dizzy.

Dick could probably do anything to you right now and you wouldn’t even care, you’re so out of it that you trust your big scary vampire boyfriend to not hurt you.

Dick hates the fact that it makes cock throb, the wet stain on his boxers getting harder and harder to ignore.

“What’s so funny?” He mumbles into your nape, tongue dragging against your skin to catch every drop of that blood he’s been so desperate for.

“..you,” a tired slur falls from your lips, your head feeling a little too heavy for your neck as his fingers circle over your clit.

“Me?” Dick pants, blood dripping down your chin as he tilts your head back.

God you’re barely able to keep your eyes open, like his hand around your neck is the only thing keeping you conscious.

“Mhm,” you giggle, cut off by a little whine when you feel his fingers sink into your wet cunt.

“..you’re all bite-y n’all,”

He isn’t sure if “bite-y” is even a real word, but fuck you’re cute.

You probably think he’s just nibbling at your skin for fun like he’s some harmless puppy.

As if he couldn’t just drain the life out of you if he felt like it.

“..what the hell,” You giggle again, brows furrowing slightly as you try and move your thighs apart to give him better access.

Right, Dick forgot about that.

They’re not cooperating, like your brain is a little too muddled to let you move properly.

He feels bad for a moment, eyes flickering down to the little scrunch of your nose, how hard you’re trying to focus to do something as simple as articulating yourself properly.

“Dick, I can’t-“

Move.

You would press your thighs together if you could, your cunt aching for something more than just his fingers.

“S’okay,” Dick coos, gently tilting your jaw back so your glassy eyes meet his.

“Bet you can’t think either?”

You whimper at that, nodding as you feel the tears stinging your eyes. Not because it hurts, but because you can’t touch him like you want to.

“Aw,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the bite mark at the base of your neck like he isn’t the one putting you through all this.

“M’gonna have to do all that thinking and moving for you. Aren’t I, pretty girl?” His hand slides out of your panties to pull them down your thighs, embarrassing amounts of precum already staining his boxers at the sight of you like this.

“Y-yeah,”

“Yeah,” Dick grins at your immediate compliance (as if you have a choice), one hand pulling you back closer against him, the other working to free his strained cock from his pants, barely able to muffle a groan.

His leaking tip smacks against your clit with a small hiss, his forehead bumping against the back of your neck.

Dick would genuinely rather die than ever hurt his pretty girl, but fuck - the way he can just manhandle you around reminds him that he could.

Especially when you’re so out of it.

Dick cursed under his breath as you tried to move against him, your dazed whimpers going straight to his ego - and his cock as he slides into with an almost desperate thrust.

“Y’don’t need to think, baby. You just need to take me, t-take this fuckin’ cock, just the way I want.”

Just because he’s got this whole vampire thing going, doesn’t mean he can’t be so stupidly weak for you, panting and whining as his fangs scrape at your neck, your collarbone a mess of blood and drool as he pulls out again.

“Look at that,” Dick can’t stop himself from yanking you around, your back landing against the mattress with a soft thump as he all but crawls over you, hips clumsily moving against yours.

He could get used to you being so dependant more often, your eyes all dazed and glassy and looking up at him like he’s the one who hung all the stars in the sky.

“S-so fuckin’ pretty, all dumb n’takin’ this cock,” one of his hands slides up your his shirt to bunch it up at your collarbone.

Your hearts just so loud, beating so fast. You’re all worked up for him, letting him use you however he wants.

His other hand moves to hook your thigh around his hips cause god knows you’re in no state to do that yourself, thrusts getting sloppier as his half lidded eyes stare down at the subtle bounce of your tits.

He’d usually be too paranoid about scaring you too hard, but he can’t help it - kissing all the way down your chest before sinking his teeth in with an undignified whine, blunt nails pressing into your skin as he gropes at your chest.

No matter how close your heart is, it’s still not enough.

“Gonna-“

He lets out a stuttered moan, his hips picking up the pace, frantic almost.

“F-fuck,” he whines, messy strands of black hair falling into his eyes as he pounds you into the creaky mattress.

"..such a good girl, gonna make me f-fucking cum,”

“Dick,” You’re almost begging him to meet your gaze, hot tears rolling down your cheeks as you try and gather the strength to lift your head.

“Uhuh?” Dick mumbles against your chest, thrusts getting sloppy as he pounds into your cunt, hand sliding down to pinch your clit between his fingers.

“F-fuck, just kiss me,” you swallow, lips curling into a wobbly frown as your body aches to arch against him, the wet sounds of your needy cunt filling the space between you.

“Yeah?” He pants, “Want me to kiss you, baby?”

You bite back a whimper, pussy clenching around him.

“P-please,”

That catches his attention.

Dick latches off of your tits for a moment, ignoring the steady leak of his precum already leaking out of you.

He’s all gross, his parted lips a mess of spit and your blood - the very thing that’s supposedly scares you so badly.

His Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat, letting out a soft mewl when his fangs press into your bottom lip.

You should be mad at him, disgusted. You’ve got every right to be.

But Fuck, even though he could tear you open - he’d rather let his girl drive a stake through his cold dead heart.

a/n: u thought u heard the last of me??

also this song is a banger I promise.

as always thank u for reading, stay freaky ily.

Dick Grayson m.list | halloween masterlist

juicykvnture 2025 © do not copy, translate, repost or use for AI

You loved it more than anywhere else. Even more than your own mansion back in L.A. with its glass walls and sharp, cold views of the Hollywood Hills. This place… this was peace.

You had been here for three days now. The guest room practically had your name on it at this point, and Zayn never made a big deal about it. You didn’t need to text before showing up. Sometimes, he’d just glance up from the kitchen with a smile when he saw you walking in with a duffle bag, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because, well, it was.

You’d met almost ten years ago, back when you were just a scrappy 19-year-old with a voice and some half-finished lyrics, standing in a London recording booth, trying not to freak out because One Direction had just walked in.

Zayn was the one who caught your eye first. Not because he was trying to — he wasn’t like that. But there was something about the quiet way he moved, how he kept glancing at your notebook while pretending not to, and the way he finally leaned over during a break and said, “Those lyrics… they’re actually really good.”

That was it.

That was the start.

Now here you were — both older, more famous, a little more worn out by the industry — yet still exactly like that first day: sitting side by side, talking about music like it was your shared language.

