“F-frank, i-“ you’re holding onto his arm, looking up at him behind you, towering above you as you drift in and out of that dream space you find yourself in so often - his cock bullying its way inside, stretching out your soaked walls, the wetness dripping down onto the floor.

you start to ache, stood on your tiptoes next to the bed, his boots firmly planted on the floor and jeans dropped low - just enough to hold you like this, just enough to press forward with each thrust, deep enough that you can feel him all over when your legs begin to shake.

“atta girl, letting me take what i want, hold you like this.” he croons, eyelids dropped low while he relishes in the feeling every time his hips drive forwards with enough force to bounce you back onto him. “g-gonna cum, frankie.” one of your hands keeping hold of his forearm still wrapped around your neck, your other hand running down between your legs, feeling how soaked they are, your arousal running down.

Going to shoot pool at the bar was Frank’s idea of a fun, relaxing fortieth birthday celebration. Peter tried to talk him into dinner, trying out the new reclining theatre seats at the cinema—literally anything other than having to surround himself with old, angry drunks who cared far too much about some numbered balls on a table. You didn’t have any qualms with it, though. It was just another excuse for you and your boyfriend, Peter, to get out of your stuffy apartment, still not quite over the way your brand new AC unit broke ten days into the New York summer heat. 

Plus, no one really had any complaints when they watched you bend over the pool table, aiming your pool stick with careless precision after one too many beers. Peter’s eyes were glued to your ass, desperate to find out the color of your panties every time your tight-fitting denim skirt lifted in the back. 

Frank did all he could to not let his gaze wander, forcing his attention to stray every time he saw your ass perked up in the air when you arched your back over the side of the table. But every time you turned to him, frowning up at him with your big, round eyes, after missing your shot, it took every ounce of his feeble self-restraint to not melt completely. 

He’d always had a soft spot for you, but seeing you like this—with a hazardous amount of liquid courage pumping through his system and your short skirt barely fitting over the curve of your ass—he couldn’t tame the twisted desires that penetrated his mind.

“Frank,” you whined innocently, growing irritated that you were losing, missing your target for the nth time.

The muscle in his jaw tensed at your pleading tone, but he forced a cheeky grin. “I told you, darling. You can’t beat me.”

He was positioned on a bar stool, one leg propped on the rod between the legs of the stool, and the other lazily spread. His hands were resting on top of his pool stick when you caught the slur in his cocky tone.

Your eyes rolled, gaze sluggishly moving to your boyfriend, who was taking up the stool on the other side of the table that split him and Frank, sipping on his beer and chuckling at you. 

Shoulders sagging, you glanced back at Frank. “Well, can you help me?”

He nearly choked on his drink. “Help you?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, frowning over at the pool table. “Help me aim better.” 

Frank’s gaze shot to Peter, not necessarily looking for approval, just curious to know what his reaction would be. Tilting back the rest of his beer, Peter just swirled the empty bottle.

“I’m gonna go get another,” he announced nonchalantly, placing his hand on the small of your back as he passed between you and Frank. He eyed you softly, like he always did. “You need one, angel?”

You shook your head. “No, I‘m good,” you told him, nodding over at your bottle on the table that was still full. 

He nodded, effortlessly kissing your temple with a quick peck before carrying on to the bar. 

For a moment, you just observed him. The way he had a lazy stride, like there was something weighing him down with each footstep. His hair was growing out, curling at the ends in a way that made you want to tangle your fingers in it, and the T-shirt he was wearing was a little too tight around his biceps, the fabric bunching over the ridges of his muscles.

When Peter left the area, shimmying through the thick crowd to the bar, your longing gaze danced back over to Frank. 

“So—” you rested your chin on the tip of your pool stick, smirking up at him “—you gonna help me, or what?”

Frank licked his lips, pushing himself off his stool with a huff. He took one last long gulp of his beer before closing the space between the two of you. 

“Let me see this thing,” he said, voice gruff and lazy from the number of beers he’d downed. You let him take the pool stick from you, your eyes glued on his profile as he studied it. “Your problem’s your focus. You can’t let your eyes off your target.” The front of your body grazed his, the sharp outline of his belt buckle scraping your stomach, as he repositioned himself. “Here. Let me show you.”

You chewed on your bottom lip to simmer the excitement that coursed through your veins when he offered his guidance. 

His hand slowly moved to your back, gently nudging for you to return to your position against the pool table, the same position that had become permanently engrained in the back of his dark mind. 

Holding the pool stick at your side, you slowly slid the tip of it onto the table, slipping it between your fingers. In order to get a better view of the path needed to hit the white ball onto your striped number seven, your top half lowered to the table. 

Frank was right there with you, a reluctant inch separating him from your arched back. 

A snicker spilled out of you, registering his hesitance, but he ignored it. His thoughts were too busy trying to strengthen his self-restraint. 

“You gotta lower the tip. If you hit the top of the ball, it’ll spin against you,” he explained, voice gruff and too close to your ear. 

You raised the hand that was balancing the hilt of the stick, your tongue grazing your bottom lip in concentration. “Like this?”

“Uh-uh,” he grunted, head shaking. 

Huffing in frustration, your muscles sagged. “Can you just show me? I don’t get what you mean.”

You knew exactly what he meant, but your body was writhing in nervous flutters with him close, but not close enough to satisfy the craving you had. 

He exhaled heavily, standing up and leaning down over top of you. Achingly slow, his hands slid down your arms to guide your grip in the correct position. “Just like—” his hips dug into your backside, hand forcing its way into the grip you had on the stick “—that.”

“Oh.” You stifled your smirk. 

The move you made next was careless. Beneath him, you arched your back further, ass sticking up to where his hips were. 

A ragged breath came out Frank, his jaw screwed tight enough to splinter. “Don’t do that,” he breathed, a fragile warning. 

You giggled, smirking at the power you suddenly had over him. He wasn’t making any move to shift away from you. The small motion you added with your hips, pressing harder against his growing bulge, was just a taunt. 

“I saw you watching me,” you told him, voice barely above a whisper. 

When his dark eyes flashed to yours, you blinked slowly. 

The way you batted your lashes was enough to break the mental chains holding him back. He didn’t respond. 

He wasn’t able to deny the way he’d been silently haunting the corner of the pool room, eyes transfixed on you each time you bent over the side of the table, imagining what it would feel like for him to bend you over in front of him, having his way with you.

You bought your lips up to his ear. “Don’t worry, Frank,” you whispered. “I won’t tell.”

Frank’s thoughts spiralled, frozen and glued to you despite how wrong it felt. 

You were his friend’s girlfriend. You were half your age. It was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, he repeated in his head like a pointless mantra. 

He shook his head, forcing himself out of his own head, and loosened the grip he had on you. With shaky steps, he slowly backed off of you. 

Your head followed him, the same smirk eating away at your full lips that he couldn’t take his eyes off of. 

“That’s fine.” You sighed, returning your attention to the pool stick and then down to your target. “I think I got it now.”

Your back was still arched in a way that felt illicit, the curve of your spine making a shape Frank knew would forever be stuck in his deepest, darkest thoughts. Your skirt had rode up from where he’d been pressed against you and when you sunk back, fixing your aim just before shooting, he saw it. The swollen mound between your legs that was clung with red, lacey panties, leaving little to the imagination. 

It was barely a glimpse, he thought he’d made it all up in his mind for a moment. 

When the tip of your chalked pool stick slammed into the white ball, you bit down on your lip with apprehension, hoping you wouldn’t miss again. 

Peter walked back through the crowd with a fresh beer when the striped number seven ball clattered into the corner pocket, his attention immediately falling on his overly-enthused girlfriend. 

Guilt immediately crashed through Frank’s chest. He could barely look at Peter, knowing he had just felt the outline of his girlfriend’s curvaceous figure on his body, felt the softness of your skin against his calloused hands, drowning in the worst thoughts about you. 

“You make it in?” Peter asked you with a proud look on his chiseled features. His tongue sunk into his jaw, coughing out a laugh.

You nodded, jumping up and down with excitement. “Frank helped me.”

Frank’s heart hammered in his chest when Peter’s gaze met his. The younger guy just smirked at him, though, raising a curious brow. “Good man.”

There wasn’t a good thing about himself, Frank thought. 

He suddenly had a desire to suppress the awful things he was feeling, knowing another Corona wouldn’t do the trick. 

He huffed and told you and Peter, “I’m gonna get a drink,” before exiting the pool room in quick strides. 

But you caught the way he adjusted his hardened length when his back turned to the two of you.

When Frank eventually returned to the pool room, nursing an old fashioned and grieving his shredded dignity, Peter was sitting back on his stool, legs spread, peering over at Frank while sipping his beer with his arm slung around you from your standing position next to him. 

You tilted your head up at your boyfriend, whispering something Frank couldn’t make out from his distance. It wasn’t until he returned to his side of the bar table, setting his drink down and stuffing his wadded dollar bills into his wallet from paying the bartender, that he heard your small voice tell Peter, “he wants it, trust me.”

Frank’s eyes twitched, curious gaze flashing up to you and Peter, whose lips were smirking around the rim of his glass beer bottle at whatever his girlfriend was telling him. 

You inched away from Peter so you could see his face better. Your brows raised inquisitively, searching for approval. He tilted his chin, nodding with a soft smile. 

Peter slid off his stool, adjusting his grip on his pool stick before going over to the table. He was aiming for the solid number two, back turned to you and Frank, when Frank slid back on his stool with uncertainty running through his thoughts. 

Frank understood something had shifted while he’d been at the bar, but he just couldn’t figure out what it was. 

You made your way around the table cautiously, slowly stepping closer to Frank. 

When those big, round, puppy dog eyes of yours flashed up to him again, his chest heaved. It wasn’t until your hands fell on his knees—slowly crawling their way up his thick, muscular, jean-clad thighs—that he felt the closest he’d ever been to a cardiac arrest. 

“Wha—What are you doin’?” Frank asked, leaning as far back in his seat that he could, as if that would somehow mark him safe from the way he craved your wondrous touch. 

You grinned up at him, finger nails digging into the impenetrable muscle of his thigh. “It’s okay, Frank. Peter doesn’t mind.”

His brows stitched together. “The hell you mean?”

Ignoring his confusion, you slid your petite frame between his spread legs, hands moving from the tops of his thighs to his rock-hard abdomen, feeling the outline of his rigid, toned stomach beneath his T-shirt. 

With your eyes exploring along with your touch, you could feel his shaky nerves, the invisible currents of electricity coursing the warmth of his skin. 

“Do you like this?” you whisper, eyes flicking up to his dark, dilated pupils. “You like me touching you?”

Your name spilled from his lips, caught somewhere between a plea and a warning. 

He should have backed off, politely told you that you were taking it too far, warned you of how much chaos could ensue because of your reckless actions. But he didn’t. Because he did like it. He liked it so much, he exhaled through gritted teeth when your hand snaked up his chest further, your head tilting so your nose brushed his sharp jaw, lips grazing the smooth skin of his neck.

“This isn’t right,” he managed to say, resisting the urge to grab your waist and bring you closer to him. 

You pulled away just enough to look at him. “If it feels good, it can’t be wrong, Frank.”

Your small hands moved to his much larger ones that were resting at his side, guiding them to where you knew he wanted them to be. One placed on your waist, the other on your chest. 

You maintained eye contact with him the whole time as his warm palm pressed against the exposed skin of your chest, right above the hem of your tank-top. 

“Do you feel that?” you asked, hoping he could feel the rushing rate of your heart—an example of how badly you wanted him. 

He brought his bottom lip between his teeth, exhaling through his nose. His hand subconsciously tightened around your waist, sinking deeper into your skin. 

“Yeah,” he muttered just as some newfound sense of bravery overcame him. 

He moved the hand that was pressed to your chest, gripping yours and moving it to the bulge forming in his suddenly too-tight jeans. 

He cocked a brow. “Do you feel that?”

Your eyes dropped to his lap splayed before you, hand moving along the outline of his hardened dick. A curious moan vibrated in your throat, sizing him up. 

There was always something about Frank that enticed you. Always so closed-off and angry with the world. But the more time you spent with him—thanks to his friendship with Peter—you saw there was much more to him than that. 

His guarded walls broke slowly. It took him time to realize you weren’t a threat. You often helped stitch up his cuts when you found yourself at his warehouse by the harbor with Peter, knowing all too well how the two of them avoided hospitals like the plague. His lifestyle would scare most people, but it didn’t phase you. If anything, it just worried you the same way it did with Peter. The threat of something going wrong, something hurting either one of them, kept you up at night. 

It wasn’t until a couple months ago that something changed. Frank no longer looked at you as Peter’s little girlfriend, a risk personified, that knew too much about them. Instead, he started seeing you for what you were. Tough, quick-witted, a little too reckless for your own good. Fucking gorgeous.

He would pretend not to be phased when he would barge into your shared apartment with Peter, finding you on the couch in nothing but a big T-shirt and shorts that were short enough to be classified as panties. When you would purposefully brush your ass against him when shimming past him in the slim hall of his kitchen, he’d have to teach himself how to breathe again. 

The night he accidentally walked in on you getting out of the shower when Peter told him the bathroom was free, not knowing, he nearly lost himself. The sight of your naked body, your curves perfectly shaped before him, and the way you didn’t immediately rush to grab your towel and scream at him to get out. All of it resided in the back of his mind. 

He would think about you often, especially at night when he was restless and tossing back and forth in bed. Sometimes, at a weak point, he’d touch himself to the thought of you. Thinking of what you’d look like with your hands on him. 

It was all wrong, though, he knew that. 

He would never do anything to purposefully hurt Peter, despite their constant bickering and bullshit. You belonged to Peter, not him. But a creative imagination didn’t harm anyone. 

However, now that he had you in front of him, palming his dick in a way that he never could have imagined in his wildest dreams, his resilience was wavering. 

Peter’s solid number two ball fell into the pocket with what felt like an ear-piercing crash. It really wasn’t anything but a soft thud, but it felt like sirens going off in the back of Frank’s mind. 

Straightening his posture, Peter’s eyes moved to where you were standing between Frank’s legs. Something in the air thickens, no one making any move to stop what was happening, but no one urging it on either. 

Your hand grips his bulge, lips pursed with needy anticipation. “Do you wanna come back to the apartment with us?”

Frank’s dick twitched beneath your touch. “Us?”

The realization dawned on him the minute his dark eyes trailed over to Peter, who was watching the two of you with an odd fixation. One hand was propped on the edge of the pool table, shouldering his weight, while a faint smirk spread on his lips.

“He likes it,” you whispered to Frank, noticing his apprehension.

That kinky bastard, Frank thought. Of course.

Frank’s jaw muscle ticked when he looked back down at you, riddled with confusion but suddenly incredibly intrigued. “What exactly is it that he likes, darling?”

With your back still turned to Peter, you carefully pull yourself up on your tip-toes, lips moving to the side of Frank’s neck. Before pressing a sloppy kiss on the skin, you breathe out a quick, “This.” Your hand continues working his erection, desperately wanting him to get over his hesitation and understand your need for him. For both of them.

Your free hand takes his, bringing it down to the hem of your skirt between the two of you. You push his big hand under the denim fabric, telling him exactly where you wanted him without having to utter a word.

The second his fingers grazed the outline of your warmth, a shudder rolled through your body. The soft movement—the sharp breath against his skin—caused a barely audible grunt to escape his tight throat. 

He took his time, lowering his fingers agonizingly slow, until they were met with the damp, puddled patch of your arousal between your quivering thighs. It was a miracle you were still standing, completely losing your strength with his touch. 

A shallow breath came from his parted lips when he allowed himself to rub a gentle circle around the wetness, wanting so badly to know what you felt like beneath your drenched panties.

For a moment, he forgot Peter was still standing a few feet away from the two of you. He forgot the two of you were at a bar. He forgot it was his turn at the table. He forgot his own fucking name. He forgot everything. 

The only thing he could think of was the feeling of you this close to him, the delicate shape of your folds beneath your panties, the firm grip you had on his dick.

“Come on,” you whispered, pulling away from him slightly. You were reaching your breaking point. Your desire to feel more—to have more—was eating you alive. “Come with us.”

Frank’s lethargic vision shot to Peter, who made slow strides over to the two of you. Completely unphased by what was unfolding before him, he set his pool stick against the wall with the row of others and picked up his beer off the table.

Peter took a swig of it, then another, and looked over at Frank. “Don’t be a pussy, Frank.”

“Yeah, Frank—” you drawled, backing away from him with a cheeky grin, “—don’t be a pussy.” It sounded like a teasing jest, but it was pure desperation in your voice. 

Earning a chuckle from Peter, who reached out to grab your hand and drag you towards him, you fell into his grasp like it was second nature. His arm held you in, wrapped around your waist as the both of you studied Frank.

Frank dragged a hand down his face, trying to think about how he got himself in this position. 

“This is so fucked up.” His eyes darted over at Peter. “You’re okay with this shit?” he asked, still reeling in disbelief.

Peter tilted his head with a taunting expression on his face. “You mean am I okay with you touching my girlfriend like that?” His voice was sharp, almost accusing, but you knew he was messing with Frank. He was always messing with Frank. As soon as Frank’s expression hardened, your boyfriend coughed out a laugh. “Yes, Frank. I’m okay with it.”

Still simmering in Frank’s silence, your boyfriend pulled his wallet out of his pocket without disengaging the way he was holding you. “Don’t leave her hanging, man.”

Your index finger’s nail was between your teeth, biting down with a sloppy little grin on your face when Frank raked you over once more with his dark eyes. 

For a long moment, the two of you just stared at each other. You knew Frank was still trying to figure out if the two of you were pulling some evil little trick on him, but the way your heart was thumping with enthusiastic anticipation, you didn’t care.

All you wanted was for him to agree, so the three of you could go home and you could find some relief from the agonizing desperation pooling between your legs. 

It took five minutes, if that, for Peter to close out his tab and for Frank to get his shit together long enough to leave the bar. 

By the time the three of you walked out into the warm, mid-August night air, you debated having one of them hail a taxi so you could get back home quicker. But Frank and Peter had a weird thing with public transportation. They didn’t trust anyone, let alone some potentially ill-intented taxi driver. 

Some nights, when the streets were quiet and there was no one around to question it, Peter would swing you home with his organic web, laughing every time you burrowed your head into the crook of his neck or screamed when he got a little too fast with it. 

You wondered what Frank did to get places quickly. He had some big, armored truck once, but Peter told you he wrecked that during some eventful run-in with a “bad guy.” His words, of course.

Walking home was seemingly Peter’s motive this evening. One of his arms was lazily draped over your shoulder, his other hand was stuffed in the front pocket of his jeans. 

Frank walked a few steps behind you, matching your pace with precision.

You noticed him do that a lot. Whenever the three of you would walk the streets, Peter was always at your side, and Frank was always right behind you. 

Initially, you assumed it was his way of keeping you safe. It definitely was, but now you found yourself wondering if he just wanted to watch the way your ass shook when you walked. 

Frank had lit a cigarette from his crushed pack of Marlboro reds. He took a long drag, blowing a cloud of smoke that floated between you and Peter, causing your boyfriend to snap his head around with an annoyed expression. 

“Are you smoking?” he gaped, face scrunched. 

The older man shrugged, flicking ash on the concrete mid-stride.

Peter scoffed. “Since when do you smoke?” 

“Only do it in high-stress situations,” Frank told him with a comically calm tone.

You craned your neck to look back at him, laughing. “Awe, are you stressed, Frankie?” Your bottom lip poked out just to tease him, the streetlamp reflecting off your shiny lipgloss. 

Frank wanted to taste it. “A bit,” he grumbled. 

You slowly slipped yourself out of Peter’s grasp, causing both men to halt in their tracks. They always stayed extremely close when out in public. You never really thought about anything with them. What could possibly go wrong when New York’s beloved Spider-man and the man the news called The Punisher were at your side?

Turning on your heels, you reached out and grabbed Frank’s belt buckle. He was so tall compared to you, it was right within your reach. You intended to pull him into you, but he was completely immovable, the action only caused you to stumble forwards into him. 

Chuckling at your own actions, you peered up at Frank. “You don’t need to be stressed.”

“Yeah?” he tilted his head down at you, absolutely at a loss of willpower with you on him. “Why’s that?”

“Because—” laughter spilled out of you “—we’re gonna have so much fun.”

He blew out a cloud of smoke, angling it away from your face, and reeled.

He wanted to be hesitant. Hesitance would be a completely logical feeling. It would be entirely normal for him to feel a bit of apprehension about the plan you’d concocted to have them both, given that wasn’t something Frank had ever partook in.

But he wasn’t hesitant. Not anymore, at least.

Beyond his confusion regarding what exactly it was that he was getting himself into, it was complete and utter lust that coursed through him. Lust for you. 

He wanted you in all the ways he’d imagine when he was laying in bed at night, fucking himself with his own hand, or in the shower with his forehead pressed to the tile, picturing it was your pretty, glossy lips around his cock.

Peter could sense it. He wasn’t fucking stupid—he saw the way Frank always looked at you, like he wanted to devour you. He had just been waiting for it to all come to a head. 

He called it sharing. Sounded innocent and less vulgar that way. He liked sharing you, knowing it was him that you always chose. It was him that you were completely devoted to—always would be. 

You were hesitant when he’d talked about it one day, asking him, “Isn’t that cheating?” He’d laughed at you and countered with, “Not if I’m giving it to you, too, angel.”