Zayn had set out an old patchwork blanket across the backyard grass while Khai danced around it, twirling with one of her little dolls in hand. His daughter was sunshine personified. She had his eyes, his cheekbones, and somehow, his calm spirit too. She didn’t need to be the loudest kid in the room. She just was, and everyone noticed.

Zayn was sitting with one leg stretched out, his arm lazily propped against a pillow. His sleeves were rolled up, showing off the tattoos that still made your heart stutter sometimes, even though you’d seen them a thousand times.

“She’s obsessed with those daisies,” he murmured, watching Khai pick another one with serious concentration.

“She’s got good taste,” you replied with a soft smile, tucking your knees to your chest.

For a moment, it was just the sound of the wind moving through the trees and Khai’s tiny voice humming something under her breath. You reached over to grab your water bottle, and that’s when he said it — casually, but with a glint of something more in his voice.

“I’ve been thinking we should make a song together.”

Your head turned to him, brow raised. “Really?”

Zayn’s eyes were on you now, steady and warm, the kind of gaze that always made you feel like the rest of the world had gone quiet.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It’s been a while since we sat down and wrote something.”

You leaned your head on your shoulder, smiling. “It has.”

He shifted a little closer, letting the sun catch the edges of his jawline, that slight scruff making your stomach flutter for no good reason.

“That’s true,” he said slowly, like he was piecing the thought together out loud. “But for the album I’m working on, I want that. A song… ours.”

You blinked, feeling the weight of the word settle between you. Ours.

Not just a song with you. A song belonging to both of you.

Zayn always had a way of making even the smallest words feel like poetry.

Your mouth curved into something soft. “Then let’s do it,” you said, voice low and warm. “Let’s make it something real.”

He nodded again, but didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to.

You both looked out over the backyard, where Khai had now plopped herself onto the grass, muttering to her flowers like they were in on a secret.

You stood and brushed off your jeans, padding barefoot across the lawn. The grass was still warm under your feet, and the air smelled like earth and lavender and a little bit like the cinnamon candle Zayn had left burning on the windowsill earlier.

“Hey, Khai,” you called gently.

She looked up, squinting in the sunlight, and her face lit up the way it always did when she saw you. “Aunty!”

You laughed and dropped beside her onto the grass, landing with an exaggerated oof that made her giggle. She immediately climbed onto your lap, tucking her legs under her like a baby bird settling into a nest.

“What’ve we got here?” you asked, picking up a handful of daisies.

“Bouquet for Daddy,” she said proudly, clutching one in each hand. “But he can’t see yet. It’s a secret.”

“Ohhh,” you whispered dramatically. “Got it. Operation Secret Flowers.”

She giggled again, then leaned her head on your chest, and the peace of the moment wrapped around you like a silk scarf — weightless and delicate.

From a few feet away, Zayn sat back on his elbows, watching the two of you with something unreadable in his eyes. You weren’t looking at him, but you could feel it. That gaze. The one he saved for his most vulnerable thoughts.

He reached for his phone quietly and snapped a picture.

In it, you and Khai are laughing like nothing else exists except this exact second in time.

Zayn stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering just above the screen. He did something he rarely did, post it.

The way Khai won’t let you go, holding you as you were the most incredible thing ever, he was melting.

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Then he locked the phone again and looked back up at you, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small, private smile.

And then, his phone buzzed again.

He glanced down.

From: Management Subject: INTERVIEW CONFIRMED – FRIDAY, 12 PM Podcast format. In-studio. We need you on this. You know why.

His jaw tensed subtly. The warmth of the moment dimmed just slightly, the edges curling in like paper near a flame. He locked the screen and tossed the phone beside him on the grass.

You didn’t notice right away — you were still on the ground with Khai, your laughter floating up into the trees — but something in his face had changed. His expression wasn’t cold exactly, just… far away.

You sat up slowly, brushing grass from your arms. “Z?”

He blinked and looked up, as if pulled from somewhere distant. “Yeah?”

“You good?”

He gave you a quick nod, too quick. “Yeah, just… label stuff.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of label stuff?”

He hesitated. “Interview.”

“Oh.” Your voice dropped slightly. “One of those.”

“Yeah.”

You watched him for a beat. “Do you have to go?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned forward to pluck a daisy from Khai’s pile and twirled it between his fingers. “Apparently. It’s time I… I talk about some things.”

You knew what he meant. The last few months hadn’t been easy. Headlines. Assumptions. Long silences and constant pressure. Zayn had never been the kind of person to speak just to speak. But when he did open up… he meant every word.

You looked at him, really looked — the shaved head, the tired eyes, the shadows under his cheekbones that somehow made him look even more beautiful, in that tragic artist kind of way.

“Well,” you said softly, “if you go, just remember what you said earlier.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That the next song will be ours.”

A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Right.”

You turned back to Khai, who had just tried to fit six daisies into your hair and declared you a “flower monster princess.”

Zayn sat there a moment longer, watching the two girls he loved most — one his daughter, the other something he hadn’t named yet — and knew, deep in his gut, that whatever he said at that interview… wouldn’t matter half as much as the song the three of you had already written together just by being.

The recording studio was nothing too flashy—clean-cut, brick walls, cozy lighting, vintage rugs under the chairs and cables, and the soft hum of a city afternoon outside the windows. A quiet kind of intimacy filled the room, the kind that invited honesty even when it wasn’t planned. It smelled like fresh coffee and worn leather, and the podcast host’s smile was warm and inviting, but Zayn still had his guard up in that low-key way he always did.

He adjusted his mic once, then twice, leaning forward a little, eyes focused on the foam cover like it might bite him. But his shoulders weren’t tense. His hands, ringed and tattooed, stayed folded loosely in his lap. There was a certain calmness in him lately—earned, not faked.

“All right,” the host said, pressing a button with a satisfying click. “We’re live.”

Zayn nodded once.

“Zayn Malik,” she started, with that signature smooth-radio voice, “you’re back with new music. And fans are losing it over this album. Can you tell us what it’s about?”

Zayn exhaled softly, smiling without showing too much. “I can’t say too much just yet…” he paused, glancing sideways like he always did when his mind wandered, “but it’s definitely one of my most personal projects.”

The host leaned in, intrigued. “More personal than Mind of Mine?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Each song reflects something real, y’know? Parts of my life. Things I’ve gone through. Some dark… some really beautiful. It’s weird to say, but after everything, I actually feel proud of where I’m at. And I hope… I hope people connect with it. That’s really all I want.”

There was something in his voice when he said that—like he meant it more than anything.

The host smiled. “That’s beautiful to hear. Now…” she clicked her pen like she was switching lanes, “We’ve seen a lot of photos of you and a certain pop star lately. One of the biggest in the world right now, actually. Can you tell us something about that?”

Zayn laughed—head tilted back, that soft, rough sound escaping his throat as if it genuinely caught him off guard. “She’s my best friend,” he said, brushing his shaved head with one hand, “my greatest support. We spend a lot of time together, yeah. But it’s more than just that.”

He paused for a second, as if weighing the next words carefully, and then met the host’s eyes again. “She’s helped me through a lot. Like… a lot. Everyone knows I’ve had my dark moments. She never left. Not even at my worst.”

The host put a hand over her chest, visibly moved. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Zayn just smiled.

“And the photo you posted,” the host continued, clicking again, “of her and your daughter… those girls looked so close. So warm.”

Zayn’s face softened. His voice did too. “That’s what makes me happiest, honestly. She always made it a priority to make sure I was being a good dad. She encouraged me to be better. She’d show up on days I didn’t even realize I needed someone. She’s been more than emotional support… she’s been like a lighthouse, y’know?”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t be who you are today without her.”

He nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I mean that.”

There was a short, thoughtful silence in the room—like even the mic was soaking it in.

“She’s a huge part of your life,” the host said softly, “and fans are wondering… will she be on the album?”

“Of course,” Zayn said, smiling. “Again, this album is like… a piece of my heart. And she’s one of the most important things in my life. So yeah, she’s in it. Her presence is all over it.”

The host leaned forward again, clearly catching the subtle weight in his tone. “Sounds like a beautiful friendship. She was truly a lifeline for you.”

Zayn nodded, this time slower. “She is. Especially during the lowest points. Times when I couldn’t see a way out. She was always there. Even when I was pushing people away. Even when I didn’t want help… she was just there. Didn’t let go of my hand.”

The host blinked, visibly emotional. “That’s rare.”

Zayn’s smile returned, lopsided and private. “She’s rare.”

There was a small pause before the host switched gears again, flipping through her notes with quiet fingers. “And now she’s featured on your new album, which, for fans, is going to be a huge deal.”

“Super significant,” Zayn agreed. He leaned back a little, shoulders relaxing more. “Also… I mean, it’s kind of mind-blowing when you think about it. We’re both artists. Music’s always been our thing. And that creates something special between us.”

The host tilted her head, eyes glinting. “A special connection?”

Zayn looked up and met her gaze. “It’s a special connection,” he echoed, almost reverently. “Yeah. Actually, we met through her collab with the band I was in. That was the start of everything.”

“And now?”

“Now… we sit together at the piano. We don’t even have to talk sometimes. We just write. We hear things in each other’s lyrics, in the notes. It’s like… we understand each other without needing to explain. That’s rare too.”

Zayn’s eyes lit up as he spoke—really lit up, like a kid describing their favorite storybook.

“She’s really important to me,” he said, quietly, but firmly.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that fills a room with its own heartbeat.

The host chuckled suddenly, breaking the moment. “It sounds like the connection is deeper than I thought,” she teased lightly, though her eyebrows said romantic tension alert.

Zayn felt the shift instantly. He ducked his head, his laughter lower this time—quiet, a little shy. He stared at the floor with that familiar smile tugging at his lips.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t say anything at all.

And somehow… that silence said everything.

The world outside had dimmed into stillness, the last light of the countryside sun slipping beneath the fields like it didn’t want to intrude. Zayn’s house was quiet in the way that let you hear the small things: the creak of the wood when someone shifted their weight, the soft ticking of the vintage wall clock in the hallway, the low hum of the refrigerator in the next room. No paparazzi. No producers. No demands. Just the two of you and the simple comfort of being where you didn’t have to pretend.

It was Friday night.

Somewhere out there, people were popping champagne bottles and posing for the flash. Your phone buzzed hours ago with invites to industry parties in the city—ones you’d never respond to. Because here, in the cozy little studio of Zayn’s country house, barefoot and wrapped in the hoodie he’d tossed you earlier, was exactly where you wanted to be.

The space itself wasn’t glamorous. It didn’t have the sleek walls of your L.A. label’s studio or the soundproof velvet panels of Zayn’s London one. But it was warm. It was full of him. Guitar stands leaned gently in corners, unused strings coiled on tabletops, and handwritten lyrics stuck to the wall with old tape. There was a small upright piano in the corner, a little scratched but beloved, with a mug of cold chamomile tea resting on top.

You were curled sideways on one of the overstuffed sofas, knees drawn to your chest, a pencil tucked behind your ear. Zayn sat cross-legged on the floor, one of his notebooks balanced on his thigh. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, tattoos soft and inked against the glow of the warm studio light. The silence between you wasn’t heavy—it was alive. It crackled with unspoken understanding, laced with comfort that only came from years of friendship.

You watched him for a moment. He had that look again—brows drawn in soft concentration, lip caught between his teeth, pencil tapping against the corner of the page. Every so often, he glanced up at you. You tried not to smile when you caught him, but you always did. And each time, Zayn just smiled back like it wasn’t even something to be embarrassed about.

That’s when you said it. Barely louder than a whisper.

“You’re the lullaby the universe wrote to silence every ache I ever carried.”

He didn’t look up right away. But when he did, his eyes were already warm, already smiling. It was one of those smiles that started in his eyes, slow and soft, like it took its time reaching his lips.

“That’s beautiful,” he said, his voice low and full of something gentle. “Seriously. That’s a lyric I’d tattoo on my arm.”

You shrugged a little, looking down at your notebook like it didn’t matter. “Maybe we could slow it down,” you murmured. “Like... take it down a couple notches. I think a slow song would really breathe on this album. Something stripped.”

“I was thinking the exact same thing,” he said. “R&B, maybe. Something quiet, like... like two people talking in the dark.”

You looked at him again. He was already looking at you. Neither of you looked away.