There was some deep, dark part of him that sprung to life when you were being fucked by someone else, trembling with pleasure, and the only name you moaned was his. Because you were his.

Walking up the stairs to your apartment because the elevator was under maintenance for the third time this month, felt like a chore. But your footsteps were eager.

Both men were on your trail as you skipped up the echoing stairwell, their attention trained on the view they had up your skirt. 

“The red ones, angel?” Peter joked, playfully lifting the back of your skirt. “Must be a special occasion.”

Frank’s breath hitched in his throat at the sight, earning a taunting laugh from your boyfriend. Peter turned to the man next to him, smirking devilishly just as you swatted his hand away.

“You like what you see, old man?” Peter asked, nudging Frank’s side.

You briefly glanced back at him, curious to what his answer would be. He just rolled his eyes. 

“Playing hard to get, Frankie?” you probed, finally reaching your floor. 

He tilted his chin up, towering over you. “Never that, darling.”

Peter pulled the stairwell door wide and your gaze hung on Frank as you backed into the hallway. 

There wasn’t a single light on in the apartment when the three of you walked through. It was unbearably hot, very little airflow in the small place due to the broken AC failing to combat the summer heat. You kicked off your shoes, inching further into the apartment to flip on the lamp by the couch. 

Peter tossed his keys on the kitchen counter, raking a hand through his dark waves.

Frank had been inside your apartment countless times, but, for some reason, it all felt new to him. The colors on the thrifted rug in the living room seemed brighter, the humming of the refrigerator felt louder, and the smell was visceral. It smelled like the candle you always kept burning, the same one you’d bought Frank to keep at his place after stating it smelled “like death” one time.

But over all the vibrance, sounds, and smells, was the tension brewing. It was sharp enough to cut, weighing on your shoulders like a tangible object.

Peter rounded the couch, falling back on the center cushion. 

A second passed of more silence before he cocked his head up at Frank. He furrowed his brows. “You just gonna stand there like some creep?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “The fuck you want me to do, Pete? I just walked in the door.”

Your boyfriend shifted on the couch, finding a more comfortable view of you where you were standing in the center of the living room.

He tilted his head, ushering Frank to come closer. “Kiss her.”

Peter was a very matter-of-fact person. Usually, Frank was, too. There was a zero tolerance policy regarding bullshit in their friendship. 

But, for a moment, Frank genuinely thought Peter was bullshitting. 

“You just gonna watch, or some shit?” Frank asked him, unsure.

Your boyfriend’s head lulled back, laughter spilling out of him. “You think I’m just gonna sit back and watch you fuck my girl, like some cuck?”

Frank shrugged. “I don’t know what your freaky ass is into.”

The back and forth between the two of them was becoming unbearable. Your core was aching with an insatiable need. All the talk was causing you to fluster, growing desperate and needy.

It seemed Frank felt the same. In three quick strides, he was right up against you, peering down at you from his height.

“You want me to kiss you?” he asked you.

Your lips curled. “Amongst other things.”

It was like lightning. That was what it felt like when his lips crashed onto yours. It was soft at first, a slow, deep peck. He pulled away for half a second, studying your face, before colliding back with you. 

The second time his lips met yours, there was a newfound sense of hunger in his movements. 

His lips parted, tongue running along your lips, begging to get through so he could taste you. When you let him in, your tongues tangled around each other's. teeth grazing. 

It was a desperate kiss, sloppy and wet, but it had you completely folding. 

The minute your fruit-flavoured lipgloss met Frank’s tastebuds, he was lost. He was lost in the kiss, lost in you. God, he wanted to be in you. 

Your arms draped his shoulders, interlocking around his neck to force him down, keeping him as close to you as possible. His hands wandered about your body, reaching around to grip your ass. 

He pulled your skirt up without a thought, hands gripping the flesh of your ass with a throaty grunt. The skin was so soft and plump in his touch, he felt a shudder roll through his body.

His hands reached down to your thighs, picking you up off the floor with such effortless ease. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you to the couch without breaking the kiss. 

Peter’s jaw was taut with tension, watching every move you made with such precision, it was borderline obsession.

He stood up, giving Frank the space to lay you down on the cushions. But your legs were still so tightly bound around him, it forced him down on top of you. 

You reached down to the hem of his shirt, silently begging him to remove it. 

In response, he broke the kiss, standing up off the couch to shrug it off, while you situated yourself on the couch. 

“You, too,” you said to Peter between shaky breaths, gesturing to his shirt.

Your boyfriend tore off his T-shirt in one swift motion, kneeling down to crawl on top of you the same way Frank had. 

Propping himself up with hands next to your head, he peered down at you and smirked. “You, too, angel.”

You rolled your eyes at his show. “You do it.”

Peter obliged, digging his fingers under the hem of your tank-top and lifting it over your head, leaving your top half completely exposed. You never wore a bra, especially when it was as hot as it was outside. 

Neither of the two men admiring the way your perky tits sat seemed to have any qualms about it. 

You took a second to eye the two of them, reeling over their tanned, muscular chests. Your brain lapsed over the sight of the hair trailing down Frank’s prominent V-line. You wanted so badly to see what he had under his pants. Analyzing his hardened bulge, your heartrate quickened. 

Both of them stood over you on the couch, shirtless and writhing in anticipation. 

Peter unbuttoned his jeans first, prompting Frank to follow suit. 

Frank thought undressing himself next to Peter would have been more uncomfortable. But neither of them thought twice about it, coming to the joint understanding that this wasn’t about them. It was about you. 

“Come here, angel,” Peter mumbled to you.

You complied, sitting up on the couch, and folding your legs beneath yourself. 

Sitting back on your calves, you watched with eagerness as Peter stepped out of his boxers. His painfully hard dick slapped his lower stomach during the movement, causing a puddle of desire in your needy center. 

He took a step closer until his shins met the couch, his cock right in front of your face. Your hands trailed up his bare legs until they reached his length, stroking it once in your hand before bringing your tongue to the hilt, giving it one, long lick up to the tip. 

“Yeah, that’s good,” Peter moaned, gathering your hair in his fist. “Show Frank how good you can suck my dick, angel.” 

The deepness of his voice rattled your nerves as you took him in your mouth. Your throat tightened around his tip, a gag tearing from your throat as you tried to take as much of him as possible. You continued bobbing your head, saliva dripping down your chin. What you couldn’t fit in your mouth, you worked in a matching rhythm with your sticky, wet hand. 

Peter’s eyes were stuck on you, watching your eyes water when he pulled your hair and pumped himself in your mouth. His jaw went slack, breathing ragged at the absolute pleasure you were giving him. 

“Fuck…” he groaned, pulling your hair harder, just like he knew you wanted him to. 

You pulled away from him, panting heavily, but still working him with your hand. Swallowing hard, your eyes shifted to Frank who was completely lost in the performance you were giving. 

Peter laughed, but it came out more like a moan. “Your turn, old man.”

Frank moved closer to the couch, his erection begging to break free of his tight-fitting boxers. You continued working Peter with one hand while the other worked to get Frank undressed.

He noticed your intent, pushing them off until they fell at his ankles. When his dick finally broke free, a deep moan tore from his throat. 

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight of it. 

Peter had a big dick, there was no denying that, but Frank’s was a devious competitor. It was girthy in a way that had you concerned, but just as formidable in length. 

You wasted no more time. You wanted to feel him in your mouth. Really, you wanted to see if you could fit him in your mouth. 

Peter pulled away from your grasp around his saturated cock, giving you the ability to focus completely on Frank.

He watched you try to take Frank in his entirety, gagging when you neared the base of him. His eyes fixed on the way your throat tightened, knowing exactly how it felt when you did that. 

Frank’s fingers ran coursed through your tangled mess of hair, gathering it all up in a fist so he could see your face while you choked on his dick.

It was the most perfect thing he'd ever seen. 

The thought dawned on him suddenly—the reason why Peter always called you his angel. That was what you were. Some heaven-sent creature. 

Your lips suctioned around his girthy shaft, gripping onto his hips as he pumped himself in your mouth. Your eyes fluttered closed, tongue running circles around his tip each time you could reach it. 

“Holy… fuck…” Frank panted, tugging on your hair.

His teeth chattered, his nervous system pumping with adrenaline and something akin to pure euphoria. 

He wasn’t going to last long with your mouth around him, he knew that. He had dreamt of this moment for so long, he could barely trust that this was his true reality. He must have been dreaming, he’d thought.

He felt his release coming, it was so fast, he pulled out of your mouth with a pop and drew in a sharp wince. He had to halt his breathing for the longest moment, chest caved, in order to hold himself back from cumming all over you. 

You brought the back of your hand to your mouth, wiping the mess you’d become away. 

“Lay down, angel,” Peter said, leading you to slip off your knees and situate yourself on the couch, your back flush with the soft cushions. 

He climbed onto the couch at your feet, dick throbbing with desperation. Your eyes noticed the bead of pre-cum at his pink tip, wanting so desperately to lick it up. 

His hands moved to the waist band of your denim skirt, undoing the button and pulling the zipper down. “Lift up,” he instructed. 

Your hips bucked, giving him the space he needed to pull your skirt down. He brought your panties with it, slipping both off in one quick stride and discarding them on the living room floor. 

“Mm,” Peter sounded, gaze fixed on your exposed pussy. “Look at how wet we got her, Frank.” 

You were growing irritable. “Please touch me,” you pleaded, hands wandering to your tits, massaging the plump muscle and pinching your pebbled nipples. “Please.”

Peter’s fingers trailed your folds, smirking down at just how drenched they became from your arousal. It was pitiful, really, the way you were squirming against the couch, panting and quivering under his touch. 

He noticed it. Hell, he could smell it. 

Ever since his arachnid DNA had started betraying him, attempting to dominate his human form, his senses had been heightened. In situations like this, it became worse. He could hear your heart beat like it was his own, make out the miniscule beads of sweat running down your temple, and smell your arousal. The sweet, salty scent had him folding under your intoxicating pleas. 

His fingers entered you unannounced. He gave your walls time to adjust around them, grunting at the wet sounds that filled the quiet room as your needy flesh suctioned him in. 

Frank moved to the couch, positioning himself on his knees above your head.

“Fuck, angel,” Peter moaned, pumping his fingers in and out of you. 

Your head tilted back, back arching off the couch at the all-consuming pleasure. Your hand reached up to Frank’s dick without thinking. You just needed to do something with your hands. 

He sat up on his knees, watching the faces you made as Peter fucked you with his fingers and the way you stroked his dick. 

“Yeah. Just like that, baby,” Frank muttered, gripping the back of the couch. “God, yes. Just… like that.”

Peter used one hand to continue pumping you, adding two fingers to your tight, drenched entrance. With the other, his thumb moved in gentle circles over your swollen clit. 

The overstimulation was too much. You felt your vision blurring, body twitching. Your legs clenched around Peter’s hand. 

“Uh-uh,” Peter warned. He moved his hand from your clit for less than a second, just long enough to drape one of your legs over his broad shoulder. “Keep those legs open for me.”

Your head dug into the couch cushion, your strokes on Frank’s cock becoming sloppy. 

“Oh, God,” you cried out, nails digging into the fabric of the couch. “I’m–I’m gonna—”

“Good girl,” Peter coaxed, not slowing his rhythm. “Cum for me. Show Frank how good you feel.”

His words were the last piece you needed to hit your release. Your jaw went slack, ragged pants escaping you. Your hips bucked against Peter’s hand as your orgasm flushed out of you. 

“Fuck—you look so good like that,” Frank mumbled, brows pinched together, teeth chewing at his bottom lip, as he watched you.

“So do you,” you chuckled, still quivering from your high that you were already to chase again. 

Peter pulled his fingers out of you slowly, immediately bringing them to his mouth. Watching him suck on your arousal like that was the most attractive thing you’d ever seen. You gasped at the sight.

“Fuck, Frank—” Peter sucked his finger once more “—you gotta taste her, man.”

Frank chuckled. “I got a better idea.” He sat back on his knees. “Turn my way, baby.”

Every muscle in your body felt like jelly. It was so soon after your orgasm, everything that touched your skin—the fabric of the couch, your hair falling down your back, Frank’s hands gripping your thigh—was enough to send you over the edge.

Turned around on the couch, Frank’s fingers dug into the skin of your exposed hips. With one swift movement, he pulled you closer to him. 

You didn’t give a second to adjust himself before your hand reached out and grabbed his throbbing cock as soon as you were close enough to do so. You aligned the tip of him to your quivering entrance. 

The second his sensitive tip touched the wetness of your folds, he sucked in a sharp breath.

“Let me see that mouth, angel,” Peter said, sitting up on his knees behind you. 

Your head fell back on the couch, chin tilting until his tip aligned with your swollen lips. You welcomed the way he slid through, immediately suctioning around him. You pumped the rest of him with one hand, the other gripped the couch. 

“Yeah, just like that,” he grunted.

Frank held your hips up, thrusting into you once. The movement tore a moan from your stuffed throat. 

“Fuck—You feel so good,” Frank stammered, reeling in the way your tight walls clung to him.

He pulled away slowly, but not entirely. He had just the tip in when he pounded into you again, reeling in the way you cried out in pleasure against Peter’s dick when he did it.

Peter watched the way Frank thrusted into you repeatedly. He couldn’t get enough of the way your body shook, squirming all over the place, with your mouth full of him. 

Your tits bounced the harder Frank pounded into you, each movement bringing you closer and closer to that high you so desperately wanted to reach again. You could tell he was there, too. You felt the way his thick length twitched inside of you. His head was lulled back, eyes screwed shut as he held you against him, angling and fucking you the exact way he always wanted to. 

You wanted so desperately to be able to see him. You wanted to see the way his chiseled chest was moving up and down with quick pants every time you clenched around his cock. You wanted to see the way he admired your swollen cunt every time he looked down, witnessing the wreckage he was giving you. 

“Faster,” Peter said, his tone gruff and eager from the way you were sucking him.

Frank’s eyes shot up to him. He didn’t stop his motions inside you when he tilted his head. “What?”

“Fuck her faster—rougher. It’s what she likes.”

You pulled your mouth off Peter’s dick, working him with your hand so you could finally get a glimpse of Frank. His eyes narrowed on your boyfriend, annoyed more than anything. 

“Come here,” Frank ordered, crooking his finger. 

He remained inside you as you sat up further on the couch. He reached out, grabbing you by the throat. It wasn’t a cruel grab. It was the most delicate way you’d ever been touched. You wanted it harder, though. 

The smirk that appeared on your mess of a face was a devilish one. 

Frank sat back on his calves, bringing you to straddle him with his hand still clung to your throat. 

“You like that?” Frank probed, squinting up at you as you grinded your hips. He was so deep inside you, you could feel the exact spot he was hitting in your core. “You like when I choke you like that?”

You nodded, biting down on your lip as your hips moved in circular motions on top of him. The friction it brought to your clit had you moaning incoherently, eyes rolling back in your head as squirmed in fast, desperate motions on top of him. 

“Say it. Say you like this shit,” Frank grunted through his gritted teeth, barely holding on.

Your head lulled back, eyes fluttering closed. “I like it, I lo—”

A gasp tore from your throat when his hands suddenly moved to your hips, lifting you and slamming you down on him unforgivingly. He had a desperate, hungry look on his face. 

“Holy… fucking… shit,” you panted, falling back on the couch, causing your back to arch and hips rise above your head level.

All of the blood was rushing to your head as he pounded into you relentlessly. 

He knew that Peter knew you better than anyone. Peter knew exactly what you liked, how you liked it, and where you liked it at. That was fine. 

Frank was just determined to give you more to like. 

He wanted to fuck you in a way that you were going to beg Peter to mimic the next time he had you all to himself. He wanted you to not be able to cum again without remembering the way he had you splayed out in front of him, becoming a flexible mess with his cock buried so deep inside you, it almost hurt. 

“Oh, fuck,” you moaned again the second Frank’s fingers started working on your clit. “Yes, Frank. Just like that—Please.”

The moment Frank’s name slipped off your tongue, Peter sprung off the couch. 

“My turn,” he said, but it came out aggressive. 

Frank slowed inside of you. Part of him wanted to keep going. He wanted to be the one to make you cum all over his dick, but he knew better than to fuck with Peter like that—not when it came to you, even if his thoughts contradicted him.

When Frank slid out of you, you winced. The sudden emptiness was agonizing. 

Your eyes fluttered up to Frank’s, immediately seeing the way his features hardened when Peter picked you up, twisting you around so that your back was flush with his. 

Peter sat on the couch the same place he’d been before, allowing you to face Frank as he slowly inserted his pulsating length inside you from behind. 

You knew what he was doing. You knew he wanted Frank to see him fuck you in all the ways he knew you liked. Peter wanted Frank to see you come apart for him, forcing Frank to remember who you belonged to when it was all said and done.

Peter’s fist clenched around your hair, pulling you flush to him as he pounded in you with just the right kind of force. Your head fell back on his shoulder, back arched in a deviously seductive way. Your ass slapped against his waist everytime he thrusted deep inside of you, incoherent and muffled cries of pleasure spewing out of you the quicker he got. 

Frank sat back on the couch, legs spread before him.

With a great deal of effort, you lifted your head off of your boyfriend’s shoulder so that you could see Frank, gasping when your eyes immediately met his. 

He wasn’t watching the way Peter was fucking you—he wasn’t entertained by the way your tits were bouncing, or the way your ass was clapping against his friend’s skin. He was entertained by you. 

Your eyes honed in on him. Peter’s moans echoed behind you, but you couldn’t look away from the way Frank’s hand moved to his still-saturated cock, stroking himself and looking at you in a way that made you want to crawl on top of him. 

His nostrils flared, chest rising and falling as he pumped himself at a relentless pace. 

You kept your attention on him as your hand wandered to your clit, moving in quick motions over the swollen flesh. 

His stare was so intense, it felt like he was seeing through you. Combined with the stimulation on your clit and the way Peter was pounding into you, your release came quick. It was an entirely new high, watching the way Frank’s face scrunched as yours did, his fingers digging into the back of the couch as his cum squirted from the tip of his throbbing, slick-sounding cock.

You were breathless, permanently engraving the sight in your memory.

“Fuck, yes,” Peter moaned. Sitting back further on the couch and letting you ride him with your back still turned to him. His hand collided with your ass, drawing a breathy moan from your throat. “Doing so good, angel.”

Even with his release littering his flexed stomach, Frank’s eyes stayed on you. It was just taunting at that point. 

Peter sat up on his knees, forcing you down on the couch in an attempt to drive his dick further inside you. You kept yourself up on your arms, realizing you’d fallen right over Frank’s semi-hard dick. 

His tongue ran along his top row of teeth, wondering what Peter’s little angel was going to do next. 

Arching your back, giving your boyfriend the perfect angle to thrust into you with vicious momentum, you bowed your head dangerously close to the small puddles of Frank’s white cum.

When your tongue shot out, lapping up the salty remnants of his release, he drew in a sharp, piercing breath. 

“Oh, shit…” he drawled, watching you lick up and swallow his seed. 

Peter gripped your hips, nails digging into your skin as his thrusts became sloppy and untimed. 

He knew what you were doing. There wasn’t a thing you did that Peter didn’t catch.

“Come here,” he grunted, pulling your hair and forcing your back to collide with his rigid front again. 

He was getting pissed off, you knew that. 

You liked that.

Your head fell back on his shoulder again, his lips pressing to your flushed ear. “You’re mine,” he hissed, thrusts becoming just cruel. 

A smirk spread on your face.

“Tell him,” Peter demanded, bringing his hand to your throat and squeezing. “Tell him who you belong to.”

“You,” you managed to get out despite Peter’s grip threatening your airways. “I… belong to… you.”

He gripped tighter. “Louder.”

“I belong… to… you,” you said, nearly shouting as your vision spotted and walls clenched around him.

“Mm,” Peter moaned in your ear. “You gonna cum for me again, aren’t you, angel?”

You couldn’t manage a response, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

Peter laughed. “Watch her, Frank—I know you want to,” he taunted. “Watch her cum all over my dick.”

Frank did, of course. But he wasn’t worried about whose dick she was coming on. In that creative imagination of his, it was his dick inside you. Now that he knew what it felt like, there wasn’t anything holding him back.

A pleasured cry spilled from your lips, your body convulsing in Peter’s grasp. 

“Good girl,” he cooed, never once relenting. “You want me to fill you up now, angel?”

You nodded, every nerve in your body frazzled. “Please.”

Peter’s head dug into the crook of your neck, his teeth biting down on the delicate skin there in an attempt to hold back the guttural screams threatening to depart from him. It was an absolute miracle he had lasted this long inside you. He wanted to finish the second he entered you, but he wanted Frank to sit and watch him work you in all the ways he wanted.

Sharing was a kind way of putting it, he thought back. It wasn’t exactly sharing, what he was doing. He just wanted to show you off. He wanted the third person in the room with the two of you to watch how he took control of you, making you become completely undone for him. He wanted them to see what he could do to you—the ways he could fuck you, the pleasure he could give you. 

He wanted to watch them try, just like he had let Frank try. Then, he wanted them to watch him do it even better.

His teeth sunk in deeper as he pounded in you one last time before his warmth spread inside you. 

You felt the exact moment he came. The feeling was almost as good as your own release. 

He rode out his high, his cock twitching inside of you until there was nothing more he could release inside you. 

When he pulled out of you with a squelching sound, his gaze fixed on the sight of his cum leaking out of you. 

“God, I love that shit,” he mumbled. 

He slowly fell back on his calves, repositioning himself to where you could lay back against him, giving you time to collect yourself before he helped clean you up.

Your gaze immediately flashed to Frank when you rested back against Peter’s chest, squeezing your thighs together to keep from leaking all over the couch.

Frank was sprawled on the couch, one leg hanging off the edge and the other bent up, spread out shamelessly before the two of you. 

“You okay, Frank?” Peter asked, his tone returning to his usual, calm self. 

Frank coughed out a laugh and shook his head. 

“What?” Peter countered, smirking. “That not a good enough birthday present for you?”

“A card will do good next year,” Frank jested, combing a hand through his dark hair.

Peter hummed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Frank sat at her side every hour, except when he went to their homes to grab some clothes or some fast food. He even got Peter a change of clothes from his apartment.

'He would use them,' he told himself. 'He would.'

He also managed to get (y/n) to take a shower in one of the hospital's vacant rooms. It had only taken Frank one look at the nurse for her to agree and open up the room for (y/n) to use.

It was another day after that before they were allowed to see him. Nothing could have prepared (y/n) for the sight before her---wires and IVs surrounded Peter's bloody and broken body. Tears immediately sprang to her eyes as the doctor spoke.

"He shouldn't be alive, but he is. It's a miracle."

Frank stepped forward, wrapping an arm around (y/n)'s shoulders. "When... when should he wake up?"

"A day? A week?" he shrugged. "We're not sure."

(Y/n) sniffled and turned to the doctor. "But he will wake up?"

"We believe so."

She nodded and approached the bed, leaving her father to get the specifics from the doctor. He looked so small. So pale. Sinking down on the edge of the bed, (y/n)'s thumb lightly traced his cheek, careful of the dark bruising and stitched cut to his temple.

"Hey, Spider-Man," she said in a broken whisper. "I need you to wake up for me. Please."

The steady hum of the ventilator was the only response.

Shakily sighing, she gently took his hand and moved to one of the two chairs beside the bed, scooting it as close as possible. Frank joined her a few minutes later, eyes red-rimmed as he stared at the broken hero lying in the bed.

"He's how I thought he would look, you know."

(Y/n) glanced at the door. They were alone. "Spider-Man or my boyfriend?"

"Both, really," he huffed. "You've got a type."

"What does that-"

"I'm just glad it's not guys like me, alright? You've... found a good one. I-I like him."

"I was gonna tell him about you, but it just didn't feel like the right time." (Y/n) waved her free hand in the air. "Then all this happened, and we both came clean. I told him I knew he was Spider-Man, and he told me about the problems he's been having."

"I'm sorry, (y/n). This is all my fault. I should've-"

She clenched her eyes closed. "Stop. He won't blame you. He's too good." Her glossy gaze met her father's. "I don't. Blame you, I mean. I just want him to wake up."

And that's how the next two days passed---sitting at his bedside, telling him everything about anything she could think of. Stories from the coffee shop, how she felt the first time she saw him, how she felt now. The three words she'd held back slipped from her lips without restraint as she talked to him.

Nurses took the ventilator out after day one, settling with a mask supplying him the extra oxygen he needed to make up for the weakness in his lungs. Her eyes drifted to his stomach beneath the scratchy blankets. Due to his body's strength from the powers, the exit wound had been much smaller than normal.

.50 cals didn't leave small exit wounds.

What did it look like now with his speed healing? Did the stitching hurt? Was the damaged tissue repairing itself right then?

"Sweetheart. How about you go take a shower?"

She cut her eyes over at her dad. "Do I smell that bad?"

"No," he grinned. "You just... need a break. I'll sit with him."

(Y/n)'s mouth opened, but he cut her off with a nod. "I'll holler if anything happens. You're ten feet away."

After a long moment of deliberation, she relented, kissing Peter's forehead and disappearing into the bathroom. The water soothed her aching back as she let the heat settle into her bones. That chair was nothing short of a torture device designed to destroy the occupant's posture and offer no support.

Maybe it was all a ploy to get people back in the hospital.

(Y/n) shook her head. What was going on? Was she delusional?

Possibly, seeing as she'd only slept a few hours the past few nights. But how could she? When she closed her eyes, she saw the man she loved bleeding out before her. When she opened them, he lay breathing in the bed beside her.

One option was clearly better than the other.

(Y/n) quickly finished her shower and changed into gray sweatpants and a navy NYC sweatshirt. She opened the door, towel-drying her hair as she exited. "You happened to grab my favorite sweatshirt-"

The towel slipped to the floor.

"Peter?" she whispered.

He turned and smiled weakly at her from the window. "Hey."

For the first time in days, (y/n) felt like she could breathe. She was at his side the next moment, kissing every part of his face she could touch, tears trickling down her cheeks. "You're awake."

"I'll, uh, give you two a minute." Frank closed the door behind him.

(Y/n) helped Peter back into bed. She sat on the edge, gripping his hand for dear life. He was awake. His brown eyes stared back at her, dazed, but very much his.

Peter leaned back into his pillows with a sigh. "I guess I wasn't very careful."

"Peter," (y/n) breathed, shaking her head. "It's too soon for jokes."

They simply stared at each other for a few minutes, savoring each other's company. Her eyes lowered to their joined hands, then to his stomach.

"I thought I was gonna lose you. When we found you, I-" Her voice broke. "You were just... just lying there in a pool of your own blood."

Peter sat up further, wincing slightly as he did so. "Hey, I need to tell you something. Can you look at me?"

(Y/n) looked up at him through her lashes.

“When it… happened, my first thought was of you. I thought I was going to die without...” He shook his head, eyes glistening. “Without telling you how much you mean to me.”

Peter took a deep breath and pulled her closer by the hand. “I love you. More than anything, and when-”

He didn’t get the chance to finish his confession. (Y/n) kissed him softly, hands cupping his cheeks. “I love you, too,” she whispered against his lips.

With a content sigh, Peter smiled and slowly wrapped his arm around her, tugging her to lay beside him. He ignored her protests and leaned into her. Her warmth seeped through his thin hospital gown and deep into his bones.

“Does it hurt?”

He hummed against her hair.

“Pete.”

“Yeah,” he sighed.

“Did you, uh, talk to my dad?”

He raised a brow. “As your boyfriend or Spider-Man?”

“Either. He’s really cut up over what happened.”

“I know. But I’m okay. Really.”

Peter chuckled under his breath, and (y/n) sat up enough to look at him. “What?”

“I guess your dad really did shoot me.”

“Pete.”

“I asked you if he knew who I was, and you said he’d probably shoot me on site.”

She buried her face in his neck. “Still too soon.”

“Well, I’m just glad we got it out of the way.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

"Ned!"

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

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

She's mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Goodnight, Ned!"

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

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

He knows what he has to do.

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

But not tonight.

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

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

But for now, he waits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, thanks. That's perfect."

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

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

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

"Here you go," she says softly.

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

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

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

Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.

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

Their interactions are casual. Limited.

"Morning Peter." She learns his name.

"The usual?" She asks.

"You know it."

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

It's not enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Really, I can—"

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

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

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

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

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

"I prefer determined."

"A determined mess-maker."

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

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

"You come here a lot," she says.

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

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

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

"Ah. A returning native."

"Something like that."

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

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

Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows he has her attention now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have not—"

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

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

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

"He's just a customer, Injun."

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

She bites her lip.

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

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

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

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

Peter does.

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

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

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

---

She's restless.

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

She gives in.

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

Her mind drifts to him.

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

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

And then she comes.

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

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

"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

He heard it all.

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

You're not satisfied, are you, baby?

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

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

Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.

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

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

———

It starts slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"

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

And then she wakes up.

---

Gasping.

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

She blinks at the ceiling, panting.

What the fuck was that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn't know what that is.

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

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

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

Why does this feel like grief?

---

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

He knows.

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

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

He lets out a slow, shaky breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.

Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.

The little bell above the door jingled.

She looked up.

And there he was.

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

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

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

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

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

Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.

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

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

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

Do you remember that you gave this to me?

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

Of course she didn't remember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.

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

She was two blocks away when the screaming started.

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

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

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

Oh god. That's the lobby.

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

"HEY!"

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

Spider-Man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sharp thwip sliced through the air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her breath caught.

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

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

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

What the fuck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he straightened. "Bye."

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

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

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

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

And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

YouTube.

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

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

She watched it twice. Then a third time.

The comments section was a battlefield.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N's breath hitched.

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

"I'm all ears."

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

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

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

She kept scrolling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleep came heavy and reluctant.

---

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

The clock read 2:47 AM.

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

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

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

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

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

Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.

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

Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A club," she said flatly.

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

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

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

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

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

"Someone has to be."

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

---

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

Peter's hands curled into fists.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Someone new.

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

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

No. Absolutely fucking not.

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

Even if she didn't remember it.

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

The hunt was on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

None of them made her stomach flip.

But then the door opened.

And he walked in.

Peter had planned this.

Tight black jeans that hugged his thighs and sat low on his hips. A simple white T-shirt, thin enough that the outline of his chest was visible when he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. He'd styled his hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and he wore that lazy half-smirk that had always made her knees weak.

Her favorite outfit.

He remembered the first time she'd seen him in it. They'd been dating for a few weeks, and he'd shown up at her door looking like this. She'd pulled him inside by his collar, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him so deep he'd seen stars. Her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling, while the other roamed down his stomach to palm him through the denim. She'd broken the kiss just to whisper against his lips, "You look so good it should be illegal. I want to ruin you."

And she had. For hours.

He carried that memory in his bones as he pushed open the club door, scanning the crowd with practiced casualness. His eyes landed on the bar.

There she was.

Strapless black dress. Hair loose. Cheeks flushed from alcohol. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—which was saying something, because he remembered every detail.

He pretended not to see her at first. Ordered a drink. Leaned against the bar, letting the black lights catch the contours of his arms.

Then Ned spotted him.

"Hey! Peter!"

Peter turned, feigning surprise. His eyes landed on Y/N, and he let them widen slightly—just enough. "Oh. Hey. Didn't expect to see you guys here."

Y/N's breath caught. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping. "Hi."

Just that. Hi. But the word came out breathy, almost involuntary.

Ned gestured him over. "Come join us. We're just warming up. Y/N's on a mission tonight."

"A mission?" Peter raised an eyebrow, sliding onto the stool beside her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers under the bar. "Sounds intriguing."

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words came out slurred. "M'sion... find someone... hot..."

Ned sighed. "I think the tequila hit faster than expected."

Peter smiled knowingly. She always did get tipsy fast. Three drinks and she'd be clinging to him, whispering dirty things in his ear. Four and she'd be begging to go home. Five and she'd be asleep before they hit the door.

"I can help you get her home," he offered, voice steady. "If you want."

Ned looked relieved. "God, yes. I was not looking forward to carrying her six blocks in those heels."

They helped her off the stool. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled forward—

Right into Peter's arms.

Her palms landed flat on his chest. Her head tipped up, eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked at him, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Wow. You're... strong."

His hands caught her waist, steadying her. The velvet of her dress was soft under his fingers, her skin warm beneath the fabric. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.

He lowered his voice, letting it dip into that husky register she'd always loved. "Oh yea?"

She nodded, earnest and drunk. "Mmhm. Like... hero strong."

If only you knew.

Ned was already heading for the door, waving them along. Peter kept one arm around Y/N's waist, guiding her out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them, taxis honking, distant sirens, the buzz of neon signs.

The walk to her apartment was slow. She kept tripping on cracks, leaning into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. At one point she looked up at him, squinting.

"You smell... familiar."

His chest tightened. "Good familiar or bad familiar?"

"Good." She nuzzled into his shoulder. "Really good."

Ned shot him a look—half curious, half amused. Peter just shrugged, playing it casual, though his heart was hammering.

They reached her building. Ned held the door while Peter helped her up the stairs. At her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice.

When she finally got it open, she turned around, throwing her arms around both of them in a messy group hug.

"Thank you," she mumbled into Ned's shoulder. "You're the best."

She pulled back, swaying slightly, and turned to Peter.

Her eyes met his.

The air between them thickened.

"You..." She reached up, touching his cheek with drunken clumsiness. Her thumb brushed his jawline. "You look so good tonight."

The words came out soft. Barely a whisper. Heavy with something she couldn't name.

Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to grab her, pull her inside, pin her against that door and remind her exactly what she was missing. He wanted to kiss that drunk confession off her lips and replace it with moans.

But not yet.

Not yet.

He smiled, gentle and aching. "Get some sleep, Y/N."

She blinked slowly, then ducked inside, closing the door with a soft click.

The lock turned.

Peter stood there for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood. He could hear her on the other side, shuffling, probably kicking off her heels.

"She say something?" Ned asked from behind.

"Just saying goodnight."

Ned hummed, unconvinced. "You know, for a guy who just met her, you're pretty invested."

Peter turned, keeping his face neutral. "She's a friend. I don't like seeing friends drunk and alone."

"Uh huh." Ned didn't push. "Well, thanks for the help. I'm gonna crash. See you around, Peter."

"Yeah. See you."

When Ned disappeared down the stairwell, Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He pressed his forehead to the door, listening. On the other side, he heard her humming—off-key, sleepy—as she padded toward her bedroom.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon she'll know.

But for tonight, he'd settle for knowing that even drunk and confused, she still thought he looked good.

That was enough.

For now.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of his apartment swallowed him whole.

Peter stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the echo of her voice in his head. You look so good tonight. Drunk, slurred, honest. She'd meant it. Even without knowing who he was, her body remembered. Her eyes had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, and something deep in her gut had stirred.

But she was inside, alone, probably already curled up in bed, dreaming of strangers.

And he was out here. Alone. Again.

He pushed off the door and walked to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water he didn't want. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The walls seemed to press in on him, carrying the weight of every night he'd spent like this—restless, aching, watching the clock tick toward dawn while the city hummed outside.

It's hard when no one loves you and the ones you love can't remember you.

He set the glass down harder than intended. It cracked. Water spilled across the counter.

"Fuck."

He stood there, dripping, staring at his own reflection in the dark window. A stranger in his own life. Spider-Man saved people. Peter saved no one. Not even himself.

He loved being Spider-Man. Loved the rush of swinging between buildings, the wind in his face, the sound of sirens fading as he swooped in to help. Loved the gratitude in strangers' eyes when he pulled them from wrecks, the way kids pointed up at him with awe.

But Peter deserved his own life too. A job he didn't have to hide. Friends who called him by his real name. A girl who looked at him like he was the only man in the world.

He closed his eyes, and there she was. Y/N. Laughing. Touching his face. Whining his name in that breathless way she used to when he was inside her.

"You're so good, Peter. Fuck—don't stop—"

His hand curled into a fist.

Then his spider-sense flared.

Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.

He sighed, heavy and resigned, and reached for the suit.

---

The city was cruel tonight.

He swung from rooftop to rooftop, the wind biting at the exposed skin of his face and hands. Below, the neon lights of Manhattan bled into puddles on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a woman screamed—he veered toward it, landing on a fire escape to find a mugger wrestling a purse from an elderly lady. He webbed the guy to a lamppost in seconds, returned the purse, and was gone before the woman could finish thanking him.

Two blocks over, a car crash. He helped pull a family out before the fuel line sparked.

A domestic disturbance. He talked a man down from a balcony ledge.

A break-in at a convenience store.

A fire on the Lower East Side.

He kept moving. Kept saving. Kept pretending that each life he touched filled the hole inside him.

But it didn't.

Because the whole time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking of her. Her safety. Her smile. The way she used to trace the scars on his shoulders after a bad fight, her voice soft with worry: "You can't keep doing this, Peter. One day you won't come back."

And he'd kissed her forehead and promised he'd always come back to her.

Now she didn't even know to wait.

---

He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.

The lights were off in her apartment. She was asleep, probably still drunk, tangled in sheets that smelled like her perfume. He imagined her lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.

He pulled out the photo he kept tucked inside his suit. Polaroid, edges worn from handling. Her smiling at the camera, hair messy, wearing his hoodie. She'd taken it one morning after they'd spent the whole night tangled together. He'd been making coffee, and she'd grabbed his phone, snapped the picture just as he turned around.

"So I can look at you even when you're gone," she'd said.

He didn't know she'd end up being the one gone.

He pressed his thumb to her face, tracing the curve of her smile.

Soon.

Soon, he'd find a way. Something drastic. Something that would break through the spell's hold and make her remember—or at least make her feel it, even if she couldn't name it.

Soon, he'd be inside her apartment. Inside her. Reminding her exactly what she was missing.

But for now, he tucked the photo back, turned toward the next siren, and launched himself into the night.

For her. Always for her.

The bell above the door chimed, and Peter walked in like he owned the place.

Y/N looked up from the register, head pounding, eyes barely open. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she was pretty sure she still smelled like last night's cheap perfume and regret. The hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes, a punishment for every shot Ned had convinced her to take.

She squinted at him. Him. The guy with the dangerous smile and the bracelet she didn't remember giving him.

"Morning," she grumbled, not even trying to sound pleasant.

He grinned. Actually grinned, like her misery was the highlight of his day. "Someone had fun last night."

"Someone regrets everything."

He laughed—that low, easy sound that did something annoying to her stomach—and walked past her to the counter. "Just the usual, please."

She turned to make it, moving slow, her head throbbing with every step. The espresso machine hissed, and she winced.

Behind her, she heard the door open again—a small commotion, a child's voice. She glanced over her shoulder.

A little boy, maybe seven or eight, had run in too fast, his backpack swinging. He collided with the table where Peter had set his bag, sending it toppling. But before it could hit the ground, Peter's hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes too fast, too precise.

"Sorry, mister!" the boy said, eyes wide.

Peter just smiled, crouching down to the kid's level. "It's okay, buddy. No harm done." And he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with an easy, affectionate motion.

Y/N froze.

The gesture. The way his fingers moved through the dark strands, the gentle mock-scolding in his tone. It was exactly how Spider-Man had ruffled that kid's hair in the interview she watched online. She'd watched the clip multiple times, her body heating each time—the way those gloved fingers had been so careful, so human, beneath the mask.

She blinked, shaking off the thought. No. That's ridiculous. Lots of people ruffle kids' hair.

But something nagged at her. The precision of the catch. The casual confidence. The way he moved.

Peter straightened, catching her stare. His eyebrow arched. "Something wrong?"

She realized she'd been staring. Heat crept up her neck. "No. Nothing. Your coffee."

She shoved the cup toward him, maybe a little too aggressively. He took it, amused, and leaned against the counter instead of leaving like a normal person.

She needed to get this over with.

"Listen," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "About last night. I was... a lot. I know I was all over you, and I'm sorry. I don't usually—I mean, I was drunk, and Ned was being an ass, and—"

"Cute."

She stopped. "What?"

"You were cute." He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "Not 'a lot.' Cute."

Her face burned. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came out. Just a stupid, flustered silence.

He smiled—that knowing, crooked smile that made her knees weak—and pushed off from the counter. "See you around, Y/N."

He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

She stood there, heart hammering, watching him disappear down the street.

Fuck.

She touched her cheek. It was hot. She was blushing like a teenager. And worst of all, she was thinking about him—the scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands when he'd caught that bag, the way his voice had dipped when he said "cute."

She shook her head, turning back to the register.

But as she wiped down the counter, her mind wandered. To Spider-Man. To Peter. To the way both of them made her feel seen in a way she couldn't explain.

Maybe I have a crush on him.

She bit her lip.

Or maybe I'm just that desperate.

But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. There was something about him. Something familiar. Something that pulled at the edges of her memory, just out of reach.

And somewhere across the city, swinging between rooftops, Peter smiled to himself, her blush burned into his mind.

Soon, he thought. Soon, you'll remember.

The city was settling into dusk, streetlights flickering to life as Y/N walked home, her bag slung over one shoulder. The hangover had faded to a dull ache, replaced by the restless energy that had been gnawing at her all day. She was thinking about Peter—the way he'd laughed, the way his hand had caught that bag, the way he'd called her cute.

She was so lost in thought she almost missed the commotion.

A sharp cry. An old man's voice, cracked with panic. "Help! Someone help!"

Y/N's head snapped up. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie was sprinting away, an old leather bag clutched under his arm. Behind him, an elderly man stumbled, reaching out helplessly.

"Hey!" Y/N didn't think. She ran.

Three blocks. Her lungs burned, her legs pumping, the thief weaving through pedestrians. She was fast—she'd always been fast—but he was younger, more desperate. He ducked into a narrow alley, reeking of garbage and stale urine.

She followed without hesitation.

The alley was dark, shadows pooling like liquid. She could hear his footsteps echoing, slowing. He was cornered. She rounded a corner, ready to tackle him—

And then he was gone.

No. Not gone. Pinned.

A figure in red and blue dropped from above, landing silently. The thief was already webbed to a wall, the bag dangling from Spider-Man's hand. The hero turned to her, the white lenses of his mask catching the faint light.

"You really need to stop running into danger," he said, his voice modulated, teasing.

Y/N's heart pounded—not from the chase, but from him. From the way he stood, the way he moved.

She tried to step forward, to get a better look at the thief, to see where he'd gone into the darkness—

A thwip. A strand of web shot out, catching her wrist, yanking it to the brick wall beside her.

She stared at her hand, pinned by the familiar white silk. Again.