Then he stood, brushing his palms on his joggers. “Come here,” he said, motioning toward the piano.

You blinked. “You sure?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just walked to the piano, lifted the lid, and slid across the bench with an inviting tilt of his head. You padded across the studio, your socked feet making no sound, and sat beside him, your legs folding neatly under the bench, shoulders brushing just faintly.

The space on the bench wasn’t exactly generous, but neither of you made a fuss about it. Your thighs touched, just barely, and his arm brushed yours as he adjusted himself to find the right key. You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

He started first, letting his fingers trail softly over the keys, finding chords like muscle memory. It was a slow, dreamy progression, like rain tapping on windows at midnight. You watched his hands, fascinated by how natural it looked—the way he knew just where to go, just how long to hold.

After a moment, you placed your fingers on the keys too, joining in. A higher melody, floating softly above his chords.

You felt his eyes flick over to you, not in a way that interrupted the moment. Just... noticing. Appreciating.

“This is nice,” you said softly, barely louder than the piano.

He nodded. “Feels like a conversation.”

You smiled. “A musical one?”

“Yeah. Like the lyrics haven’t come yet but... the feelings already know what they want to say.”

You both laughed gently at that, but the truth hung in the air between you.

A few minutes passed in that peaceful, fluttery stillness. No pressure. No studio heads watching from behind the glass. Just four hands, two hearts, one quiet night. He started humming under his breath, a soft little melody that hadn’t found its words yet, and without thinking, you matched it, your voices blending softly in the glow of the old table lamp.

You turned slightly, looking at him. “What if that’s the chorus?” you said. “We layer both our voices? Like... overlapping harmonies.”

He looked at you like you’d just solved the universe’s riddle. “That’s exactly what I want,” he said. “Like a dream and a memory singing to each other.”

Your heart squeezed a little.

Then he nudged you with his shoulder. “Play the chorus again. I’ll follow.”

You laughed, cheeks warming, and played the melody a little louder this time. He caught on quickly, joining with a low harmony that gave you goosebumps. Your hands bumped once on the keys and you both froze—then looked at each other and broke into quiet giggles.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t move his hand.

“No, that was my fault,” you murmured, smiling down at the keys.

He glanced sideways at you, his voice even softer now. “I like this. Being close like this.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded, still smiling, still playing.

“Me too,” you said after a beat. “Feels like we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

Zayn looked at you like he wanted to say something else—something maybe bigger than the moment allowed—but instead, he just bumped your shoulder again, and said, “Alright then, let’s write something that'll make the world cry.”

You both laughed, and the music kept flowing. The notes between you melted into lyrics. His hand stayed close to yours on the keys. Your head dipped toward his shoulder more than once. There was no tension. No awkwardness.

Just music. Just closeness. Just two hearts quietly, unknowingly leaning into something far deeper than friendship.

And neither of you had to say a word.

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yourusername nights like this

You had never thought you’d actually say yes to a movie role, but there you were—starring in a full-blown, romantic drama with an emotional arc that dug deep, just like the classics. It was the kind of film that gave people goosebumps, that made strangers fall in love all over again just by watching the characters breathe around each other. And tonight? Tonight was the big premiere.

Outside the theater, the evening air was brisk but gentle, carrying with it the scent of perfume, pavement, and red carpet anticipation. Flashbulbs sparked in every direction, music thrummed quietly under the noise of gathered voices, and every movement felt ten times more important under the lenses of dozens of paparazzi.

You stood at the edge of it all, wrapped in a creamy, oversized faux-fur coat that spilled elegance and warmth around your body like a blanket of snow. Underneath it, your dress glowed like candlelight—silky, backless, hugging your figure like it was made just for you. A soft golden sheen shimmered every time you turned, and your hair was pulled up in a graceful twist, a few tendrils loose around your face.

Zayn had agreed to come with you.

That alone had already made your heart flip three times before you even stepped out of the car. He wasn’t one for crowds, and certainly not for red carpets. But when you’d asked him—quietly, with a small smile and hopefulness in your voice—he didn’t hesitate. He had simply said, “Yeah, of course I’ll go. Just tell me what time to pick you up.”

And he had. He’d shown up, clean-shaven, hair buzzed short the way he wore it lately, dressed in an all-black tailored suit that clung to him like it had been stitched to his bones. His sharp jawline was even more prominent beneath the warm lights, and his tattoos peeked out from under his cuffs and collar like little secrets he wasn’t hiding, just not showing off. He looked—well, he looked breathtaking. But you didn’t tell him that. Not yet.

Now you stood smiling for photos, your co-star beside you, tall and broad and dripping with charisma. He leaned in every now and then to whisper something cheeky—maybe about the way you almost tripped, maybe about the woman in the third row flashing too many teeth. Whatever it was, it made you laugh, and you didn’t notice it, but Zayn had.

He was watching you from a few feet away, hands in his pockets, brows subtly furrowed.

He didn’t know what the feeling was exactly. It wasn’t rage, not at all. Just… tightness in his chest. Like a string had been tugged. A quiet alarm in his ribs that he couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was protective instinct. Or maybe it was the way your eyes lit up when you laughed with someone else. Either way, before he could second guess it, he moved toward you.

You were just turning to face another camera when you felt it—Zayn’s hand brushing yours, then gently taking it. You blinked in surprise, your co-star pausing mid-smile.

Then Zayn brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles.

Soft. Simple. But the message behind it? Crystal clear.

Your co-star laughed nervously and took a step back, suddenly remembering he had more photos to take elsewhere.

And Zayn stepped in beside you, his palm sliding with natural ease around your waist, fitting there like it belonged. Like it had always belonged. You barely had time to process it, but your body leaned toward him instinctively, your shoulder brushing his chest.

He looked down at you, eyes warm beneath his lashes.

"You look beautiful,” he said, low enough that it didn’t make the cameras click. “You always do, but... wow.”

You couldn’t help the way your breath hitched just slightly, or the way your heart fluttered inside your chest like a wild thing trying to break free. His gaze was soft but intent, like he meant it, like he saw you in this sea of glitz and wanted to pull you out and into his world.

“Thank you,” you whispered, cheeks warm despite the breeze. “It means a lot to me that you’re here. Even more so knowing you're not a very public person.”

He smiled, lips curving slow and familiar. “I’d do anything for you.”