"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, yanking at the web. It held firm. "You can't just—"

"Watch and learn," Spider-Man said, and in two quick moves, he had the thief subdued, the bag retrieved, a police call tapped into his comm—all while she stood there, helpless, a memory flickering in the back of her mind.

Webs. Restraint. A voice whispering in the dark. Hands on her wrists, pinning her down. A body pressing against hers, the rough texture of a suit, the heat beneath it.

She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.

He was in front of her now, the old man's bag tucked under one arm. He reached up and flicked the web on her wrist. It dissolved instantly, dropping her hand.

"You're free," he said. "Now go home. It's not safe."

She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him. "You can't just do that whenever you want! I was helping! I could have—"

She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest plate. "You don't get to decide when I'm in danger! You don't get to just—"

She pushed him. Hard. He didn't move, but she kept going, frustration boiling over, her hands flat against his chest—

And then her foot caught on a loose piece of asphalt.

She stumbled forward, off-balance, straight into him.

Her body collided with his, her hands instinctively grabbing his arms to steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, the fabric of his suit smooth and textured beneath her palms.

And something clicked.

The feel of it—the tight compression, the subtle ribbing, the exact way the material hugged the muscle underneath—sent a shiver through her. Her eyes widened. She didn't know why, but her hands began to move, sliding down his arms slowly, almost reverently. She felt the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the way his muscles tensed under her touch.

She looked up.

The mask stared back at her, white lenses unreadable. But she could feel him watching her, feel the sudden stillness in his body.

Her breath caught. She could see him beneath the mask. Not his face, but something else. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.

I know you. I've felt you before.

She lifted a hand, reaching for his mask, her fingers trembling—

He stepped back.

Just one step, but it was enough to break her hold. Her hand hung in the air, empty.

"I have to go," he said, his voice tighter now, less playful. He set the bag down. "The police are on their way. Stay safe."

And before she could say another word, he was gone—a blur of red and blue vanishing into the night sky, leaving her alone in the dark alley, the old man's bag at her feet, her skin still tingling where she'd touched him.

She stood there, heart racing, frustration and confusion twisting in her chest.

Why does he feel so familiar?

She clenched her fists. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't remember, a face she couldn't see.

And yet, he's a stranger.

She bent down, picked up the bag, and walked out of the alley, her mind churning.

Who are you?

The question echoed in the empty space where Spider-Man had been. And somewhere, high above, hidden in the shadows, Peter watched her go, his hands shaking, his heart aching with the weight of everything she didn't remember.

——————————

The bell above the café door chimed, and Y/N's heart did a little flip she immediately suppressed.

Peter walked in, all easy confidence in a loose black t-shirt and those worn jeans that hung just right on his hips. He ran a hand through his hair—still slightly damp, like he'd just showered—and gave her a small smile as he approached the counter.

"Morning, Y/N."

She should have said something. She should have smiled back, asked for his usual order, made some casual remark about the weather. But her mind was still reeling from last night. The alley. The webs. The way her hands had traced the suit's texture like her fingers remembered what her brain couldn't.

Instead, she just nodded, her movements mechanical as she punched in his order. "Americano."

He blinked, clearly noticing her clipped tone. "Yeah. Thanks."

She turned to make the coffee, her back to him, feeling his gaze on her. She could sense the question in his silence—what's wrong?—but she couldn't bring herself to address it. She didn't know what to say. Hey, I think you might be the superhero who's been haunting my dreams and my subconscious sex life, but I can't be sure, so just pretend everything's normal.

She slid the cup across the counter. He took it, their fingers almost brushing. She pulled back too fast.

"Thanks," he said again, slower this time, searching her face.

She just nodded and turned to wipe down the counter, even though it was already clean.

The café was quiet—a lull between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. Ned was in the back, restocking cups, humming something under his breath. Y/N busied herself with meaningless tasks, acutely aware of Peter settling into his usual table by the window, pulling out his phone.

He didn't look at her again. Or maybe he did, in brief glances she pretended not to notice.

After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt up just slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Y/N's eyes tracked it before she forced them away.

"Bathroom," he said, more to announce it than anything, and disappeared through the back hallway.

The moment the door clicked shut, Ned emerged from the stockroom, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Okay. Now's my chance."

Y/N frowned. "What chance?"

Ned didn't answer. He darted to Peter's table, where the worn leather messenger bag sat propped against the chair leg.

"Ned, what the hell—"

"Shh." He was already crouching, unzipping the bag with practiced ease. "He's so mysterious. I just want to snoop a little. See if he's hiding anything interesting."

Y/N's heart lurched. "Stop! Put that back." She hissed, crossing the café in three quick strides. "What are you doing? That's his private stuff—"

"Relax, I'm just looking." Ned's hands moved through the bag's contents—a wallet, a phone, a protein bar wrapper, a small notebook. "Boring, boring, boring. How does this guy have no personality in his bag?"

"Ned, I swear to God—"

He pulled out a crumpled piece of fabric. Dark red and blue, folded into a rough square.

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's a fan."

He unfolded it, and Y/N's breath caught in her throat.

It was a mask. A Spider-Man mask. The white lenses stared up at her, empty and familiar.

Ned held it up, smirking. "See? Fanboy. Probably wears it to bed or something." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly back into the bag. "Guess even mysterious guys have heroes."

But Y/N wasn't listening.

She reached down, her fingers trembling, and picked up the mask. The fabric was cool against her skin. She ran her thumb across the surface—the subtle ribbing, the tight weave, the exact texture that had pressed against her palms last night.

The same texture.

Her blood ran cold.

She remembered the alley. The way her hands had slid down Spider-Man's arms. The way the suit had felt beneath her fingers. The way her body had known it, even when her mind couldn't.

This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—

She looked up. Ned was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

She was holding Spider-Man's mask.

Peter's mask.

Peter is Spider-Man.

The realization hit her like a freight train, knocking the air from her lungs. She stood there, frozen, the fabric clutched in her hands, the truth burning through her.

He's the one who saved me. He's the one who webs me to walls. He's the one who watches me from the shadows.

He's the one I've been dreaming about.

She thought of the dreams—the vivid, explicit dreams where Spider-Man's voice had whispered filthy things in her ear, where his hands had pinned her down, where his body had moved inside hers like he knew every inch of her. The dreams where she had arched into him, moaning, pleading, coming undone.

Her face flushed, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.

Oh God.

She had been dreaming about him. About the man who had been coming into her café, smiling at her, teasing her, touching her—and she hadn't known.

But her body had.

Her body had remembered.

"Y/N?" Ned's voice was sharper now. "Put it back. He'll be out any second."

She forced her hands to move, folding the mask roughly and shoving it back into the bag. She zipped it closed just as the bathroom door creaked open.

Peter emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans. He glanced at them—Ned standing awkwardly by the table, Y/N frozen behind the counter—and his brow furrowed.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine!" Ned said, too quickly. "Great. Just—telling Y/N about a thing. A thing I saw. Bye."

He scurried back to the stockroom, leaving Y/N alone with Peter.

He walked to the counter, picking up his coffee, his eyes studying her. "You sure you're okay? You seem... off today."

She couldn't look at him. She stared at the counter, at the espresso machine, at anything but his face.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just tired."

He didn't push. He just nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Alright. I'll see you later, then."

He turned and walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

Y/N stood there, her heart pounding, her mind racing.

Peter is Spider-Man.

And she had been dreaming of him fucking her senseless.

She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and something else—something hot and hungry—coiled in her stomach.

She had questions. So many questions.

But more than that, she had a need.

A need to find out if the dreams were somehow real.

----------

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Chaos had well and truly commenced.

Round after round, drink after drink, mystery challenge after mystery challenge, nobody seemed capable of staying quiet for longer than five minutes.

Every few moments, another table would erupt into cheers or groans, followed almost immediately by someone insisting the game was rigged in their favour or against it.

Your team, somehow, was doing well.

Mostly because Tobi seemed to have developed an unnatural ability to spot numbers before they even properly registered on the screen.

The moment one appeared, he was already leaning forward.

“We’ve got that.”

“Tobi, this is getting ridiculous,” Becky laughed as she marked another square.

“I’m just efficient.”

“Of course, it’s literally thee TobJZL,” Pie added, though he was smiling into his drink.

Tobi sat back like he’d just been crowned champion of something far more important than bingo.

Across the room, another team erupted into cheers, followed instantly by loud, dramatic protests from somewhere else. The entire venue never really settled; it just shifted between different bursts of noise...

You found yourself smiling at it all without really thinking, resting your chin in your hand.

The drinks didn’t help.

Not in a way that made anything unclear or blurry.

Just in a way that made everything feel slightly softer at the edges. Easier to drift through. The loud voices around you started to blend into a warm, comfortable background track.

You took another slow sip of your drink, feeling the cool liquid hit your throat, and leaned back slightly in your chair.

Across the room, Harry’s table was in its usual state of controlled chaos.

George and Bach were deep in yet another argument about whether the system was “emotionally biased,” while Arthur looked like he had accepted that logic was no longer required for participation.

Harry was laughing through all of it.

He wasn't trying to steer the conversation. He wasn't really contributing to the argument.

He was just enjoying it—properly enjoying it—throwing his head back like the whole thing was the absolute best part of being there.

It made you smile before you even realised you were doing it, your gaze lingering on the way his eyes crinkled.

“Got it.”

Becky’s voice pulled you back as the sharp clack of the marker hit the table.

You blinked, shaking yourself out of the daze, and glanced down. “Already?”

“You were looking elsewhere,” she said simply, her eyes tracking the screen as she spoke, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.

“I was multitasking.”

“Sure you were.”

Tobi didn’t even look up from the card, his finger tracing the grid. “We’re two numbers away.”

That pulled your attention back in properly. The competitive spark finally nudged its way through the alcohol.

For a while, you actually tried.

You followed the screen. The calls. The reactions around the table.

You leaned forward when everyone else did.

You marked things when Becky told you to.

It almost worked.

Almost.

But the room was too loud, too vibrant, to fully settle into. There were too many things happening at once, pulling at your senses.

A sudden shout from another table pulled your attention sideways.

A loud cheer from somewhere else followed it a second later.

Then laughter — Harry’s distinct, wheezing laugh echoing over the music. His table was briefly visible between people moving around the venue, a pocket of bright energy in the crowded room.

You didn’t turn fully this time.

Just caught it in passing.

Enough to register the sound.

Not enough to completely lose track of everything else on your own table.

Still, Becky noticed the half-second delay.

She didn’t comment immediately.

She just slid the pen back across the table, her fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against the wood, and continued watching the screen.

A few beats later, she glanced side-long at you again.

Not annoyed.

Just… noting it.

Like she’d quietly started keeping count of something else entirely.

Tobi marked another number off the card with a flourish.

“We’re actually flying through this,” he said, leaning back slightly in his chair like he was inspecting his own masterpiece.

 You laughed quietly, the sound muffled by the ambient noise of the room, your eyes still half-focused on the board.

For a moment, it almost felt like you were fully back in it.

Almost.

“Got it,” Becky said again, already reaching for the marker before Tobi even had a chance to react.

You blinked, looking between the card and her. “Wait—how are you both seeing these so fast?”

“We’re paying attention,” Tobi said, throwing a playful look your way.

“I am paying attention.”

Becky gave you a look, her eyebrows raised, without actually looking away from the screen.

“That’s not what I’m seeing.”

You frowned, shifting in your seat. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Tobi added lightly, his tone teasing, “you’ve got a delay.”

“I don’t have a delay.”

“You do,” Becky said simply.

“I don’t.”

A beat.

The neon lights pulsed overhead, casting long shadows across the table. Becky finally turned her head slightly toward you, letting her marker rest.

“You do a thing.”

“I don’t do a thing.”

“You do,” Tobi nodded, chiming in seamlessly. “It’s consistent.”

You narrowed your eyes at them, trying to look serious. “What thing?”

Becky didn’t answer straight away.

Instead, another number boomed through the speakers, and both of them reacted instantly, their eyes darting to the card.

You were a fraction slower.

Not enough to lose the point entirely.

Just enough for Becky to notice the hesitation again.

“There,” she said, marking it with a definitive click.

“I was literally right behind you.”

“Emotionally behind us too,” Tobi added with a grin.

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” Becky said.

You shook your head again, but you were smiling, the warmth of the room catching up to you.

Across the room, another massive burst of noise went up from the far tables.

Your head instinctively turned—

You caught yourself halfway.

Stopped.

Looked straight back at the card like you had just narrowly avoided a crime, staring hard at the little printed squares.

Too late.

Becky had already seen the movement out of the corner of her eye.

Tobi had too.

There was a long, deliberate pause at the table.

Then Tobi leaned back in his chair slightly, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I think we should start charging her for every time she looks over there.”

You gasped, your jaw dropping slightly. “Excuse me?”

Becky hummed in agreement, tapping her chin. “We could increase team funding. Buy another round.”

“I am right here,” you protested, looking between the two of them.

“You are,” Tobi agreed, his smile widening. “Just… intermittently.”

“I am fully present.”

Becky finally turned to look at you properly now, leaning her elbow on the table and resting her chin in her hand.

“Are you though?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

Another number was called out by the announcer.

You didn’t look this time. You kept your eyes glued to the center of the table.

You were proud of that.

Genuinely.

Until Tobi spoke again, his voice dropping to a casual, conversational whisper.

“Harry’s laughing again.”

Immediately, your head turned.

Instantly.

Without permission from your brain.

There was a sudden, heavy silence at your table.

You froze, your eyes locking onto Harry's table for a split second before you realized what you'd done.

Slowly, you turned your head back around.

Becky was already smiling, holding back a laugh.

Tobi was biting his lip, trying desperately not to break.

You stared at them, your cheeks warming up under the pink lights.

“…That doesn’t count.”

Becky tilted her head, her smile spreading. “It absolutely counts.”

“It was informational,” Tobi added helpfully.

“I hate both of you.”

Becky reached for her drink, finally letting the full smile show now as she lifted the glass to her lips.

“We’re just saying,” she said lightly, the ice clinking softly against the glass, “you’ve got very fast reaction times…”

Another number flashed up on the big screens.

Becky marked it instantly, her hand moving without hesitation. Tobi followed a second later with a nod, checking it off his own mental tracker.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your hands on the sticky wood of the table, already trying to refocus your attention when the loud announcement suddenly cut through the room.

“Right — mystery challenge!”

The entire venue shifted at once, a collective wave of movement and chatter rising as the neon lights began to pulse a deeper shade of purple.

Becky turned to you immediately. Her expression changed, turning less focused on the card and more on you as a slow grin spread across her face.

“Ooo, go on then.”

You blinked, pointing a finger at your own chest. “Me?”

“Yes,” she said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Tobi nodded from across the table, leaning back in his chair. “You should go.”

“I should?”

“Yeah,” Becky said, already smiling. “You’ll be good at it.”

You hesitated, looking at the marker still in your hand. “Based on what exactly?”

“Vibes,” Tobi replied.

“That’s not a qualification.”

“It is here,” Becky said, shifting in her seat and standing slightly now to give you room.

Across the table, Pie gave a lazy thumbs up, his eyes crinkling as he took a sip of his drink. “Go on. Represent us.”

You looked between all of them, completely outnumbered. “You’re all just sending me up there?”

Becky laughed softly, the sound almost lost to the bass of the room. “We’re not sending you. We’re encouraging you.”

“That is the same thing.”

“No it isn’t,” Tobi said.

“It is emotionally,” you muttered.

Becky leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was letting you in on a secret over the roar of the crowd. “Honestly, it’s perfect timing. You’ve been way too locked in on the wrong things anyway.”

“I have not.”

“You have,” she said gently, her eyes darting briefly toward the other side of the room before she smiled back at you. “Go. Have fun with it.”

Tobi pointed a finger toward the front of the venue where a small crowd of people was already starting to line up by the stage. “Plus it’ll be chaos. You’ll like it.”

You hesitated for a second longer, the pink neon light catching the edge of your glass. Then the noise of the room rose again — laughter, movement, chairs shifting against the floorboards, people calling out to each other as they got up. And somehow, that decided it.

“…Fine.”

Becky immediately lit up. “Yes.”

Tobi nodded approvingly, crossing his arms. “Good choice.”

Pie clapped once, a short, sharp sound. “Proud of you.”

You stood up, still half-protesting under your breath, but already being gently waved forward by the encouraging hands of your own table.

“I hate you all.”

But you were already walking forward, joining the rest of the selected players weaving through the crowded gaps between the tables. And as you moved through the shifting crowd toward the front—

Your attention flickered, just for a second, across the room.

Harry was already right there among the rest of the group on stage — just another person caught up in the same chaos, like this was completely normal.

And somehow, that made it easier.

“Hi,” you said, almost under your breath as you stepped closer.

Harry turned immediately. A grin appeared on his face the second he saw you, looking like nothing about this was unusual at all. “Hello.”

You didn’t even think about it before closing the small gap between you. The hug was quick — natural, easy. One arm each, a brief squeeze, like it was just something that happened without needing permission.

“Well look who decided to participate,” he said as you pulled back slightly, his hand lingering for a fraction of a second.

“I didn’t choose to,” you replied immediately.

“Sure.”

“I didn’t.”

“I believe you,” he said, not sounding like he did at all.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. Around you, the rest of the group was shifting into place, laughing, talking, settling into that familiar pre-challenge chaos. Before either of you could add anything else, Simon’s voice cut through the room.

“Right — listen up everyone!”

Neither of you fully let go straight away. You stayed in that half-second of contact, still half-facing each other, while the room slowly shifted into attention around you. Simon continued explaining the rules, gesturing as he spoke about a rock paper scissors tournament. Fast rounds. Immediate elimination. Simple enough that everyone was already nodding along.

Still half in the hug, Harry glanced toward the front. “This is going to be chaos.”

“It always is,” you said.

A small laugh left him. Only then did the two of you properly separate — not abruptly, just naturally as attention tightened across the stage.

You barely had time to settle before Simon was already speaking again. “Right — everyone pick someone. Rock paper scissors. Winners move on.”

The stage erupted instantly. Fast rounds, loud reactions, and people dropping out almost as quickly as they stepped forward. It stopped feeling like separate matches after a while, narrowing down exactly how everyone expected it to until it was obvious, even before Simon said it over the microphone.

“Right,” Simon sighed, looking between the two of you. “Of course it’s you two.”

The room erupted immediately. You let out a small laugh, turning slightly to find Harry already looking at you, still smiling.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” he said.

You rolled your eyes. “Unfortunately.”

Simon raised a hand, and the noise dipped just slightly — enough for the moment to land. You stepped forward, Harry did too, and the rest of the stage blurred into background noise. Just the two of you now.

"Rock. Paper. Scissors."

Instant. You played. A beat.

Then—"I win!"

The room exploded. Harry immediately laughed, shaking his head as he stepped back. "Course you do," he said, the defeat fading into a proud, effortless smile as he looked at you.

You blinked, staring down at your own hand like the reality hadn't fully caught up yet. "...I actually won that."

"Yeah," he nodded, stepping closer to nudge your shoulder playfully. "You did."

Simon pointed a finger toward you through the roaring noise, his voice booming over the microphone. "Right—your team gets to pick a number!"

You caught Becky’s frantic signaling from across the room and called out, "Number Fifty-eight!"

The venue reacted immediately with a massive wave of cheers, groans, and shouts of disbelief. And then—

"HIJINGO!"

Your table erupted into absolute madness. Becky's voice sliced clean through the ambient noise even from a distance, screaming, "I KNEW SHE'D GET IT!" while Tobi threw his hands up, laughing hysterically at the sheer luck of it all.

On stage, Harry looked down at you, his eyes crinkling. "Not bad."

You gave him a small, satisfied look, soaking in the high. "Obviously."

Before heading back down, Harry gave your arm a quick, affectionate squeeze—a private beat of warmth amidst the loud chaos—before you both parted ways to return to your respective sides. You practically floated back to your table, met with high-fives from Pie and triumphant cheering from Becky and Tobi. For a couple of rounds, the adrenaline kept you completely locked into the cards, matching Tobi's hyper-focus number for number.

But the peak of the excitement eventually began to cool.

As the next few rounds ticked by, the game slowly settled back into its usual, rhythmic chaos. Numbers continued to be called, teams celebrated, and George—predictably—resumed his ongoing, passionate argument that the entire venue had a personal vendetta against him.

And that was when your attention, warm and slightly fuzzy from the drinks, began to drift across the room again.

Somewhere along the way, you completely stopped making a conscious effort to stay at your own table.

At first, Becky had been strict about it. She had marched over, physically guided you back by the shoulders, and reminded you that they still had a game to win. You had sat down, taken an obedient sip of your drink, and stared hard at the card. But the alcohol was making the room feel too warm, and Harry's table had a gravitational pull you couldn't fight. Less than ten minutes later, you had drifted right back.

This time, Becky didn't follow. Across the room, you caught her catching Tobi’s eye, pointing a finger at your empty chair, and dramatically dropping her head into her hands. They had officially given up on you.

Completely liberated, you stepped up right behind Harry’s chair, letting one hand settle absent-mindedly onto his shoulder.

Harry didn’t even look up, completely unfazed by your sudden reappearance. Arthur was in the middle of a sentence, George was still complaining, and the game roared on around you, but Harry’s hand instantly lifted from the table. Without a word, his fingers slipped between yours, locking your hands together like muscle memory.

To be fair, the boys had seen this happen countless times. Whenever the group went out drinking, there always came a point in the night where you became significantly more attached to Harry’s side than your own.

You stood there for a few minutes, contentedly swaying to the music, before gently nudging his shoulder. "Harry."

He finally looked up, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. "Hm?"

You looked at him, then eyed the crowded, occupied chairs around the table, and then looked back down at him with a sleepy pout. "Can I sit here?"

A soft smile immediately tugged at his lips. "Yeah, sure baby."

Harry gave your hand a small tug, guiding you down until you settled comfortably onto his lap. His free arm wrapped naturally around your waist, your legs sideways across his lap. 

"Comfortable?" he murmured against your hair.

You hummed happily, resting your head on his chest. "Very."

"Good."

And that was that. Across the venue, Becky slowly lowered her glass, watching you completely dissolve into George's latest dramatic story. She nudged Tobi, pointing with her chin, before gesturing to Pie—who was currently engaged in a very passionate conversation that seemed to be making perfect sense to him and absolutely nobody else.

"Yeah," Tobi laughed, taking a sip of his own drink as Pie joined in on a random cheer across the room. "She's gone, and he's completely tuned out. We're the only two left."

Across the room, the game had officially become background noise—at least for you. George was already in the middle of another joke, fully committed to a bit that seemed to get more ridiculous every time he opened his mouth. Arthur was laughing, Bach was laughing, and unfortunately, so were you.

“You cannot seriously think that’s true,” Arthur said through a laugh.

“It is true.”

“It’s literally not.”

“It absolutely is.”

George looked around the table like he was expecting support. Your hand immediately shot up. “I agree with George.”

“Thank you,” George said instantly.

Harry looked up briefly. “You don’t even know what he’s talking about.”

“Don’t need to.”

“That’s concerning.”

You pointed at George. “He’s got conviction.”

“Exactly!” George said.

Arthur laughed harder. Harry just shook his head before looking back down at the card in front of him.

One hand resting on the table. The other still loosely wrapped around your waist. Not because he was paying particular attention to it. Just because at some point you’d ended up there and neither of you had thought to move.

“You are encouraging him,” Harry informed you.

“I think he’s funny.”

“He already knows that.”

“Good.”

George looked delighted. Harry looked significantly less delighted. You grinned before settling further against his chest.

For a moment, Harry glanced down at you. Then at the nearly forgotten card in front of him. Then back at you.

“You’re supposed to be helping your own team, you know.”

You tilted your head. “My team seems fine.”

Harry snorted. “Right.”

And despite the fact that George was still talking, Arthur was still laughing, and numbers were still being called somewhere in the background—

Neither of you moved.

A few moments later, another drink appeared on the table.

Your eyes immediately lit up.

Harry noticed.

Unfortunately.

The second your hand reached for it, his got there first. His fingers closed around the glass before you could even touch it.

"Harry."

"No."

You stared at him. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I do."

"You don't."

"I absolutely do."

You frowned. He looked entirely unconvinced.

Without another word, he slid the drink slightly further away, out of your reach, before reaching for the glass of water beside him. The one that had been sitting there mostly untouched for the last hour.

"Drink."

You looked down at it. Then back at him. Then back at the water.

"You're no fun."

"Drink."

Arthur laughed. George pointed at Harry immediately. "He's doing that thing."

"What thing?" you asked.

"The protective boyfriend thing."

"I am not," Harry said.

"You are."

"I'm literally not."

Bach was already laughing. Meanwhile, Harry simply continued holding the glass of water out towards you. Waiting. Patiently. Like he already knew how this was ending.

With a dramatic sigh, you finally took it from his hand.

"There we go."

You narrowed your eyes, taking a slow sip. Harry looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Satisfied, he returned his attention back to the card in front of him. One hand resting on the table. The other found its way back around your waist without a second thought.

The game carried on around you. Numbers continued being called. Teams continued celebrating and complaining in equal measure.

"Today I'm here with my husband, my girlfriend, and her husband." Faith introduces the video. "And today we are doing drunk golf! Ethan, explain the rules because I have no idea." 

Ethan explains that you're playing a Scramble, which means both members of each team hit the ball and you chose where to hit from next based on who has the better shot, then both members of the team hit a ball from there and so on. If you lose a hole you take a shot, if you hit it in the water or lose the ball in the trees you take a shot, and if you three putt as a team you take a shot. 

You wouldn't be playing a full 18 holes, that would take far too long. Instead, you'll play six, and if it ends in a tie you'll play a seventh. Honestly, though, there's no way you and Faith are winning this. 

Harry and Ethan tee off first. Harry steps up and takes a practice shot, and despite knowing you shouldn't talk when he's taking a shot you can't help yourself. 

"Whoa, get a close up on those arms." 

In your defence, his arms do look amazing. Good enough to take a bite of, really. 

Harry and Ethan both hit good shots but Ethan's landed in the rough, which obviously meant Harry took the piss out of him. It was a hell of a lot better than anything you and Faith would be able to do today.

Faith used your clubs, Harry had insisted that if you were playing that you have clubs that were the right size for you. Who knew the length of the club would make such a difference? But apparently it does. She hits the ball and it makes it about twenty yards causing the boys to be little shits and laugh at her. 

"It's alright, babe, it's off the tee." 

Then, when it's your turn to tee off, Harry can't help himself either as he watches you bend over in the skort. 

"All we need right now is a strong gust of wind." 

"That's my wives arse you're talking about, you pervert." Faith scolds, then turns to you. “Your arse does look fantastic in that skort though.” 

"My wife," Harry argues, "you were maid of honour, you should remember." 

The argument is such a normal occurrence. If it's not you and Ethan arguing about Faith being your wife, it's Harry and Faith arguing about you being Faith's. It doesn't help that both you and Faith had said that if, God forbid, Harry and Ethan died, you'd marry each other and live together because fuck finding another man who would never be able to live up to them. 

"Oi, shut up, I'm taking my shot now." You turn round, fake glaring at Harry before turning to Faith. "You're an angel, I'd never tell you to shut up." 

"Now that's just fucking rude." Ethan retorts.

You take your shot and it's a fairly decent shot. Nowhere near as far as Harry or Ethan's, but it's on the fairway. 

"Oi, that was decent, y'know." Ethan looks genuinely surprised. 

"Thanks," you smile, "I would say Harry's a great teacher but I think he just takes me to the driving range so he can look at my arse when I'm taking a shot." 

"Can't blame him, babe." Faith looks at your ass, smacking it as she passes you on her way back to the golf cart. 

As the four of you get situated on your golf carts, you over hear Harry. "You know, sometimes I feel like I have to go all caveman on Y/N in front of Faith to like, re-establish the fact that she's my wife." 

"What? Like piss on her leg like a dog or something? Mark your territory?" Ethan laughs. 

"Yeah!" 

"I'll try anything once, but you're not pissing on me, that's where I draw the line." 

-

Half way through, you're all definitely tipsy. You and Faith have lost two of the three, but Harry and Ethan have three putted on the second hole and one of Harry's tee shots ended up in another continent it went that far left. 

The drunker you all get the worse you play, everything’s hilarious, the jokes are getting wilder and you and Faith are making Harry and Ethan seriously consider their life choices. It’s one thing when they have to deal with you both drunk on a night out, but on a golf course in the middle of the day trying to film a video is a whole other story. 

You almost took Harry out when you pretended to take a shot like Happy Gilmour, full run up to the tee and all. Only for the club to go flying out of your hand straight towards your husband’s head. Then, Faith makes Ethan dramatically miss a shot when he goes to take his second tee shot and she pokes him in the ass with the end of one of the clubs. 

Now on the fourth green, Faith steps up to putt. The ground is sloping to the right and it's a fair distance to put so you try to direct Faith on where to aim, but she's clueless. 

"I don't want to proper whack it and send it flying. It's not like mini golf, there's no bumpers at the side." 

The two of you are giggling because everything's funny after however many shots of sambuca. 

“Here, do a practice shot.” You step up behind her doing the ‘guy thing’ where you wrap your arms around her, hands over hers as you swing the club, swaying your hips together. “Swing back to like, here and then follow through, don’t slow down when you hit the ball.” 

“I feel like I’m intruding.” One of the camera crew comments. 

“You are.” You and Faith deadpan and turn to look at him in sync. Your arms still wrapped around her as you break character after a second and burst into laughter again. You step back from her after a couple practice swings and pat her ass. “You got this, babe.” 

She, in fact, did not have it. She slowed down as she swung the club forward to hit the ball and it still landed about 5 feet from the hole. 

You take your shot, not great and the total opposite problem to Faith’s. It goes maybe 2 feet past the hole but it should be a straight forward final putt. 

Harry and Ethan take their next shot. Harry, ever so gently, smacks the ball right off the green and insists he ‘never hit it that hard’. Ethan’s ends up near yours, all of you now putting for a bogey. 

The boys go first and Harry putts it first try as if he isn’t numerous shots of sambuca deep. 

Then it’s Faith’s turn. It looks like it’s going to miss spectacularly, but the slope of the green has it turning more than anyone expected and it trickles right into the hole and the two of you celebrate like you’ve just won The Masters. You’re cheering, jumping up and down, hugging each other. It’s a tie for this hole but it feels like a win. 

-

On Hole 6, the boys have already won, it’s 3-1 with the draw on the fourth, and one to play. You’ve all had another couple shots, a lost ball here, one in the pond there. 

“We can’t get beaten this badly, we have to win another one.” Faith says as you drive to the sixth tee, neither of you should be driving a golf cart this tipsy. 

“I think, if they play bad enough then, we have a chance, and honestly? Ethan’s fucked, so there’s a chance.” 

They should call you Mystic Meg because the boy in question can’t stop laughing at his own joke long enough to take a shot. His laugh makes the rest of you laugh, and he tops it. The golf ball goes no more than three feet in front of him. He ends up bent over, holding on to the driver to keep him up right as he laughs and tries to re-tell the joke, but every time he tries he just laughs all the more.  

“I have no idea what we’re laughing at.” You say, laughing anyway. 

“Neither do I and I heard the joke.” Harry replies. 

By the time you get to the green, Faith’s lost a ball which resulted in another shot of sambucca and Harry and Ethan somehow have one more shot than you and Faith. You have a chance of winning this hole at least. 

It’s a par four and you’re at the edge of the green at your third shot, playing for a bogey if you hit it close enough to the hole to one putt. The boys are on the green on their fourth shot but they’re at the total opposite side of the green to the hole and they need to one putt to get a bogey. 

Faith goes first and hits it surprisingly well for how drunk you are, not too far from the hole. Success. 

You go next and try to remember how to properly chip the ball like Harry taught you. You take a couple practice swings, determined to at least win this hole, your competitive streak coming out in full force. 

You get the club under the ball and chip it up in the air. The little, pink golf ball bounces on to the green and rolls along the grass. You watch it slow down as it gets closer to the hole. 

Faith is jumping on the spot as if trying to shake the ground to get it to keep rolling. Harry and Ethan are watching completely still, shocked that after so much booze you’ve managed to hit such a good shot. 

The ball rolls right up to the edge of the hole, almost stopping, but whether by sheer luck or a light gust of wind, it tips over the edge and into the hole. 

If you and Faith celebrated like you’d won The Masters before, you were celebrating as if you’d conquered the world now. You’ve lost the game, but won the last hole in such a great way. Thank God there’s no one else on the course because no doubt you’d get noise complaints.

“We still won.” Ethan reminds you both as you jump up and down hugging. 

“Fuck off, don’t ruin this moment.” You glare at him as you and Faith hug like long lost lovers meeting again. 

“Exactly, that was spectacular.” Faith backs you up. 

-

After your celebration, Faith does the outro to the video and you all get packed up to head back home. 

Harry walks with his arm slung over your shoulder as you head into the carpark to wait for your taxi. 

“That last shot was like- What’s the golf equivalent to Goal of the Season?” You ramble on, leaning half of your weight on him. “That shot was that.” 

He affectionately rolls his eyes at you. “Alright, Tiger Woods, it wasn’t that good.” 

“Never seen you chip a putt that good before. At least I haven’t snapped a club, or thrown one into the trees, or swore down I’d never play golf again and threatened to sell my clubs.” 

He grabs you into a playful choke hold, pulling you back against his chest as you both chuckle. “I’ll have you know, I have done that before. You just weren’t there to see it.” 

You don’t even need to turn around to see the face he’s making, that one that says ‘not so smart now, are you?’. You reach a hand back to poke at his side, which in hindsight wasn’t a great idea. 

He flinches to the side as your finger pokes his ribs, the arm around your neck tightens accidentally and he pulls you with him. 

“Oh shit!” He panics straight away. He turns you to face him, hands framing your face as he looks you over. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you can’t help but chuckle. Whenever you play fight and he gets the slightest bit too carried away he panics like this. “My fault. I shouldn’t have poked you.” 

He pulls you to his chest, arms tight around your shoulders and repeatedly kisses your head. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise, it’s fine.” You look up at him, fingers laced behind his neck. “You can buy me a McDonalds on the way home if you feel that bad. 

He sighs at your innocent smile, but concedes anyway. “Alright then, Tiger Woods, lets get you a McDonalds. Least I can do for nearly choking you out.” 

“You don’t mind choking me in bed, not much difference.” You shrug, grinning when he blushes. You can’t help it, especially when he gets all flustered and awkward talking about your bedroom escapades in public. 

“Right, that’s enough from you.” He points his finger at you as he scolds you. 

The taxi pulls up at the perfect time. Food, home, and a night on the couch with your man. Perfect. 

You heard him shouting from the pitch, emotions raw,  just before he covered his face with both hands and started pacing in tight, frustrated circles. The Argentinians were celebrating wildly right in front of him, cheering, bodies jumping. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, eyes squeezed shut like he was physically willing himself to not explode publicly. Then one of the opposing players said something in Spanish – you couldn’t hear or understand what –and Jude lashed out, slapping the back of the player’s head in a flash of blind frustration.

You and Denise both shot to your feet at the same time. His mum muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like “for fuck’s sake, Jude,” her hand flying to her mouth as you all watched the brief altercation unfold. Luckily the England lads were quick, pulling him away, keeping him wrapped up and shielded from the cameras as best they could.

He finished his post-match interviews and finally made his way over to the family section. You could tell from the way he kept hiding his face under the brim of his cap that he was pissed off he couldn’t stop the tears. Pissed off he couldn’t stop those late goals. Pissed off he couldn’t score more, contribute more, do whatever it took to push England over the line. He would have sacrificed almost anything tonight to get them to the final.

He hugged his parents first. Denise held him tight, rubbing his back in slow circles, whispering things only a mother could say. Mark gripped him hard, proud even in defeat, murmuring quiet words of reassurance. But their comfort seemed to ricochet off Jude’s body. He was vibrating with anger, with frustration, with a deep, burning disappointment that lived in his chest after every loss with England.

When he finally sat down next to you, his hand automatically latched onto your thigh, gripping like you were the only steady thing left in his world. You watched as his knee bounced restlessly, as he ran his hand over his face again and tugged his cap even lower, trying to disappear under it.

“Jude, hey… hey… look at me,” you said softly.

He turned his head slowly, propping his chin on his fist. The muscles in his jaw ticked hard. He was devastated, that much was clear in his red-rimmed eyes. But underneath it you could see the anger simmering; at himself, at the way it had slipped away again, at the fact that no matter how hard he ran, how much he gave, it still wasn’t enough to cross that final line for England.

You reached out and gently wiped under his eye with your thumb. He turned his head and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to your palm, lingering there for a second like he needed the contact to soothe his very soul. Then his eyes drifted away again, distant and unfocused, staring down at the now-empty pitch where the Argentina celebrations had finally started to die down.

The silence between you stretched, heavy and painful. His hand stayed on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth absently, like he needed something to anchor him to reality and not let him get lost inside his head.

“Can you come to my room later?” he muttered eventually, voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. “I don’t… I don’t wanna be alone tonight.”

You nodded instantly, heart twisting at how small he sounded. “Yes… yeah, of course, baby. Whatever you need. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He let out a shaky breath, shoulders dropping ever so slightly. “Don’t wanna keep crying out here,” he admitted quietly, almost embarrassed. “Not with everyone still watching. Just… need it to be you. Need it to be quiet.”

You squeezed his hand, leaning your head against his shoulder for a moment. “I’ve got you. I promise. As soon as you’re back at the hotel, I’ll come straight to you. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

Jude turned his head slightly, pressing another soft kiss to the top of your head. His voice was barely audible when he spoke again.

“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you tonight.”

You got to his hotel room just after the sun had set, the sky outside still bleeding orange and pink. He’d texted you very bluntly earlier, the way he got when the pain was still too fresh to soften for anyone, even you.

Consequently, you weren’t expecting him to be in a fantastic mood when you finally knocked on his door. He always came down to the lobby to collect you, no matter how tired he was. Not tonight.

“Who is it?” came his voice, sharp.

You could hear him moving inside, pacing, up and down the room like a caged animal.

“It’s me, bab–”

You hadn’t finished your sentence before the door swung open. He pulled you inside and shut the door behind you before you could even blink. His chest was heaving. The second you were over the threshold he let go of you, stepping back like he needed space but also couldn’t stand being far away from you. There were fresh tear streaks down his face that he was angrily wiping away with the heel of his hand. He was being so hard on himself. It broke your heart all over again.

“Do you think I had a shit game?” he asked bluntly, voice a little cold, eyes burning with more tears.

“What? No, I—”

“Good. Because what more could I have fucking done?” He started pacing again, hands tugging at his hair. “I ran until my legs felt like they were going to snap. I covered every blade of grass. I created chances. I defended when I had to. And it still wasn’t enough.”

You sat on the edge of his bed, watching him, heart aching as the words poured out of him.

“Jude… you gave everything out there. Everyone saw that. I saw that.”

“Yeah?” He stopped pacing for a second, eyes flashing. “Well it wasn’t enough, was it? The second goal was right in the middle of the fucking goal. Right there. We had six defenders on the fucking pitch. Six! I’m not a defender! How did we let that happen? How did I not see it coming? I should’ve been there. Should’ve been closer to the ball. I should’ve done more.”

You tried to keep your voice steady. “You can’t carry the whole team on your back every single—”

“I wasn’t trying to carry the whole team,” he cut in, voice rising. “I was trying to win! And we were winning. We were in control. And then it just… slipped. Again. Like it always fucking does–”

He cut himself off with a bitter laugh, shaking his head. His eyes were glassy again, angry tears threatening to spill over. He wiped them away roughly, like they personally offended him.

“Baby, you’re being too hard on yourself—”

“Don’t,” he snapped, but there was no real anger directed at you, just frustration spilling out of him any way it could. “Don’t tell me I’m being too hard on myself. I know what I saw out there. I know what I felt. We were better than that. I was better than that. I always think I can do more and then it’s the same story. We get so fucking close and then—”

You stood up slowly, reaching for him. “Jude, hey… look at me.”

He shook his head, running a hand over his face, body shaking with the tears he was trying to hold back.

“I’m so fucking tired of this. Tired of getting to the last stages and watching it slip away. Tired of the ‘nearly men’ narrative. Tired of people saying we don’t have the mentality when we just went toe-to-toe with the world champions for ninety minutes. What more do they want from us? From me?”

His voice cracked on the last word. He stopped pacing for a second, chest rising and falling fast, fists clenched at his sides. The room felt too small for all the fury and grief rolling off him.

You reached for him again, and he let you pull him in, but his body stayed rigid, vibrating.

“What can I do to make it better then?” you asked softly, stroking his back. “If you don’t want me to criticise the self-blame, then how can I help?”

“I don’t know!” His voice cracked, frustration and pain mixing together. “You can’t. I’m just– I’m so fucking angry and–and–”

He cut himself off, breathing hard. For a second it looked like he might pull away. His face crumpled, eyebrows knitting together as a choked off sob escaped him.

“Baby…baby it’s okay–”

“It’s not okay. Nothing feels okay,” he sniffled, tucking his head into your neck. You stroked his back, not sure what to do next. He was so fragile but so angry. You’d never seen him like this before.

“I know and I’m so sorry, Jude,” you whispered, kissing the top of his cheek as you held him close. “Tell me how to help you. I’ll do anything to make you feel a little bit better. Just tell me what you need.”

He lifted his head for a second, wet eyes meeting yours. He looked over your face slowly, like he was searching for something, before his gaze lingered on your lips. You wanted to say something else, anything to help pull him out of the spiral, but he was so focused on your mouth that the self-deprecating words had finally stopped pouring out of him.

“Baby?” you breathed softly.

His grip on your waist tightened almost painfully within seconds. He pulled you flush against him, mouth crashing down on yours in a bruising kiss. There was nothing gentle about it. It was desperate, angry, hungry, like he wanted to drown how he was feeling out with how good your lips felt against his.

You gasped into his mouth and he swallowed the sound, walking you backwards until your back hit the wall. One hand slid into your hair, tugging hard enough to tilt your head back as he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against yours with desperate need.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough with emotion, almost apologetic even as his body pressed harder against you. “I’m not trying to take it out on you. I just…”

He broke off, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were still glassy with frustration and leftover tears, but there was something else burning in them now – a desperate, almost feral hunger he only had for you.

“I need you,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I need you to remind me who the fuck I am. Need you to make me feel like me again. Strong. In control. Not this… this version that keeps fucking up.”