You wanted to say something back, but the cameras flashed again, and the moment was frozen in time—your arm around Zayn’s, your laugh half-caught in the air, his hand settled protectively at your back.

“Guess I’m stealing all your press tonight,” he murmured teasingly in your ear, drawing out another soft laugh from you.

“I don’t mind,” you replied. “Let them write whatever they want.”

Zayn pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “Let them.”

For the rest of the night, he stayed by your side—through interviews, through press lines, even during the screening when you cried a little watching your own movie and he subtly slid his pinky against yours in the dark. And the whole time, his arm returned to your waist again and again, like he needed the confirmation that you were still there, and that you were his to hold—if not completely yet, then maybe someday soon.

And you? You let him. Because whatever that feeling was blooming in your chest—it didn’t feel like acting anymore.

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zaynmalik proud of you, in every aspect.

The afterparty lights blurred behind the tinted windows of the black car as it pulled away from the theater, tires humming softly against the pavement. You didn’t go. You’d smiled and thanked everyone, posed for a few more pictures, waved politely to co-stars and directors, but once you saw Zayn waiting quietly by the car—with one hand on the open door and that look in his eyes like he didn’t care for crowds or cameras or flashing lights unless they were dancing across your skin—you knew you weren’t staying another second.

The moment the door closed behind you, the silence wrapped around you both like a blanket, and you let out a long breath. You didn’t even realize how tense your shoulders were until they dropped, and the quiet hum of the car made everything feel slower, softer.

Zayn sat beside you in the back seat, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers toying absently with a ring on his hand. His jacket was open now, and he smelled like cologne and something warm and clean—like cedarwood and coffee and maybe the lavender laundry detergent you told him to start using months ago and he never admitted he liked.

You looked down at your heels, unstrapping them slowly and tossing them gently to the floor of the car. Your bare feet curled against the leather seats.

“God,” you exhaled, leaning your head back. “Why do I always forget how exhausting red carpets are?”

Zayn chuckled under his breath, turning slightly to face you. “Because you make it look easy.”

You smirked at him without lifting your head. “Flatterer.”

He shrugged. “Just saying facts.”

The city lights flickered through the window, dancing on his face as he looked at you. You felt his gaze but didn’t look yet. Not just yet.

You could feel the static between you both. That soft buzz. The one that always came after long days or intense moments. Like your souls had synced up again without words, without effort. It had always been like that. Since the very first time you met. You’d chalked it up to creative chemistry. But lately, it felt like something deeper. Quieter. And stronger.

“You were amazing tonight,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant. “In the movie.”

You turned your head slowly, eyes meeting his.

“Really?” you asked, voice soft. “You liked it?”

He nodded, his expression gentle. “It felt… real. Like you weren’t acting. Like you were just… feeling.”

“I was,” you admitted. “It was harder than I thought it would be. That kind of love story—it’s rare. You want to do it justice, you know?”

He nodded, his gaze lingering. “You did.”

There was a pause. A long, easy one. The kind that only happened between two people who didn’t need to fill the silence. You reached over and took his hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers curled around yours immediately.

“You looked good tonight,” you murmured without looking at him. “Really good.”

You felt his thumb brush softly across your knuckles. “I felt like a bodyguard in a suit.”

You laughed, tilting your head toward him. “You were more like a prince.”

Zayn’s mouth twitched. “A prince who nearly elbowed a photographer for getting too close.”

“I saw that,” you said with a knowing smile. “You really didn’t like my co-star, huh?”

He looked out the window, playing it cool. “He was fine.”

“Zayn.”

His jaw twitched. Then finally, he turned back toward you. “Okay, maybe I didn’t love the whispering and the leaning in and the smirking.”

You tried to hold back your smile, but it crept in anyway. “You jealous?”

He looked at you for a long beat, then shrugged with an honesty so simple it cracked something open in your chest. “Yeah. I think I was.”

Your smile faded, replaced by something softer. Something slower.

“Why?” you asked gently, still holding his hand.

He didn’t look away this time. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re the most important person in my life and watching someone else make you laugh like that made me want to…” he trailed off, lips curving faintly. “Be closer.”

You blinked, heartbeat stuttering. “You’re already close.”

Zayn leaned in then, not enough to scare you, not enough to blur any lines you weren’t ready to blur, but just enough to feel his warmth move closer, enough to smell the sweet hint of mint gum and whatever soft cologne clung to his shirt collar.

“Yeah,” he said, voice lower now, intimate in the dimness of the car, “but sometimes I wonder if I could be closer.”

You didn’t respond right away. You weren’t sure your voice would come out steady. So instead, you slid your hand up, tracing the line of his wrist, the smooth skin just under the cuff of his sleeve. His pulse beat strong and steady under your fingertips.

“I don’t want to ruin what we have,” you whispered.

“Me neither,” he said. “But I don’t think we would.”

You looked at him then. Fully. The way you did when you were writing music together and you were on the edge of a breakthrough. The way you did when he was speaking about something important and you wanted to catch every word.

His eyes were the same ones you’d seen in a hundred different moods. But tonight, there was something in them you hadn’t let yourself name until now.

“I’m not saying anything has to change,” he added quickly, the pad of his thumb brushing over your hand again. “Just… I’m here. However you want me. I’m here.”

Your lips parted, the words trapped just behind them. And then—

The car pulled to a gentle stop in front of his countryside house, the porch light glowing in the distance like a lighthouse calling you both home. The driver didn't turn around, just nodded once through the mirror and stepped out to open the door.

But neither of you moved.

Zayn looked at you again. “Want to stay over?”

You looked down, smiling faintly.

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I do.”

He helped you out of the car, his hand steady in yours. The night air wrapped around you both as you walked up the steps. And somewhere behind you, the last of the city lights flickered and faded.

But in front of you, something new was beginning. Quiet. Gentle. But real.

And this time, neither of you was afraid of it.

When you walked in, you let out a slow breath. His house was warm, quiet, still holding onto the smell of sage from earlier in the week. A faint trail of incense. Everything familiar. Comfortable. Like home, but not yours — his. Still, your shoes came off by the door like instinct. Zayn did the same. You slipped your coat off and hung it over the arm of the couch.

You caught him looking.

“What?”