His hand slid down to grip your thigh, lifting it around his hip as he ground his hardening bulge against you. “Want to fuck you so deep you forget every other name but mine,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, voice dropping into the filthy, dominant tone he only used when he was desperate. “Want you screaming for me. Want to feel you fall apart on my cock so I can remember who I am. The one who takes what he wants. The one who always wins with you.”

He kissed you again, harder this time, biting your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathed, eyes dark and wild, hips rolling against you in a slow, filthy grind. “Tell me it’s okay to be rough tonight. Tell me you can take it. Because I need to feel like me again, baby. Need to feel like I own something. Like I own you.”

His fingers dug into your thigh, possessive and trembling with the emotions still raging inside him.

“Please,” he whispered, forehead still pressed to yours. “Let me have you like this.”

You hesitated for a second, searching his eyes. You weren’t entirely sure this was the healthiest way for him to process everything he was feeling…the anger, the grief, the powerlessness from the pitch. But this was Jude, and you didn’t think you could ever say no to him when he looked at you like that, desperate and aching and needing to feel something real.

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear, and nodded.

“I can take it,” you whispered. “I’ll take anything you give me. You know I will.”

Relief and hunger flashed across his face at the same time. He squeezed your thigh again, leaning down to kiss you slightly softer at first, but quickly turning deeper, tongue sliding against yours with need and dominance.

“That’s because you’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he murmured against your lips, his accent thicker with emotion. “My beautiful baby. Always know what I need. Always let me have you exactly how I want.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. Your eyes were already glazing over, the soft, submissive look he loved so much taking over. It didn’t take much when he spoke to you like that.

“Yeah?” he asked, almost teasing even through the emotions still raging in his chest. “You gonna let me fuck all this frustration out on you, baby? Let me remind myself who the fuck I am?”

You nodded, already a little breathless. “Yes, Jude.”

That was all he needed. In one smooth, powerful movement he spun you around, pressing your front against the wall. Your cheek met the cool surface as he yanked your jeans and panties down your legs in one rough tug, barely giving you time to step out of them. His big hands immediately palmed your ass, squeezing, spreading, smoothing over your hips like he was reclaiming every bit of skin for himself.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, pressing his still-clothed erection against your bare ass from behind, grinding slow and hard. “Perfect arse. So fucking pretty for me. Bet you’re so wet already and I’ve barely touched you.”

You whimpered as his lips attacked your neck, sucking and biting while his hands slid under your t-shirt, pushing it up so he could feel your skin. One hand stayed on your hip, holding you in place, the other moved up to cup your breast. “Tell me you’re my beautiful girl,” he growled against your ear, voice thick. “Tell me this pussy belongs to me. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I-I’m your beautiful girl, Jude,” you moaned, pushing back against him. “Belong to you… only you.”

He let out a low, satisfied sound and bit down on your shoulder, grinding his cock against you harder.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice dropping even lower. “Gonna fuck you right here first. Gonna make you take it so deep. I’m the only one, aren’t I? The only one who makes you scream.”

He shoved his own joggers down just enough to free himself, thick and hot, pulsing with the need to be inside of you. You felt the head of his cock drag through your folds, teasing your entrance.

“Tell me again,” he demanded, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me who you belong to while I fuck you against this wall.”

“I’m yours, Jude,” you gasped, pushing back against him. “Only yours.”

He wanted to tease you for longer, but how could he when you were so good and obedient for him? He thrust into you in one smooth, powerful stroke, burying himself deep. His hands stayed on your hips as he watched himself disappear inside you and groaned. The stretch was intense, overwhelming, and you cried out, hands bracing against the wall. Jude moaned as you clenched around him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he stayed still for a second, letting you adjust.

“Fuck… always feel so tight,” he moaned lowly. “My pretty girl.”

Then he started moving with deep, rough strokes that pressed you harder into the wall with every thrust. One hand stayed on your hip, gripping tight enough to leave behind red marks, the other slid up to wrap around your throat, a possessive hold that had your eyes rolling back already. “Say it again,” he growled against your ear, hips snapping forward. “Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Yours,” you moaned, voice breaking on every deep thrust. “It’s yours, Jude. All yours.”

He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest as he fucked you harder, deeper, the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the room. His pace was relentless but never cruel.  Every thrust  was purposeful, like he was trying to fuck the frustration and self doubt out of his system and into you.

“That’s my good girl,” he praised, lips brushing your neck between strokes, his voice loving despite his actions being quite the opposite. “Taking my cock so well. Letting me use you like this. Fuck, I needed this. Needed to feel like I can still make you feel good. Still make you mine.”

You whimpered, pushing back to meet his thrusts, and he rewarded you with a particularly deep, grinding stroke that made your knees buckle.

“Tell me you love it,” he breathed hot against your ear. “Tell me you love when I fuck you like this. When I take what’s mine.”

“I love it,” you gasped, cheek pressed to the cool wall. “Love when you fuck me like this, Jude. Love being yours.”

He let out a long moan and wrapped a strong arm around your waist, pulling you back against him so he could thrust even deeper. His free hand slid between your legs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, gentle circles.

The difference between his relentless thrusts, but slow and gentle hands made your vision start to cloud white with stars already. “J-Jude I’m gonna come–”

“No you’re not, baby,” he rasped, slowing his hips enough to tease you. “Not until I tell you to. Hold it for me. Good girl… fuck, you squeeze me so tight when you get close. You’re so fucking wet for me.”

“Please–” you whimpered, thighs trembling.

“Nuh-uh. Not allowed until I get to come with you,” he murmured, sucking on your neck. “You’re gonna hold it for me, aren’t you, angel?”

You nodded frantically, trying desperately to hold off your climax by squeezing your eyes shut. He gave you a small mercy, pulling his fingers away from between your legs and bringing them up to your lips instead.

“Open, baby. Taste yourself for me.”

You obeyed instantly, parting your lips and sucking his fingers into your mouth, moaning around them as his hips sped back up to the punishing pace. The taste of yourself on his skin only made everything feel more intense.

“Fuckin’ hell… just like that, baby,” he moaned, tilting his head to watch your pretty lips envelope his fingers. “Look at you. Sucking my fingers while I fuck you against the wall. My perfect girl.”

The sounds he was making, the low and desperate groans and breathy curses, were not making it any easier to hold back. You whimpered, opening your eyes to give him a pleading look. He exhaled through his nose as he bit his lip, eyes rolling back slightly, the look on your face nearly sending him hurtling towards his own orgasm. He suddenly pulled out, spinning you around to face him. Before you could protest, he kissed you hard, tongue sliding against yours as he lifted you up, pressing your back to the wall again.

“My beautiful girl is gonna make me come too quick,” he murmured against your lips, a dark chuckle vibrating through him. “Especially if you keep looking at me like that. We’re gonna change position so I can hold it a little longer. Yeah, angel?”

He spoke to you slowly like you were stupid, and you were, you suppose considering he’d just fucked you dumb against the wall. Normally you’d fight back, push against the power play because he loved when you were bratty, but that wasn’t what he needed tonight. He wanted complete submission, and you’d give him anything he wanted.

“P-please,” you whined, chasing his mouth when he pulled back slightly, hands clutching at his biceps. “Need you back inside me, Jude…”

“Oh, my needy little baby,” he smirked wickedly, nuzzling his nose against yours, eyes still burning with a mix of frustration and hunger. His hand smoothed up your arm, and wrapped loosely around your throat. “Open your mouth for me,” he whispered. You parted your lips straight away at his command, tongue out, eyes locked on his. His gaze darkened, pupils blown wide as he looked at you, waiting for him. He leaned in closer, hovering above you, and let a slow, thick string of spit fall from his mouth onto your waiting tongue. You moaned softly as it landed and swallowed it down without hesitation, eyes never leaving his.

Jude groaned deeply as his thumb stroked up and down your throat, feeling you swallow.

“Fuck… that’s my good girl,” he praised, voice hoarse. “Swallowing for me so pretty. You’d take anything I give you, wouldn’t you?”

You nodded, lips still parted, breathing a little faster. 

“I want all your clothes off. Get on all fours on the bed. Now.”

You nodded again, still too drunk on submission to speak, stripping off your T-shirt and bra as fast as you could. Jude kicked his joggers and boxers off, throwing his own T-shirt across the room. He was leaking as he stroked himself slowly, watching you climb onto the bed.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his voice softer than it was before. “Can’t believe you’re all mine sometimes. Look at you… arching that pretty back for me already.”

The second you were on all fours, you automatically arched deeper for him, presenting yourself. Jude climbed onto the bed behind you, leaning down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine. His big hands settled on your hips, squeezing gently as he lined himself up. You were trembling with need now, feeling cold and empty without him inside you.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, dragging the thick head of his cock through your soaked, oversensitive heat again. “You love when I use you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimpered, pushing back against him desperately.

He didn’t make you wait this time. In one powerful thrust he buried himself to the hilt, stretching you open again so suddenly you cried out louder than before. Jude moaned loudly, the sound almost animalistic as he bottomed out.

“Fuck– so tight. So fucking good,” he growled, pulling back almost all the way before slamming back in. His pace was brutal from the start – deep, hard thrusts that rocked your entire body forward with every snap of his hips. The sound of the headboard hitting the wall echoed through the room.

He reached forward, fisting your hair and pulling your head back to arch your back more.

“Scream my name, baby,” he demanded. “Want to hear you. Want the whole fucking hotel to know who’s fucking you this good.”

“Jude– oh my god, Jude!” you cried out as he hit the specific spot inside you over and over. He knew your body better than you did. You could’ve sworn you could feel him in your stomach.

“That’s it. Louder. Let me hear how much you love my cock,” he groaned, one hand coming down hard on your ass with a sharp smack. The sting made you clench around him, and he moaned loudly. “Fuck yes. Again.”

He spanked you again, harder this time, the sound echoing as he kept pounding into you relentlessly.

“You’re mine,” he growled, voice breaking with pleasure. “Say it. Tell me who this pussy belongs to again while I fuck you stupid.”

“It’s yours!” you sobbed, tears of overwhelming pleasure spilling down your cheeks. “It’s yours, Jude– only yours– fuck!”

He let out a wrecked moan and leaned over you, chest pressed to your back as he fucked you even deeper, one arm wrapped around your waist to hold you in place while his other hand reached down to rub your clit again in tight, fast circles.

“Come for me,” he ordered, rough and desperate. “Come on my cock like the good little slut you are for me. Let me feel you. Scream my fucking name when you do.”

You shattered hard, screaming his name as your orgasm crashed through you, walls clenching violently around him. Jude fucked you through it, hips never stopping, groaning loudly as your climax milked him.

“Fuck– that’s my girl. So good. So fucking good for me,” he panted, voice breaking with pleasure. “Gonna fill you up. Gonna come so deep inside you. You’re gonna take every drop, yeah?”

“Yes– please, Jude– please come inside me,” you begged weakly, still shaking from your orgasm.

With a final, deep thrust and a loud, broken moan of your name, Jude came hard, burying himself as deep as possible as he spilled inside you, hips stuttering with the force of it. He kept grinding through it, like he couldn’t bear to stop, whispering filthy praise against your ear the whole time.

When he finally stilled, he stayed buried deep inside you, chest heaving against your back, arms wrapped tightly around you as he pressed soft, reverent kisses along your shoulder.

“God… I  fucking love you,” he whispered, his voice shaky. 

“I love you too baby,” you manage to get out, body feeling limp and hazy with the come down. 

The switch happened so quickly you could barely keep up. The anger drained out of him at once, probably with his orgasm, you’d tease him later when you spoke about it. All Jude felt when he heard your soft voice was exhaustion and a sudden wave of nauseating worry. He carefully pulled out, a soft hiss escaping both of you, and immediately turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. His hands were gentle now, too gentle, as he cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, voice cracking. His eyes were wide, searching your face desperately. He was so expressive with his face, eyebrows furrowing in the sweetest way. “Baby, tell me the truth. Was I too rough? I didn’t mean to– fuck, I was so angry and I just… I needed you so bad.”

You shook your head, still catching your breath, but he was already looking you over, hands sliding down your body with careful tenderness. He turned you slightly, eyes scanning your hips, your ass, the places he’d gripped hard.

“Shit… there’s marks,” he whispered, sounding devastated as his fingers traced the faint red imprints of his hands on your hips and the light handprint on your ass. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be that rough. This time it wasn’t just…it wasn’t just dominance or playing. I was actually angry and I took it out on you and I–”

“Jude,” you said softly, cupping his face to stop his spiral. He looked up and met your eyes, bottom lip between his teeth with worry. “I’m okay. I wanted it. I wanted you. You didn’t hurt me. You’ve been more rough before, you’ve left marks on me before. Don’t worry. You’re okay…I'm okay..”

He still looked torn, eyes glassy again but this time with guilt instead of rage. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it was almost crushing, burying his face in your neck like he could hide from what he’d just done.

“I know I’ve been rough with you before,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice shaking. “But that’s always been… playing. Power play and acting and shit. This time it was real. I was actually angry and frustrated and I took it out on your body and I– fuck, I’m scared I hurt you because I couldn’t control it. I never want you to feel like you have to take my bad days. I’d never hurt you just because I’m upset or angry. You’re the one person who makes everything better and I just used you like that and I feel sick about it.”

You stroked his back slowly, pressing soft kisses to his temple and the side of his head.

“Jude, listen to me,” you whispered. “I wanted it. I wanted all of you – the anger, the need, everything. You didn’t use me. You let me be there for you in any way I could. And I’m okay. I promise. You know I like it when you act like that.”

He made a small, upset sound and held you even tighter, legs tangling with yours as he pulled you fully on top of him. His hands roamed gently over your body now, soothingly checking every place he’d been rough, pressing soft kisses wherever his fingers found faint marks.

“I’m sorry,” he kept whispering between kisses. “I’m so sorry, baby. I love you. I love you so much. You’re everything to me.”

You kept holding him, fingers running through his hair, letting him cling to you until the guilt slowly started to ease and he could finally breathe again. He eventually settled with his face buried back in your neck, breathing you in like you were oxygen, one hand still gently rubbing your hip where he’d gripped you earlier.

“Stay like this,” he murmured. “Don’t let go. Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I love you, you’re okay Jude.” He let out a long, shaky breath, finally relaxing completely in your arms. "I love you more," he whispered, voice slurring with sleep. "M'sorry baby..."

He was still feeling bad about how rough he was. In reality, you think it could've been the best sex you'd ever had. You were going to tell him that, but the change in his breathing told you he'd already fallen asleep. You press one last gentle kiss to his forehead, "there's nothing to be sorry for, my love."

tags: @chabelitalace @thesizzler @hvnsinureyes @harryskissies (let me know if u want to be added/removed from the taglist)

Can’t stop thinking about how riding him would be so hot.

Like, yes, we know he’s fucking attractive but i think sex with him is hotter because he wants you to use him to make yourself feel good and he doesn’t mind one bit.

He keeps himself trimmed instead of waxing or shaving completely because he pays attention when you’re riding him and knows how good you feel when you’re grinding your clit on his pubes and he’s just grinning from ear to ear when he hears your moans.

“Does that feel good, baby?” his hands moving to your ass to help you grind harder and faster.

Your hands are on his chest, legs spread wide on each side on his hips, hips rolling back and forth on him, you can feel his cock stretching you a bit more with every movement, your lips are parted letting out whines and moans and your head is thrown back from how much pleasure he is giving you.

“Mhmmm, you feel so thick and are so big, Jude,” you catch your bottom lip in between your teeth, he’s looking up at you with a smile and his hands start wandering over your body, touching every inch of skin he can reach.

“All for you, baby, just wanna make me girl feel so good, hm? How’s that needy clit? Is it feeling good, darling?” he coos, voice dropping as he makes eye contact with you.

Your brows scrunching in pleasure from his words and his touch.

“Mhmmm, yeah, so, so good. God, you’re so hot,” you sigh, hips now moving in circles, pressing down on him firmer.

Jude’s hands place on your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin slowly.

“There you go, baby, use me, make yourself come on me, okay? You deserve it, honey, come for me,”

Oh and he never stops talking. He knows you get off on his voice too so he doesn’t stop, not even when you’re crying out right on the edge of approaching an orgasm. He just loves praising you and mix it with dirty talking.

“Harder, baby, rub that wet pussy on me,”

“Deeper, you can do it, can you? Take that cock deeper, baby, it’ll make you feel even better,”

“You have no idea how beautiful you look up there bouncing on thy dick, does it feel good, angel? I bet it does, you can’t stop moaning,”

“Look how hot these tits are bouncing for me, sweetheart,”

He’d wet his fingers while looking deadly into your soul and then slowly lead them to your clit and draw a slow, gentle motion to help you come faster.

“So, so pretty, there you go, making that pretty clit feel good, yeah?” he says softly.

And after you’re a mess on his chest trying to catch your breath his hands are rubbing your back helping you calm down and he’s whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

“You did so good, baby, such a good girl, I’m so proud of you,”

“I love you, honey, you alright?”

“Do you need water? Are you comfortable like this?”

Always checking up on you, trying to make you feel safe and comfortable around him before, during and after sex.

He collapsed into her, burying his face deep into the crook of her neck and chest. The impact nearly knocked the wind out of her, but she wrapped her arms around him instantly, pulling him as close as humanly possible. A quiet, shuddering sob escaped him, vibrating against her skin.

"We were so close," he whispered, his voice cracked and fragile, sounding nothing like the confident star the world knew.

Y/n closed her eyes, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the top of his head. She held him firmly, guiding his ear closer to her chest so he could hear the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart—a reminder that regardless of the score, he was home.

"I know, baby," she murmured, her own voice thick with emotion. "I know."

She didn't try to fix it with platitudes or tell him it didn't matter; she knew it mattered more than anything in the world to him right now. She simply held him, letting him unravel, letting the weight of the loss pour out of him in the safety of her embrace.

As they eventually pulled apart enough to leave, Y/n caught the eyes of a few teammates. She offered them a small, sad smile—a silent acknowledgement of their shared grief—before guiding Jude out of the stadium.

The ride back to their hotel in Atlanta was silent, the city lights blurring past the window. Once inside the privacy of their room, the door clicked shut, sealing out the rest of the world. The silence here was different—it wasn't the silence of a stadium, but the intimacy of two people who knew exactly how to hold each other together when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

The heavy silence of the hotel room was broken only by the distant hum of Atlanta traffic outside. Jude looked exhausted, his muscles tight and his spirit bruised, but the sight of Y/n taking care of him brought a flicker of warmth back to his eyes.

"Just relax on the couch, baby. Drink plenty of water," she murmured, pressing a cool bottle into his hand. "I'm going to get your bath ready."

Jude leaned back, the cushions swallowing his athletic frame. He reached out, catching her hand and pressing a lingering, tender kiss to her knuckles. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice still raw.

A few minutes later, the bathroom was filled with a thick, swirling steam that smelled of eucalyptus and salt. When Y/n called out that it was ready, Jude didn't just walk in; he lingered in the doorway, his gaze scanning her body.

"Aren't you gonna join me?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

Y/n blinked, surprised. "Oh… I thought maybe you'd want to be alone. To just clear your head."

Jude shook his head slowly, a small, determined smile playing on his lips. "I wanna be alone with you."

He reached out, his large hand gripping her waist to tug her toward the tub. There was a new urgency in his movements. Without breaking eye contact, he stripped off his shirt and pants, tossing them carelessly onto the tile. Then, his hands moved to her, his touch gentle but firm as he peeled her clothes away, leaving her bare and shivering slightly in the humid air.

Jude stepped into the tub first. As the scalding water engulfed his sore muscles, a loud, guttural groan escaped his throat, his head falling back against the rim. After a moment, he extended his hand, beckoning her. Y/n climbed in, the heat stinging her skin before settling into a deep, soothing warmth. She settled between his legs, her back pressed firmly against his broad, wet chest. Jude wrapped his arms around her, linking his fingers over her stomach, pulling her tight against him.

For a long time, they just sat there, the only sound the rhythmic dripping of the faucet and their synchronized breathing. The tenderness was thick, a sanctuary of shared grief and love.

Y/n sighed, tilting her head back to press a soft, lingering kiss to his damp shoulder. "I'm sorry it wasn't your year this time," she whispered.

Jude leaned in, kissing her shoulder in return, his lips grazing her skin. "Thanks, baby. It just gets to me… how close we were."

Y/n shifted slightly, turning her head to look up at him. "Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"

The question hung in the air. Jude didn't answer immediately. He stared at her, his dark eyes locking onto hers for three long seconds. In that silence, the atmosphere shifted violently. The tenderness evaporated, replaced by something heavier, darker, and far more primal. The grief was still there, but it had morphed into a desperate, hungry need to feel something other than defeat. He looked at her not as a source of comfort, but as prey.

Y/n felt a sudden, electric buzz ignite low in her stomach, a thrill of submission and desire shooting through her as she recognized the predatory glint in his eyes.

Before she could breathe, Jude leaned down and captured her lips in a bruising kiss. He didn't just kiss her; he invaded her, his tongue sliding deep into her mouth, licking and tasting her with a starved intensity. His hand shot up to her neck, his fingers gripping her firmly, tilting her head back at an angle that forced her to open up to him. He deepened the kiss, his tongue swirling against hers, claiming her completely.

A loud, needy moan escaped Y/n's throat. Driven by the sudden surge of heat between them, she twisted her body around in the water, her wet skin sliding against his. She gripped his muscular shoulders for leverage and swung her leg over, straddling his lap. The friction of her soaking wet pussy pressing against his hardening cock through the water sent a jolt of pure electricity through both of them.