His voice was soft. “You just looked so good tonight. And now you’re here like this… it’s just kind of messing with my head.”

You smiled and stepped closer. “You looked good tonight too. All serious and handsome and broody for the cameras.”

He rolled his eyes and took a step toward you too. “I was brooding.”

“And then you kissed my hand like we were in a black and white movie,” you teased, your voice light, but your heart beating just a little harder as he stepped even closer.

“I saw that guy whispering in your ear,” he admitted, voice low now.

Your lips twitched. “He was telling me he couldn’t believe how good my highlighter looked.”

Zayn grinned, eyes dropping to your cheeks. “He wasn’t wrong.”

You were standing inches apart now, in the soft light of his hallway. Neither of you moved. Not really. You just looked at each other for a long second. The buzz of the premiere still clung to you, but it was muted now, replaced by something far more real. Quiet. Intimate. Unspoken.

“You want to change?” he asked. “Get more comfortable?”

You nodded slowly, eyes not leaving his. “Can I steal one of your shirts?”

Zayn’s smile deepened, like it was something private he didn’t want to show the world — only you. “You don’t have to ask.”

You made your way to his room, and he followed. In his closet, he pulled out a t-shirt — worn, soft, smelling like him — and handed it to you without a word. You changed in the bathroom, carefully folding your dress and setting it on the counter. When you came back out, barefoot in just his shirt, the sleeves grazing your fingers, he looked at you like he might forget how to breathe for a second.

“Better?” you asked.

“Dangerously better,” he murmured.

You walked past him, pretending not to hear the way his voice had dropped, and made your way to the kitchen. He followed again, this time slower, his eyes lingering on your back. You opened the fridge. “Do we have tea? Or are we doing the rebellious, post-premiere glass of wine?”

“I have wine,” he said, stepping around you. “But I also have those sleepytime tea bags you like.”

You smiled. “You remember.”

“Of course I do.”

He put the kettle on while you sat on the counter, your legs swinging slightly. You watched him move — slow, familiar, so domestic in a way that was dizzying when paired with the memory of him on the red carpet just hours earlier, dressed in all black, jaw clenched, hand around your waist like it belonged there.

“You were jealous tonight,” you said after a beat.

He didn’t turn. “Was I?”

You bit back a smile. “You kissed my hand like you were challenging someone.”

He finally glanced back at you, his voice softer now. “I don’t like sharing your light with people who don’t know how to treat it.”

Your chest tightened, and for a second, you didn’t know what to say.

Zayn stepped toward you, his hands slipping into the space on either side of your legs as he leaned against the counter. He was close again. Close enough that you could smell the remnants of his cologne and something earthy — the fabric of his hoodie from earlier, maybe, or the warmth of his skin.

“I don’t know what this is becoming,” he said, voice lower now, more uncertain. “But I know I’m not ready to let go of it. Of you.”

You looked at him, really looked — at the tired around his eyes, the vulnerability sitting on his lips. Then you reached up, slowly, and cupped his jaw, your thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone.

“You don’t have to let go,” you whispered. “You don’t even have to figure it out tonight. Just… stay close.”

He leaned into your hand. “I can do that.”

You shared tea on the couch after that, your legs tucked under you and his arm slung over the back, fingertips playing with the edge of your sleeve like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. The TV played something quiet neither of you really watched. Your head eventually rested on his shoulder. And after a while, he kissed the top of it — just once.

It was nearly 2 a.m. again, and the world outside Zayn’s house had gone completely quiet. No car sounds, no wind, not even the distant bark of a neighborhood dog. It felt like the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of you inside the softly lit studio — that familiar, sacred space that had grown to feel more like home than anywhere else lately.

The session hadn’t started with the intention of recording anything deep.

Zayn had texted you earlier: “Got something stuck in my head. Can’t sleep. You up?”

You were already halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone buzzed, and by the time you’d slipped into sweatpants and thrown on a hoodie, you were already at his door, your hair still slightly damp from a shower. He looked like he hadn’t even attempted sleep — messy curls pulled back in a bun, long sleeves half-pushed up, and a mug of tea in his hand that had clearly gone cold.

Now, almost an hour into the session, the lights were low again — not for the aesthetic, but because neither of you had the energy for brightness. Only the small amber bulb in the corner glowed, casting long shadows on the walls and a warm sheen on the keys of the piano.

Zayn was sitting on the bench, legs spread slightly, barefoot, his phone on the floor beside him. You were right beside him — too close for just friends, if anyone had walked in. Your thighs brushed. Your knees leaned in together as you shared the piano.

He was playing something slow. Something soft, unresolved, delicate. You rested your chin lightly on your hand, elbow on the piano as you watched his fingers move.

“You keep writing about someone,” you said quietly, voice barely above the music. “Is it always me?”

His hands faltered just slightly on the keys, then kept going.

“Most of the time,” he admitted, not looking at you. “Even when I’m trying not to.”

You turned your eyes down to the keys.

Zayn leaned back just a little, shoulder brushing yours. “Is that… weird?” he asked, softer now, like he was scared you’d pull away.

“No,” you said. “It makes me feel something I don’t think I know how to explain.”

He tilted his head, finally meeting your eyes. “Try me.”

You sighed. “It’s like… it’s like being seen and undressed at the same time. Like I didn’t know someone was watching me love them quietly until I heard you sing it.”

Zayn didn’t respond at first. His hands had gone still on the keys, and his jaw shifted a little, like he was holding something back. Then, slowly, he reached forward and played a single, long chord — one hand resting gently across the low keys. The kind of chord that hangs heavy in the air, then dissolves, leaving only silence.

Then he said, “Can I show you something?”

You nodded.

He stood, walked over to the soundboard, and pulled up an unfinished track you hadn’t heard yet. He motioned for you to sit near the booth mic. You obeyed, sliding into the chair inside the small glass room. He adjusted the headphones on your ears himself, letting his fingers brush against your jaw when he tilted them into place.

When the track started, you were stunned.

It was soft — a minimal, heartbeat-like beat under warm, layered strings. His voice came in first, fragile and almost raspy, like he’d been holding back tears when he recorded it:

“You’ve seen every part of me, Every shade, every fracture. But you never once looked away. You never asked for less…”

Then, almost immediately after, your own voice — sampled from old takes, harmonizing behind his like a ghost, like a memory.

Your lips parted slightly.

You looked up, and he was already watching you through the glass.

He pressed a button, his voice coming into your headphones.

“I made this the night after the premiere. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Zayn…” you whispered.

“I keep trying to say it in conversation, but I get scared you’ll leave if I make it too real.”

His hand found yours, gently covering it. His forehead grazed yours first, like a question.

And you answered it by closing the last inch yourself.

His lips met yours, slow and warm, like something that had been waiting to happen for years. There was no urgency, no rush — just the quiet realization of something that had always been there. You kissed him like he was a secret you’d known forever, and he kissed you like you were the chorus he never wanted to end.

When you pulled apart — barely — your hands stayed locked together, your noses brushing. And then you leaned in again — not just for another kiss, but because you were finally falling into the thing you’d both written into your lives for so long.

You’d helped Zayn tuck Khai in, both of you brushing her hair away from her eyes, laughing quietly at the way she’d insisted on wearing her sparkly skirt to bed. She was asleep in minutes, one hand still clinging to her pink ukulele like a shield.

Now, the hallway lights were dim. The moonlight poured through the windows in slivers, streaking silver across the wooden floor. The breeze had cooled just enough to be felt on your bare arms as you padded back downstairs in socks, one of Zayn’s long-sleeved shirts now draped over your frame. The same gray one from earlier — still loose, still warm, still him.

You heard the soft clink of glass as you reached the bottom of the stairs. In the kitchen, Zayn was rinsing two glasses under low light, the warm glow of the under-cabinet bulbs catching the angles of his jaw and casting long shadows down his neck. His sleeves were pushed up, tattoos like ink bleeding through candlelight.

He looked over his shoulder when he heard you. And smiled.

“There you are,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t want to leave her room yet,” you murmured, stepping barefoot onto the tile. “She was holding my hand in her sleep.”

His eyes softened, and you watched something flicker across his face — affection, admiration, maybe even awe. He handed you one of the glasses, something fizzy and citrusy, the ice clinking softly. His fingers lingered against yours as you took it.

“She adores you.”

You smiled gently. “I adore her.”

He leaned against the counter, one hand wrapped around his glass, the other tucked into the pocket of his joggers. His eyes traced over your face, resting on your mouth longer than they should’ve. Neither of you moved.

“What?” you asked softly, almost breathless from nothing but the weight of his gaze.

“You look like you belong here,” he said, voice like velvet, low and too sincere.

You blinked, caught off guard.

“Like this house missed you when you’re not in it,” he added. “Like… I do.”

Your throat tightened.

You walked toward him slowly, the glass still in your hand, unsure if you were moving because you wanted to or because something stronger than you needed to close the distance.

“You’re saying dangerous things, Malik.”

He didn’t smile this time. He just set his drink down and straightened slightly, closing the distance between your bodies, not quite touching, but so close you could feel his breath.

“I mean every word,” he whispered.

Your chest rose, your breath shallow. You set your glass beside his. The tile felt cool beneath your feet, but your skin was hot — your entire body hyper-aware of how close he was.

“Zayn…”

“Don’t say my name like that,” he murmured, his hand finally brushing your hip.

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t know what it does to me.”

You swallowed, trying to smile, but your lips parted instead, your eyes searching his face for something solid to grab onto — and finding nothing but that same depth, that same gentle pull you’d been falling into for weeks now. Maybe longer.

“I’m scared,” you whispered honestly.

He stepped closer, his hand resting flat against the small of your back now. “Of what?”

“That this doesn’t stop. That I won’t be able to leave.”

His hand tightened slightly.

“Good,” he said, barely audible.

“Zayn…”

His name again — this time not soft. This time you gasped it because his mouth was finally on yours.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t urgent.

It was the kind of kiss you give someone when you’ve wanted it for too long — slow, steady, overwhelming. His lips moved gently against yours, like he was still unsure if you’d change your mind, like he was tasting the truth of it before it could disappear. His hands slid up your sides, pulling you in, your chest flush to his now, and when you melted into him — because you did — you felt his exhale shake.

You pulled back barely an inch, noses brushing, hearts racing.

It was late afternoon by the time the golden hour rolled into Zayn’s countryside home, bathing everything in honey-colored light. The house felt like a warm cocoon, quiet except for Khai’s giggles floating faintly from upstairs, where she was playing music and dancing in her room. Zayn had just checked on her—she was in princess pajamas, spinning in circles, making up choreography to a song from Encanto, absolutely in her own world.

Downstairs, you sat curled up on the L-shaped sofa in the open living space, barefoot, legs tucked beneath you, a half-read poetry book resting on your stomach. The big windows were open wide, and the scent of grass, lemon trees, and sun-heated wood floated in. The breeze fluttered the edge of the gauzy curtains. Outside, the last light filtered through the fields behind the house, and inside, it caught in the gold specks of dust suspended in the air.

You glanced up when you heard him descend the stairs slowly, barefoot, a little flushed from running around with Khai.

“She’s in her own concert up there,” he said, his voice low and warm as he made his way toward you.

You smiled. “She’s got better moves than I ever will.”

Zayn grinned, walking past the couch to the open kitchen area, grabbing a glass of water. You watched the way his tattoos caught the light on his forearm, the casual way his oversized grey t-shirt slid off one shoulder, hanging loosely off his frame. He leaned against the counter and looked at you, soft and unreadable.

“You’re always looking at me like that,” you murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

Zayn’s gaze didn’t move from yours. “Maybe I do.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

He walked slowly back toward the couch, glass still in hand. “Yeah. I’ve known it for a while now.”

Zayn sat beside you, but close this time—close in that way that made your heart thunder a little in your chest. His arm brushed against your knee, and he set the glass down on the coffee table without breaking eye contact. You felt the way the air shifted between you. It wasn’t just the heat outside.

“You ever get the feeling,” he said quietly, “that something’s been happening for a long time, and maybe you were both pretending it wasn’t?”

You swallowed, the softness of his voice curling around your chest like silk. “Yeah… I know that feeling.”

There was a long pause. The kind of pause that speaks louder than words. The room held its breath with you.

Zayn reached forward slowly, gently pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered at your jaw.

“I don’t wanna pretend anymore,” he said. His voice was lower now, like he was afraid to break the spell. “Not when you’re sitting here, looking like that, in my house, in my life, every day, and I keep stopping myself from…”

Your breath hitched. “From what?”