The water in the tub sloshed violently as Y/n began to grind her hips, her soaking wet pussy sliding rhythmically against the hard length of his cock. The friction was electric, the heat of the water amplifying every sensation. They remained locked in a deep, messy kiss, their tongues dancing together while low, guttural moans vibrated through their chests.

Jude’s large hands shifted from her waist to her hips, his fingers digging into her soft skin. With a sudden, firm surge of strength, he pushed her down harder against him, forcing her pussy to crush against his shaft. Y/n let out a sharp, needy gasp, her back arching as the pressure intensified.

"Jude… please," she whimpered against his lips, her voice trembling with desperation.

Jude pulled back just an inch, a lazy, half-lidded smile crossing his face. He was still physically drained from the match, the exhaustion clinging to his muscles, but the sight of her undone and begging for him ignited a familiar, competitive determination. He wanted her to feel every bit of the passion he had bottled up.

He shifted his hips slightly, teasing the swollen head of his cock against her clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in slow, torturous circles. Y/n whimpered, her hips twitching in search of more. Then, with a slow, steady thrust, he began to slide inside her.

Y/n let out a long, loud moan, her eyes fluttering shut as she sank down onto him. He was thick and filling, stretching her walls as he buried himself deep within her. She paused for a moment, her breath coming in ragged hitches, allowing her body to adjust to the sheer size of him filling her completely.

Jude let out a heavy, satisfied sigh, dropping his forehead against her chest. He breathed in her scent, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. "Just what I needed," he rasped, his voice vibrating against her skin.

They stayed still for a heartbeat, the only sound the dripping of the faucet and their heavy breathing. Y/n looked down at him, her heart swelling with love and desire. She leaned down, whispering into his ear, "Let me do the work… you just relax."

She began to move, lifting her hips slightly before slamming back down onto him. Jude let out a deep, guttural groan, his head snapping back against the rim of the tub. Y/n picked up the pace, riding him with a rhythmic intensity that sent waves of pleasure crashing through them both.

The air in the bathroom grew thick and heavy with steam and the scent of sex. The water sloshed wildly around them, spilling over the edges of the tub and soaking the bathroom floor, but neither of them cared. Jude’s hands remained locked on her hips, guiding her movements, pushing her down deeper with every stroke to ensure he hit her G-spot.

Y/n reached forward, cupping his face in her hands and pulling him into another searing kiss. She moaned into his mouth, her internal muscles clamping tight around his cock, milking him with every upward and downward motion. The friction of the water and the tightness of her pussy drove them both toward the edge.

The tension built to an unbearable peak. Y/n’s movements became faster, more frantic, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Jude’s grip on her hips tightened, his knuckles turning white as he felt his own climax rushing toward him.

"I'm… I'm close," she sobbed, her body beginning to tremble.

"Do it, baby… come for me," Jude groaned, his voice a raw command.

With one final, powerful downward thrust, Y/n’s walls spasmed violently, her orgasm ripping through her in crashing waves. The sensation triggered Jude instantly; he let out a loud, primal shout, his body stiffening as he shot his warm cum deep inside her, filling her to the brim.

They collapsed against each other, chests heaving, their bodies still joined and twitching in the cooling water, completely spent and finally at peace.

After a few minutes of drifting in the cooling water, Jude finally stirred. He stood up, the water cascading off his lean, muscular frame in sheets, and reached down to scoop Y/n up into his arms. He carried her out of the tub with an effortless strength, his chest heaving slightly as he carefully dried her with a plush hotel towel, his touch lingering on her curves before he quickly dried himself.

He didn't let her go far. With a predatory glint returning to his eyes, he carried her the short distance to the bed and laid her down gently against the white linens. Jude didn't waste a second; he crawled between her legs, his lips finding her stomach. He kissed his way down, his tongue tracing a wet path over her navel and lower, until he reached the damp heat of her pussy.

Y/n let out a sharp gasp as his tongue flicked upward, licking directly into her slit. Jude groaned, burying his face in her folds, his tongue working with a rhythmic, hungry intensity. He ate her out with a focused passion, his tongue swirling around her clit and dipping deep inside her, tasting her arousal and the remnants of his own cum. Y/n’s fingers tangled deeply in his hair, pulling him closer, her hips bucking off the mattress as she neared another peak.

Just as she felt the tension coil tight, she gently pulled him away, her breath coming in ragged hitches. "No… I wanna reward you," she whispered, her voice thick with affection. "You worked so hard baby, and you did so good."

Jude looked up at her, dazed and wanting, but Y/n firmly pushed him back onto the pillows. He sank into the mattress, his muscles finally giving in to the exhaustion of the day. Y/n shifted, sliding down his body until her face was inches away from his cock, which twitched in anticipation, already hardening again for her.

She didn't hesitate, leaning in to give him a sloppy, messy, slow suck. She swirled her tongue around the head of his dick, letting thick saliva soak the shaft, making it glisten under the dim hotel lights. She took him deep into her throat, moaning around him, the wet, suctioning sounds filling the quiet room.

Jude let out a string of curses, his hands gripping the bedsheets as the sensation overwhelmed him. While her mouth worked on his head, Y/n’s hand reached down, her fingers stroking the base and his balls, ensuring every inch of him was stimulated.

She paused for a moment, pulling back just enough to look up at him, maintaining intense eye contact. The sight of her—devoted, wet, and focused entirely on his pleasure—was the breaking point. Jude’s head fell back against the pillow, a guttural sound escaping his throat.

"You're gonna kill me, baby," he rasped, his voice breaking.

With a few more powerful, deep sucks, Jude stiffened, his hips jerking upward as he came violently in her mouth. He filled her throat with hot, thick spurts of cum, his entire body shuddering with the release. As the orgasm faded, he felt his bones turn to jelly, the last remnants of the day's stress and grief finally evaporating.

Y/n swallowed him completely before crawling up his body, leaving a trail of wet kisses across his chest and stomach until she reached his lips. She kissed him softly, a tender contrast to the heat of moments before.

"You did so well," she murmured against his mouth. "Go to sleep baby, you have to rest."

Jude offered her a tired, genuine smile, pulling her tightly against his chest. He reached over to the bedside table, clicking off the lamp and plunging the room into a soft, warm darkness. Wrapped in each other's arms, the silence of the Atlanta night finally bringing them peace, they both fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

----------------

the problem with quiet nights was that eventually, they became too quiet.

not the peaceful kind of quiet. the kind where both people were comfortable enough to do absolutely nothing, but somehow still managed to be bored out of their minds.

the movie had ended nearly twenty minutes ago, the credits had long disappeared from the screen, and the empty bowls from dinner were still abandoned on the coffee table because neither of them had the energy to get up and move them.

jude was lying beside her, one arm tucked behind his head, casually scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t been staring at the same few apps for the last ten minutes. she knew because she’d been watching him do absolutely nothing while claiming he was “relaxing.”

she, on the other hand, was staring at the ceiling, silently searching for something—anything—that could save them from another hour of sitting in comfortable boredom. they had already watched two movies, spent far too much money on food they definitely didn’t need, and wasted at least forty minutes arguing over what to watch next.

somehow, she had gotten her way. a tragedy jude had been silently mourning ever since the opening scene.

“i still think my choice would’ve been better.” he announced, finally tearing his eyes away from his phone to stare at the blank TV screen like he was still personally offended by the movie.

she slowly turned her head towards him, raising an eyebrow. for a moment, she just stared at him, waiting for him to realize how ridiculous he sounded.

“jude,” she said, pressing her lips together to stop herself from laughing. “you spent the entire movie complaining.”

he stared at her in disbelief, giving her leg a light nudge with his foot, like the tiny gesture alone was enough to defend himself.

“i did not,” he insisted, his voice carrying the kind of offense usually reserved for much bigger accusations.

she let out a small laugh, shaking her head as she turned towards him. “you sighed every five minutes.”

he opened his mouth to argue, but she continued before he could. “not even subtle ones either. full dramatic sighs.”

the corner of his mouth twitched, already knowing she wasn’t finished.

“you said the plot made no sense,” she said, far too pleased with herself, leaning back against the sofa like she had just presented undeniable evidence. “you paused the movie to ask me how much longer was left.”

before he could defend himself, she stretched her leg out and gently tapped his with hers, the satisfied smile on her face making it obvious she knew she had him.

“hey,” he protested, looking down at where she’d bumped him, then smoothly right back at her.

“what?” she blinked at him, putting on the most innocent expression she could manage, even though the smile threatening to appear gave her away.

jude narrowed his eyes.

“did you just kick me?” he glanced down at where her foot was still resting against his leg, looking genuinely betrayed.

“you’re a professional footballer, jude. surely you can handle a tiny kick.”

for a second, he just looked at her.

then the corner of his mouth lifted, that familiar smug little smile appearing like he’d suddenly found a way to win the argument after all.

“i can handle a lot more than that for you, baby.” he said, his voice dropping into a teasing murmur, far too confident for someone who had just been complaining about a harmless kick.

“are you seriously trying to flirt your way out of losing an argument?” she asked, her voice laced with amusement, a smile tugging at her lips as she watched him.

jude didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

“maybe,” he simply smiled, reaching over to steal a piece of popcorn from the bowl between them like he hadn’t just been caught trying to charm his way out of losing.

the argument was over. well… as over as anything could be with jude. he never actually admitted she was right, and she knew better than to expect him to, but eventually they both decided the movie debate had gone on long enough.

so they moved on. by doing absolutely nothing.

he went back to scrolling through his phone, occasionally showing her random videos he found funny. she pretended not to care, then laughed at almost every single one. he stole some of her snacks. she stole them back. he complained like she had committed a serious crime despite the fact that he was the one who started it.

somehow, this became their activity for the next fifteen minutes. which would’ve been fine… if they weren’t still bored.

she looked around the living room, then at him, then back at the living room… then back at him.

she shifted closer to him, closing the small space between them until she was tucked against his side, mostly because she had run out of ideas and partly because being bored was easier when she was annoying him.

jude’s eyes left his phone, narrowing slightly as he looked down at her.

“why are you doing that?”

she blinked. “doing what?”

he gave her a look, the kind that said he already knew she was planning something.

“that.”

“she glanced down at herself, pretending to be confused. “i’m sitting next to you.”

“no,” he said, setting his phone down. “you’re plotting.”

a laugh almost escaped her. “i’m not plotting.”

he looked down at her, his expression changing slightly — not surprised, just amused, like he already knew she was lying.

“careful.”

she looked up at him. “what?”

jude’s mouth twitched as he watched her, already suspicious. he set his phone down beside him and tilted his head slightly.

“you’re either about to ask me for something or start trouble.”

she smiled, completely caught but not even trying to deny it. “maybe both.”

“i knew it.” his lips curved into a small smile as he looked away, like he was trying not to encourage her. then he shifted slightly beside her, turning his body more towards her as he waited, already knowing she was about to suggest something.

“jude,” she whined, letting her head fall back against the sofa. “we need to do something. we’ve officially reached the point where we’re bored of being bored.”

he didn’t answer immediately but his attention was fully on her now. his phone had been long forgotten somewhere on the sofa, abandoned the second he realized she was definitely up to something.

she turned her head towards him.

“jude.”

he looked at her, already knowing from her tone that she wasn’t going to let this go. “i heard you.”

she waited a second, then shifted closer, eventually resting her head against his shoulder as she waited for his answer.

“and?” she asked patiently.

jude looked down at her, a small smile tugging at his lips. he shifted slightly on the sofa, getting more comfortable as if he genuinely needed time to consider the most important decision of the night.

“i’m thinking.”

she stayed quiet for a moment, her head still resting against his shoulder, waiting for his so-called “thinking” to lead somewhere. the silence stretched. she looked up at him.

“are you actually thinking, or are you just sitting there looking like you are?” she asked, watching his overly serious expression for a moment before a laugh threatened to escape. the way he looked so focused made it almost impossible not to laugh.

then his expression turned offended.

“wow,” he lightly squeezed her cheek between his fingers, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “the disrespect.”

she let out a small laugh, turning her face slightly away from his hand. “you’re so dramatic.”

“i’m hurt.”

“you’ll survive.”

“barely.”

she rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

then she went quiet. not bored quiet. thinking quiet. jude noticed.

“why do i feel like that silence means trouble?”

her smile grew wider as the idea fully formed. she lifted her head from his shoulder, turning towards him with sudden excitement.

“i have an idea.” her eyes lit up as she brought her hands together in a quick clap. “hear me out.”

his eyes immediately narrowed. he knew that tone. the last time she had said “hear me out,” it had never been followed by anything normal.

“i don’t like where this is going,” he said, though the small smile on his face betrayed him.

she ignored him, a grin spreading across her face as she pushed herself up from the sofa.

“hide and seek.” she said it like she had just come up with the greatest idea in history.

jude stared at her. for a moment, he genuinely looked like he was waiting for the rest of the sentence. “…hide and seek?”

she nodded, completely serious. he blinked, glancing around the room before looking back at her.

“you’re serious,” the small smile on his face gave away that he wasn’t actually against it — he was just trying to understand how they had gone from being bored on the sofa to this. “we’re really doing this?”

“yes, go hide.”

he stayed exactly where he was on the sofa, staring up at her like he was waiting for her to reveal that this was a joke.

“that’s it?”

she looked back at him, confused by his confusion.

“that’s it.”

“you’re not even going to explain the rules?”

“jude, it’s hide and seek. i think you’ll manage.” she gave him a shrug.

a slow, confident grin spread across his face as he finally pushed himself off the sofa. he straightened to his full height, looking down at her like he’d just accepted the challenge of a lifetime.

“don’t come crying to me when you can’t find me,” he said, his voice full of mock confidence. “you clearly underestimate my hiding abilities.”

“please,” she said with a quiet laugh, waving a dismissive hand. “i bet i could find you in under a minute.”

he looked at her in complete disbelief, “you really think i can’t hide?” his eyebrows shooting up for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. she had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.

“jude…” she looked him up and down, making a very obvious show of it before meeting his eyes again. “you’re six foot something.”

he frowned.

“six foot one.” he corrected, as if the extra precision somehow strengthened his case. he folded his arms, looking at her expectantly. “so?”

she blinked. “…and you think you’re gonna disappear?”

he didn’t hesitate.

“yes,” he answered with effortless confidence, like the answer was painfully obvious. the corner of his mouth lifted into a smug smile as he shrugged one shoulder. “i fail to see how’s that relevant.”

she looked at him for a second. then another. trying—unsuccessfully—to keep a straight face.

“jude…” she shook her head, a laugh already escaping her. “because you’re built like a lamp post.”

the silence that followed lasted all of half a second. then she completely lost it. a burst of laughter escaped her as she bent forward, one hand flying to her stomach while the other reached for his arm to steady herself.

jude instinctively glanced down at himself, turning slightly as if checking whether she might somehow have a point.

“…i’m not built like a lamp post.” he looked back at her with complete sincerity, sounding genuinely offended by the comparison.

she completely lost it. she managed between laughs, shaking her head. “i can’t believe you actually checked.”

she was still laughing when he looked at her for another second, clearly deciding that words weren’t going to win this argument. a small, determined smile tugged at his lips.

“right,” he muttered.

before she could say anything else, he turned on his heel and took off down the hallway. she stared after him, completely caught off guard. for a second, she just stood there, trying to process what had happened. then she blinked.

“did you just run away?”

a few seconds of silence followed. then his voice echoed from somewhere upstairs. “you said hide!”

she pressed her lips together, already fighting another laugh.

“jude,” she called back, already knowing this was going to be a disaster. “you’re supposed to hide, not announce your escape!”

she shook her head, still smiling as she made her way upstairs, listening carefully. the confidence he had disappeared with was honestly impressive. he had spent the last five minutes insisting he had “hiding abilities,” and now she was about to find out if that was actually true. she walked slowly down the hallway, looking into each room. the house was quiet. too quiet.

“jude?”

no answer. she let out a quiet huff of amusement and continued down the hallway until she reached the bedroom. she pushed the door open slowly, peeking inside. nothing immediately caught her attention. she stepped in, looking around the room.

“okay,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “you’re really trying this time.”

a small movement near the window caught her attention. she stopped. slowly, she turned her head towards the curtain. she took a few steps closer, already trying to hold back a laugh. and then she saw it. jude was behind the curtain. or, more accurately, jude had attempted to be behind the curtain. because while the curtain was doing its best to hide the upper half of him, his legs were completely visible underneath.

she just stood there. looking at him. looking at his very obvious legs sticking out. then back at the curtain. she had to press her lips together to stop herself from laughing. the funniest part was that he wasn’t even moving. he was completely still, probably convinced that his plan was flawless. a six-foot-something professional footballer, hiding behind a curtain like he had just mastered the art of invisibility. she stared for another second.

“jude.”

silence.

she looked down at his legs again. “seriously?”

behind the curtain, he stayed perfectly still. which somehow made it even worse.

“your legs are out,” a laugh slipped from her lips. “like…really out.”

for a moment, she expected him to admit defeat. instead, his voice came from behind the curtain.

“they are not.” he was far too confident for someone whose hiding spot had already been exposed.

she rubbed a hand over her face, completely speechless, before glancing down again, just to make sure she wasn’t somehow imagining the very obvious pair of legs sticking out.

she slowly pointed at him. “your entire body is outside the curtain.”

she could practically hear him trying to come up with a response. he slowly looked down, as if he was only now checking whether she was telling the truth. his eyes landed on his very visible legs sticking out from underneath the curtain.

“…how unfortunate.” he said it with complete seriousness, like he had just discovered a major flaw in an otherwise perfect plan.

she burst into laughter. jude sighed, finally stepping out from behind the curtain with as much dignity as he could possibly recover. he straightened his shirt, acting like nothing embarrassing had happened.

“i was warming up.” he said it casually, with the kind of confidence that made it obvious he expected her to believe him.

she pinched the bridge of her nose, still trying to process the fact that he had just called standing behind a curtain “warming up.”

“you know warming up usually involves moving, right?” she blinked.

he looked at her, completely unfazed. “i was mentally preparing.” he scratched the back of his neck and glanced away briefly before meeting her eyes again.

“for what?

“the next round.”

before she could answer, he walked past her with a suspicious amount of confidence. she turned around, watching him with disbelief as he started walking away again. “you’re going again?”

“obviously.” he glanced back at her, like the answer was obvious.

“i found you under a minute.” she let out a small laugh.

there was a brief pause where he looked like he was deciding how to respond. then, with complete confidence:

“i was testing you. wanted to see how quickly you’d figure it out.”

“right,” she said slowly, clearly not believing a word of it. “round two, you have sixty seconds.”

“that’s not enough time.” he looked offended.

she shrugged, already amused. “maybe don’t choose a hiding spot where your legs introduce themselves first.”

jude clicked his tongue, folding his arms across his chest.

“the curtain let me down.” he sighed dramatically, sounding genuinely disappointed by its lack of cooperation.

she tilted her head, amusement clear on her face. “of course you’d blame the curtain.”

he looked like he was about to defend himself again, already preparing another explanation. she waved him off, trying not to laugh again.

“go now, i’m counting.”

he opened his mouth, probably ready with another excuse, but she was already covering her eyes and facing the wall.

“one…”

the second she started counting, she heard his footsteps disappear down the hallway.

“two…”

a door opened somewhere nearby. she paused for half a second.

“three…” she raised an eyebrow.

the closet. or maybe the bathroom. then came a small thud. something had definitely fallen. let’s hope it wasn’t jude.

she bit back a laugh.

“please tell me that wasn’t you,” she whispered to herself, even though she already had a feeling it was.

“four…”

knowing him, he was probably standing completely still, hoping the noise would somehow disappear. there was silence. then she heard it. a quiet sound from somewhere in the house — like he was trying desperately not to laugh. she smiled, shaking her head as she continued counting.

“five…”

by the time she reached the end, she already had a feeling this round was going to be just as ridiculous as the first. she lowered her hand and turned around.

“ready or not…” she paused for a moment, letting the silence build. “here i come.”

she walked towards the open doorway, glancing down the hallway. she checked the bathroom first. nothing. she stepped inside for a second, looking around just to be sure. she paused, her eyes moving from the shower to the bathtub.

“okay, progress,” she muttered, almost impressed. “good. at least we’re not at the point where you’re hiding in the shower.”

she left the bathroom, glancing back down the hallway. it was quiet. then she noticed the guest room door. it was slightly closed. a smile tugged at her lips. that was suspicious. she walked towards the room, her steps quieter as she approached the door. she pushed it open slowly, looking around. the room was empty. no movement. no obvious signs of jude. no feet sticking out, no curtains involved, no disaster waiting to happen.

she had to give him that much — he had learned from his mistakes. she stayed quiet for a moment, letting herself believe he might have actually pulled it off. then she noticed the closet. the one place in the room that looked like it was trying very hard not to be noticed. it was closed. completely closed. suspiciously closed. she walked towards it, already smiling.

she reached for the handle. jude heard some movement, his confidence disappearing almost instantly.

silence.

she opened the closet door. he was standing completely still, hidden between the clothes, trying his best to blend in. for a second, neither of them said anything. then she raised an eyebrow.

a pair of broad shoulders were sticking out between the jackets, making absolutely no attempt to look like they belonged there. she stood there for a second, taking in the scene. the effort was there. the execution, unfortunately, was questionable.