He smiled faintly. “From touching you like this.”

His hand cupped your cheek then, so careful, so tender, and the pad of his thumb swept along your skin as he leaned in. Your eyes fluttered shut just before his lips brushed yours—not rushed, not hesitant, just warm, deep, and unguarded. His mouth moved with a kind of reverence, a soft hunger, like he was savoring something he’d imagined a thousand times but never dared to take.

You shifted toward him, your hand on his chest, his heart hammering beneath it.

The kiss deepened, slow but intense. His hands slid along your waist, pulling you gently into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. The hem of your soft loungewear shirt rose slightly as your bodies pressed together.

“You okay?” he whispered against your lips, his hand splayed along your back, grounding you.

You nodded, already breathless. “Yeah… I just didn’t think you’d ever actually do something like this.”

Zayn exhaled a quiet laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “I didn’t think I had the right to.”

“But you do,” you whispered, tracing his jaw with your fingers. “You always have.”

He kissed you again, harder this time, more certain. There was something unspoken between you, something that had been growing for years but had only just now bloomed fully in the golden light of his living room. You both moved in sync—his hands exploring, yours tangled in his neck, your hips slowly shifting against his lap, heat and want tangled with every breath.

Still, it never felt rushed. It never felt anything less than meaningful.

Zayn pulled back slightly, catching your face in his hands again. His eyes searched yours, open, vulnerable.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, quietly, like a truth that had lived inside him for years.

You didn’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

From upstairs, faint music played on, a child’s voice singing. And in that moment, surrounded by warmth, sunlight, and the deepest, rawest affection you’d ever known, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen like this. Not tonight. But maybe that’s exactly why it did — because there was no performance, no expectation, no carefully crafted script. Just you in his hoodie, your bare legs tucked under you, the wine half-forgotten on the coffee table, and Zayn sitting so close that his warmth soaked into your skin.

The kiss had already happened. And the second. And now you were breathing him in with a hunger that surprised even you, clinging to his shirt as your back met the couch cushions again.

Zayn kissed you like he needed to, like it had been sitting under his skin for years. There was no hesitation in him now. Just quiet confidence, a gentle hunger. His body pressed against yours — not too heavy, not too fast. He still kissed you like he was trying to memorize it. Trying to figure out if this was real.

Khai was spending the weekend with her grandmother, and the house, usually pulsing with her little footsteps and laughter, felt oddly still — but not empty.

You and Zayn had cooked together earlier. Nothing fancy — just some pasta, a bottle of wine, and a playlist of old R&B songs playing low in the background. You wore one of his hoodies, oversized and soft, the sleeves falling over your hands, and Zayn hadn’t taken his eyes off you all night. Not really. He was subtle, careful — but you felt it. That gaze. That heat. Something unspoken had been stirring between the two of you for a while now, and tonight… it hummed louder.

The windows were wide open, letting in the warm air of late spring. The kitchen lights were off, just the warm lamp in the living room casting amber light across the hardwood floor.

You tilted your head back and let out a soft sound when his mouth traveled to your neck, slow and reverent, like he had all night and no intention of rushing it.

“Zayn…” you whispered, your fingers curling into the hem of his t-shirt. “Tell me this isn’t a dream.”

He laughed quietly, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. “It’s real. And if it’s not, I don’t ever want to wake up.”

You felt him smile against your skin as his hand slid beneath the hoodie again, resting over your ribs — the warmth of his palm grounding, protective. Your body reacted instantly, arching into him. The fabric was thin between you. Too thin. Not enough.

“Can I?” he asked softly, his voice rasped, eyes flicking down to your thighs — the hoodie bunched just above them now, your breath shallow and lips kiss-swollen.

You nodded, heart pounding. “Please.”

That single word undid him.

Zayn kissed you again, slower, deeper, and this time his hands moved with more certainty, sliding the hoodie over your head and tossing it somewhere behind the couch. You were bare beneath it — no bra, nothing but soft skin and want — and he stared at you like he’d never seen anything more perfect.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like it physically hurt to hold back. “You’re driving me insane.”

You reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head, and the moment your hands touched his skin — warm and sculpted and already familiar from all those platonic touches that suddenly weren’t — you sighed, like it was exactly where you were meant to be.

He kissed you again, one hand slipping behind your neck to tilt your head up to him, and the other tracing the edge of your waist, just above your underwear. His touch was maddening — slow, teasing, hot — and every time he moved closer, it still didn’t feel like close enough.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted you like this?” he murmured, mouth against your collarbone. “The way you look at me… how you always sit too close... how you know me better than anyone.”

You could barely breathe, barely think. “Then show me.”

That was it.

He stood, lifted you with such ease it made you gasp and laugh all at once, and carried you upstairs — your arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist, his mouth never leaving yours. You didn’t know which room he brought you into — his or the guest one — but the bed was soft, and the windows were still cracked open, and the breeze made the curtains flutter like you were inside a movie.

Zayn laid you down with such care it made your chest ache. His body followed yours, his hips slotting between your legs as he leaned over you, his hands framing your face like you were something sacred.

“I’m not just your friend anymore,” he whispered. “I can’t be.”

You reached up and pulled him down to kiss you, breathless and needy and full of that silent finally that had lived in your chest for far too long.

He made love to you like he’d been waiting years — like this wasn’t just a night, but a shift in your entire story. His hands roamed your body with reverence. His mouth whispered your name like a vow. There was laughter too, in between the panting and the kissing — because it was Zayn, and it was you, and somehow it felt like the most natural thing in the world to kiss him breathless one moment and giggle when he muttered something about you being “unfairly hot” the next.

But then it shifted again — deeper. He slowed down. His fingers threaded through yours, pinning your hand beside your head as he moved inside you, and suddenly it wasn’t just physical.

You stared at him, eyes glassy, heart too full.

He leaned down and kissed your lips, soft as a secret. “You okay?” he asked, brushing your hair back.

You nodded, overwhelmed in the best way. “Better than okay.”

When it was over, he didn’t let go of you. You stayed tangled, skin warm and damp, his arm tight around your waist, his lips moving lazily against your shoulder.

“You ruined me,” you murmured.

He smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “We just started”.

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