“jude…”

“what?” his voice came from inside the closet, completely calm.

she glanced at the clothes surrounding him, then back at the very obvious person hiding between them.

“you’re not a jacket.” she blinked then burst out laughing, the sound warm and effortless.

his confidence faltered for the briefest moment. not because she had found him — he expected that eventually. but because she had insulted his entire strategy.

“i was going for the same idea.” he frowned, pushing the clothes away from his shoulders as if they were somehow responsible for the situation. he looked more offended by the clothes’ failure to hide him than the fact that she had found him.

“the idea was to blend in,” she gestured towards the clothes around him. “not become the largest item in the closet.”

she paused, looking him up and down. “you’re literally the reason the jackets look small.”

he shook his head, still trying to recover from the attack on his hiding skills.

“alright,” he stepped out of the closet, fixing his shirt and pretending he hadn’t just been exposed between her old jackets. “enough about my strategy.”

she opened her mouth.

“nope,” he said quickly, pointing at her before she could say anything else. a small grin appeared on his face.

“your turn to hide,” he walked past her towards the hallway, clearly enjoying the fact that the attention was finally off him. “let’s see how good you are.”

she followed him into the hallway, watching as he turned around and covered his eyes with one hand, leaning casually against the wall.

“you have one minute,” he announced, sounding far too confident for someone who had just been found hiding between jackets.

“don’t peek.” she smiled, already backing away.

he let out a quiet laugh. “relax. i’ll give you a chance.”

“a chance?”

“yeah,” he glanced back slightly — not enough to actually see her. “wouldn’t want to ruin the fun.”

the second he started counting, she slipped away quietly.

“one…”

she walked quickly down the hallway, keeping her steps light.

“two…”

she reached their bedroom and pushed the door open carefully, making sure it didn’t make a sound.

“three…”

she glanced around the room, considering her options. the closet was too obvious. behind the curtains would be too predictable. and after his first attempt, she wasn’t about to make the same mistake. her attention dropped to the space beneath the bed.

perfect.

she crouched down and slowly lowered herself onto the floor, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous this felt. once she was underneath, she pulled herself farther back, settling into the shadows. she covered her mouth, holding back a laugh as she imagined jude walking around the house with all the confidence of someone who had definitely forgotten he had been defeated twice already.

“forty-four…”

his voice echoed faintly from the hallway. she stayed completely still. this time, she was winning.

fifteen minutes later, he was still searching. and somehow…

he still hadn’t found her. at this point, he wasn’t even looking for her anymore. he was looking for an explanation. he stood in the hallway, hands on his hips, completely confused.

“okay…” he looked around the empty rooms. “this is getting ridiculous.”

from beneath the bed, she had to bite down on her lip. she could hear the frustration in his footsteps as he walked around the room again.

“i know you’re somewhere,” he called out, his voice echoing through the bedroom.

a few seconds passed. nothing. jude waited. still nothing. his patience started wearing thin. he let out a quiet sigh, running a hand through his hair as he looked around the room again.

“baby…” his voice softened, but there was still a hint of defeat in it. “please come out now.”

“i’m starting to think you’re not even hiding anymore,” he called out, his voice carrying through the room. “i think you’ve moved out. i miss you.”

she nearly laughed. she was enjoying this. it was almost impressive how quickly he had gone from “i’ll find you in seconds” to acting like she had vanished from the entire house. fifteen minutes ago, he was confident. now he was negotiating with silence.

she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“jude…” her voice was quiet, but it was enough.

the second his name left her lips, the room went silent. a pause.

then—

“aha,” his voice changed instantly. the frustration disappeared, replaced by pure victory. “i knew it.”

she immediately regretted giving herself away.

“wait—”

before she could move, he dropped down beside the bed. “found you.”

she tried to pull herself farther back, but it was too late. his hand reached under the bed and caught her ankle gently.

“jude!”

“nope,” he laughed, carefully pulling her out as she tried to hold onto the edge of the bed. “you actually thought you were going to win?”

with one last pull, jude slid her completely out from under the bed. she dissolved into laughter, sprawled across the floor while he looked far too pleased with himself.

“fifteen minutes,” he said proudly. “but i got you.”

she shook her head. “you begged me to come out.”

his smile faltered for a second. “that was a strategy.”

for a second, she just stayed there, lying on her back, looking up at him. he stood above her with the most satisfied expression she had seen all night. she barely had time to take a step before his hands caught her around the waist, stopping her.

“hey, jude—”

he laughed as she protested, lifting her just enough to make her lose her balance before gently dropping her onto the bed. she landed with a soft bounce, breathless with laughter, looking up at him as though she couldn’t quite believe he’d actually followed through. before she could sit up, he leaned over her, trapping her beneath him with a grin that screamed victory.

“next round is on the bed,” he announced confidently. “you know i’m winning this, baby.”

she shook her head, completely entertained by the confidence he had somehow regained. then she dropped her head back against the pillow, trying to understand how he had turned a simple game into such a big event. he leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss to her lips, gentle and quick, like he was celebrating his very important victory. when he pulled back, he still had that satisfied look on his face.

she pushed herself up onto her elbows, the smile still lingering on her face as she watched him. “we’re having a rematch tomorrow.”

jude let out a quiet laugh, clearly amused by how determined she was.

“shhh,” he lifted a finger to his lips, silencing her before she could start planning the rematch already forming in her head. “we have a long night ahead.”

he reached for her and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek as he enjoyed the moment. she took advantage of his distraction, tugging him closer and stealing a quick kiss that left him momentarily speechless. he didn’t let her pull away so easily, chasing after her lips for another kiss. when they finally broke apart, her lips traced a playful path to his cheek, leaving a soft peck there before she leaned closer to his ear.

“still counts as a win for me.” she whispered, the quiet triumph in her voice making him chucke softly.

“enjoy your victory, baby,” he whispered back, a quiet challenge in his voice. “i’ll have mine soon enough.”

she settled back against the bed, watching him with an amused expression as he carried himself like he had just won a championship—which he hadn’t.

but she wouldn’t trade it for anything. not the teasing. not the ridiculous competition. not the way they could spend hours doing absolutely nothing and still feel like time moved too quickly.

JULY 11, 2026 ; Miami, Florida...

The Miami sun was beating down on your glowing skin, its light dimmed by the oversized sunglasses you shielded it with as you walked. Later today would be England vs Norway, and your boyfriend was most certainly going to be centre-stage, as usual.

It was the most heartwarming thing to watch him succeed so beautifully and admirably on the biggest platform within the sport, and you felt so privileged to be the woman by his side. The woman of the man who millions of other women yearned for, those who could only dream of being in his arms every night.

The World Cup so far had been incredible—you'd enjoyed every moment, and with the exciting state of Jude's team, there were only positives to be celebrated and praises to be made about this period in his career. Enjoyable so it was, except for one small thing. Ridiculous, really, for it truly was small, but there were certain decisions managers made and rules they put into firm place that you just couldn't get on board with. There were the silly decisions they made regarding the events and players on the pitch, there were the criticisms that you believed were much too harshly declared, and then there was what you believed to be the stupidest of them all.

It had been said before—by Ancelotti, by Alonso, even by Arbeloa earlier this year—and now, Thomas Tuchel had been very serious when he'd declared the same thing.

❛England players may have sex with their partners at any time during the World Cup, except on match days.❜

No, of course you didn't need to be put through the mattress by your man every day of the tournament, but Jude Bellingham never made it easy for a lady to be in his presence without her succumbing to a burning arousal, and even though he was your boyfriend of five years, that arousal somehow burned evermore.

Tuchel had thought the statement quite an obvious and sensible one, a good compromise in comparison to the initially considered approach where the players' partners would be entirely banned from visiting the players' hotel rooms. He realised that approach would be going too far, and that psychologically it would actually affect the men more to be forced away from their women. However, he still believed in sexual abstinence on the day of the game, to preserve energy and focus.

You on the other hand, along with several of the other WAGs, believed that to be a nonsense theory.

These were high-level, elite athletes, with stamina greater than most, and after doing so much exercise, dealing with so much adrenaline, also had sexual needs more than most. It would be cruel to deprive them of such a necessary release—you believed it was almost like a form of therapy, surely? A catharsis drawn from their very bloodstream, bodies needing oxytocin and dopamine to calm their restless and excitable hearts. One round of sex wasn't going to do any harm to their roles on the pitch.

And so, with that strong belief in mind, you found yourself cornering your unassuming boyfriend in the recovery room of England's designated private training base.

Jude took his athleticism very seriously, always adhering to rules in the interest of playing as skilfully and as successfully as possible. It always paid off, so he wasn't about to start messing with what had so far been working in his favour.

But you knew him well enough. You knew that your assumption was correct—that ejaculatory release could only be beneficial, because restriction and pent-up sexual frustration could only ever be a negative thing. You felt that you'd be doing your duties as a devoted, supporting girlfriend, if he'd hear you out and allow you to.

You'd been sitting with the other WAGs, watching your men run up and down, stretching their muscles, groaning with the exertion. Your eyes never left the gorgeous artwork that was Jude's body, and you hadn't realised you were quite literally biting your lip at him in public, sighing with need, pupils dilated though hidden by your sunglasses. You were wearing a tiny white summer dress with white kitten heels—likely a little too overdressed for merely attending training, but most of the other girls were with you on that.

And when a break was finally called—fifteen minutes, to be back there immediately afterward—you didn't wait a moment to pounce on him.

As he skipped over to you, all sweaty and slightly breathless, you did something very uncharacteristic. You hugged him despite the sweat, despite your ivory white mini dress, the one you cherished so dearly. Usually, Jude would shower before touching you after training or after a game, and that wasn't because you cared more about your appearance than your boyfriend—it was because he got so sweaty sometimes that it left wet stains on your summer-coloured clothing, and the paparazzi were always waiting around the corner.

Jude was surprised at the way you wrapped your arms around his neck without restraint, not even hesitating to allow his half-drenched shirt to collide with the pristine quality of your dress.

"Hey, baby, what's this?" he chuckled, holding your waist tight as you clung to him.

"Come with me," you whispered, stood up on your tiptoes to reach his ear. “Inside.”

He furrowed his brows in intrigue, wondering if something was wrong; and then you pulled away, took his hand, and strolled off inside the training complex, en route to your destination.

You entered into the recovery room, its purpose for ice baths and hydrotherapy, therefore of no use to anyone at present. And it was when you shut the door behind you, turning to give him that tell-tale smirk, that Jude realised exactly what you were up to.

"Hi, baby," you grinned, waiting for him to say something as he looked you up and down in amusement. Sure enough, your dress was already stained with patches of his sweat.

"I don't even think I need to ask what you're plannin' here."

"No, you don't, because asking wastes time, and we only have fifteen minutes, so c—" You began to walk into the corner you'd been eyeing as the perfect spot, where a wide couch sat before the wall, but Jude took you by the wrist and guided you back to face him.

"Darlin', we're not doin' that in here," he said plainly. His expression was still amused, but he was being serious, because he was still stuck on his refusal to rule-break.

"Why?" you pouted. "You have to hear me out first."

"Alright, whatever—go on," he smirked.

You interlaced both hands with his, and explained your own theory. "So, it's my personal opinion that Tuchel is viewing sexual intercourse in entirely the wrong way."

Jude raised a brow.

"He's saying it's gonna affect your performance, right? That it'll reduce focus and deplete you of energy, or whatever?"

"Orgasms do suck the life out of me sometimes."

You rolled your eyes. "After the fourth round! Not with a quickie. Nobody said we had to fuck all day and night, but I completely disagree with the statement that sex negatively affects performance." Now you stepped forward, dropping one of his hands to run your digits over his collarbone, a sensual smile on your lips. "I think, that really, it can only make a positive difference."

Jude was grinning wide now, entertained by this display of scientific theory governed by nothing other than the empirical evidence of your hormones.

"Do tell," he joked, provoking you to continue.

You giggled. "Well, we all know how difficult sexual frustration is," you sighed, dropping his other hand now and reaching over the crotch of his shorts, where a growing bulge could be felt beneath. "Surely it's unfair for a manager to force his players to deal with such a thing..." As you spoke, you rubbed and squeezed the weight of him, heart racing as you experienced the familiar feeling of his length hardening further under your touch. "And if you're too frustrated... it might only end up backfiring on the team. Tuchel wouldn't want that, would he?"

Jude shook his head, still smirking, because he refused to visibly fold at the way you spoke and fondled him, even while internally he was going insane.

"And you wanna break that rule in here, yeah?" he asked. "In this room?"

"Mhm. Right now, pretty please..." you sung with faux-innocence into his ear, on your tiptoes again to lean into his chest, still kneading your hand over his shorts.

"Pretty please, hm?" he repeated, with a slight mocking tone that sent a deeper rush of arousal through you. Your panties were clinging tight to your glistening folds—you were surely smothered in arousal beneath that fabric.

"Jude..." you whispered, leaning further forward to brush your lips over his neck, breathing in his scent as your tongue darted out within a kiss to the skin.

You heard him hiss, and he felt your reaction, your widening smile just beside his Adam's apple.

“So," he murmured, "first you’re tryna get me to do somethin’ the boss has made illegal, and now you’re tryna get us caught doin’ it too.”

“J…” you beamed innocently, stepping away now and rocking back and forth on your heels. "We won't get caught..."

He shook his head, rolling his eyes with a smile that expressed just how predictable this was. Never would you play by the rules, no matter how high-stakes the game ahead. And again, you truly were a firm believer in your own opposing theory that pre-match sex could only be beneficial to England’s star player. It would excellently boost morale, and that was the most crucial quality in this stage of the competition, right?

Without needing to give another plea, you twirled 180 degrees, before strutting over to the smallest corner of the room, past a row of red light therapy beds. Jude followed in tow.

And there you stood by the plush grey couch, admiring it as the most ideal, most comfortable piece of furniture to have a quickie on. It was almost like it had been placed there for that very purpose. The universe knew to give you the idea that you should enter this specific room, because the act really was what Jude needed, even if he might have fought it initially. Now, he was coming round.

"Sit down, handsome," you smiled, guiding him to do so, and even despite another amused eye roll, he did. He sat up against the back of the couch, settled into the furniture with a demeanour that gave away what words didn't need to. He was on your side now.

You giggled as you straddled him, legs bracketing his strong, muscular thighs. "’m gonna ride you, baby—'n I'll be quick, I promise."

"Better be, sweetheart," he murmured, smacking your ass harshly. You yelped, arching your back and taking that as an incentive to begin rocking over his clothed dick. As you did, you watched him raise his right wrist slightly, checking the time on his watch. "Just under ten minutes now, c'mon. If y' need it that badly, y' gonna have to start speedin' up."

You were grinding down harder now, his dick straining through his boxers, your pussy perfectly prepped in its drenched arousal. There would be no time for foreplay—although it was true that you pretty much always needed it with Jude.

Wasting no more time, you tugged at his waistband, pulling both layers down just enough to free his achingly hard cock. It stood up with a pop, thick veins running all along from base to tip, precum leaking from the slit and down the underside. You almost physically salivated at the sight, as though a dog in heat had met its human form.

"Can't be starin' too long, baby," Jude smirked, rubbing his thumb over your cheek. You were lost in your own world, always amazed by how lucky you were to have this perfect asset waiting for you every single day.

You chuckled, grinning as you pulled your soaked panties to the side and rubbed the weight of him along your dripping sex. The head of his dick provided the perfect friction, and you spent a few moments too long just gliding it up and down your folds, the anticipation of him filling you almost as satisfying as the fullness itself.

Your eyes were clamped shut, revelling in the feeling, but you had a sharp awakening when you felt Jude's hand suddenly slam down on your asscheek again. He was never intentionally too harsh, but your ass was just too pleasing, too pretty to look at...

"C'mon, princess," he ordered, with a raised brow. "Would've been easier if I'd fucked you against that wall, no?"

"No, baby, shut up, 'm fine, just let me—ohhhhh..." Finally, you eased down onto him, hands immediately gripping his shoulders with the impact of his girth stretching your tight walls.

"Aw, that's it..." he both cooed and groaned, hands settling at the curve of your ass to guide your position.

"J, you're so—oh, mmm, God..." You babbled incoherencies while you slowly took every inch, and of course he talked you through it.

"Yeah, that's it, c'mon now, baby... Nearly there..." "Just a little more... Takin' it so well..." "Pretty pussy, squeezin' me so tight..."

His words only made you even more insatiable, and as you finally sunk down, his girth nestled perfectly in your heat, you began to bounce. There really was no time to waste, and you hadn't planned on going slow.

"Oh, yes, fuck, that's my girl," Jude moaned beneath you, gripping your hips and your ass so tight that you were certain there'd be bruises if he kept it up.

"Yeah, you love how I bounce on you like this, baby? Feels so good, J..." you whined as you lifted your hips up and down, chasing your peak. You raised your hands to meet your clothed breasts, kneading over the tissue, but wishing the style of fabric had instead allowed for your man's easy access, because his hands on your bare skin was nothing short of heavenly.

The feeling of him filling you up was another slice of heaven, and on his dick you moaned like a whore, rocking back and forth, making figure-eights with your hips.

"So fuckin' tight for me, sweetheart," Jude muttered under his breath, looking up into your ever-fluttering eyes. "Y'so needy, always thinkin' about gettin' fucked..."

You giggled through another whine, placing your hands on his chest now to help with balance as you surrendered your body to him completely. You rode him with force, high-pitched sounds spilling out of your throat with each alteration in movement, and now it was even clearer to you: this was certainly what every player in this World Cup needed to proceed successfully. What could be more galvanising, more energy-inducing, than the inspiring motivation of a woman's sex? You knew Jude would be thinking about this throughout the rest of the day—you knew he'd get flashbacks during the game—but never did that mean a disruptive distraction. No—you were essentially his muse, his source of stimulation to drive him to success, that last piece of the puzzle on top of all the hard work he put in. As your pussy squeezed his aching length (for the fourth time in the last twenty-four hours, mind you), you ascended toward climax, riding impossibly faster while the outside world became a blur, nothing existing but the two of you...

"Oh, Jude, 'm gonna cum—" you nearly screamed, rubbing circles over your clit now, desperate to reach your peak. Beneath you, Jude was bucking up his hips with an eagerness mirroring yours, and with it he groaned profanities.

"Yeah, baby, fuck—need you to cum for me..."

"I'm so close, J, oh, yes..."

The couch, as sturdy as it was, creaked beneath you, and you bounced your ass down onto him as hard as possible, moaning without restraint as Jude grabbed and smacked at the flesh, wet snapping noises echoing throughout the room and surely through the hall. You leaned down to kiss him as you finally came, his tongue swallowing the extent of your lewd sounds, although you'd already made enough of a noise in the last few minutes.

He was so close too, and with a few more thrusts upward into your sweet spot, his orgasm crashed through his sensitive body.

"Shit, I'm gonna cum, oh—that's it, take it, baby..."

Hot ropes of cum shot up into your womb, filling you wholly as you sighed breathlessly into his neck, collapsing forward.

"J, oh my..."

Jude caught his breath too, blinking rapidly to bring himself back to earth. He'd obviously be fine to play tonight, but would he definitely be fine to resume training with his teammates in—he checked his watch again—just two minutes time?

"Shit, darlin', you've got me fucked up," he murmured in your ear, and you smiled wide, peppering kisses all over his face. He mirrored your expression, relishing in your facial kisses, but internally cursing the fact that he'd have to pull out in a moment. His cock was softened now, but your wet, cosy heat felt too heavenly enveloping him, and he wished the rest of the day could be called off so that he could spend it with only you and your ethereal body. In that room, so perfectly entwined, it really did feel like you were the only two people inhabiting the earth.

In reality however, you weren’t, and in a moment someone would be reminding you of that. While Jude's mind might have been still half-focused on his responsibilities, neither of you expected what came next.

Suddenly, the door creaked open from the opposite end of the room.

"Oh my God—fuck," you both cursed in unison.

Luckily, whoever it was couldn't see you both from that entrance, so, in your shock and panic, you each managed to detach, jump up from the couch and rush over to another corner just in time, fixing yourselves to look presentable.

But there was cum on the couch, and more dripping down your thighs. You'd clean the couch once the person had left, but what were you to do about the sticky mess on your legs? Jude was trying not to laugh, and you kept nudging him, needing to get him to shut up.

"Stop it, you idiot—they'll hear!" you whisper-shouted.

No use, of course; and now the individual was facing you. While earlier you'd praised the universe for granting you the perfect room for sex, you now cursed those same stars for putting you in this horrifying position. Because indeed, the individual facing you was none other than Thomas Tuchel himself.

As he looked you both up and down, you literally almost fainted and threw up at once. The two of you weren't indecent, thankfully, but it was incredibly obvious what you'd been doing. The flustered look on your faces told of that alone. Jude wasn't laughing anymore.

"Had a nice time?" he asked, with a sincerely raised brow.

You both stuttered, and in the awkwardness you decided it had to be Jude to deal with it, because you weren't the one on personal terms with the England manager. Quickly, you rushed into the bathroom just behind you, knowing that no action you made could be more embarrassing than what had just happened, and in there you leaned against the door, clamping your eyes shut in embarrassment.

After a few moments to collect yourself, you then cleaned Jude's cum from your legs, fixed up your hair and your dress, and once player and manager had left the recovery room together, you finally stepped out.

Attending England's training sessions would go on to feel a lot different from then on, and you only hoped that your reckless morning wouldn't make it past those four walls and into a headline.