thewritergremlin-rae

ID: 1. Waist up of Cas and Dean on a mottled background. Cas holding his trenchcoat and jacket open with one hand, the other hand glowing with grace as he treats a bloody wound on his side. Dean comes up behind him with a look of mild concern, an arm extended hesitantly behind Cas's back. He asks, "Does it hurt?" Expression bland, Cas replies, "Not at all."

You genuinely hated violence. You wouldn't squash spiders. You apologized to furniture after bumping into it. You once cried because a pigeon was limping. Wade had found you sitting on a curb for twenty minutes, trying to determine whether the pigeon needed emotional support. The pigeon had, in fact, been perfectly capable of walking. You had simply decided it looked sad.

And somehow, against every reasonable law of nature, you had fallen in love with Deadpool. Wade Wilson, mercenary, assassin, professional menace, occasional human-shaped disaster. A man who had once described murder as "aggressive problem-solving."

It made for an interesting household. There were rules. Most of them were yours. Wade considered them more like suggestions.

"Rule number one," you'd told him early in the relationship, standing in the kitchen with your hands firmly planted on your hips. "No weapons on the dining table."

Wade had nodded solemnly. "Absolutely."

"Rule number two. No cleaning blood out of your costume in the washing machine."

"That's oddly specific."

"Because you did it."

"It was one time."

"You ruined the towels."

"They were boring towels."

"And rule number three..." You had hesitated.

Wade had leaned forward. "Yes?"

"No talking about killing people while I'm eating."

He had stared at you. Then at the bowl of pasta in front of you. Then back at you. "You're taking away my favorite dinner conversation."

"You don't have a favorite dinner conversation."

"I have several." He looked amusedly offended.

"Wade."

"Fine." He'd kissed your forehead. "Anything for my delicate little pacifist."

You had narrowed your eyes. "I'm not delicate."

"No?"

"No." You shot nack at him.

He'd laughed. Then he'd ruined the moment by asking whether he'd still be allowed to stab people on Tuesdays. You'd thrown a napkin at him.

It had become, strangely enough, one of the happiest relationships either of you had ever had. Because Wade loved that you were soft. Not weak. Never weak. Soft.

There was a difference.

You cared about things Wade had long ago stopped believing mattered. You noticed when someone was lonely. You remembered waiters' names. You rescued insects instead of killing them. You cried at sad commercials. You bought flowers because you liked the way they made a room feel warmer. You had once spent an entire afternoon knitting a tiny sweater for a stray cat. The cat hated it.

Wade had been deeply offended on your behalf. "Ungrateful little bastard."

"Wade." you raised a brow at him.

"What?"

"It's a cat."

"It knows what you did for it."

"It's a cat."

"It has eyes. It knows."

You'd laughed so hard you'd nearly fallen off the couch.

Wade had watched you with that strange, quiet softness that rarely showed itself beneath the jokes. He loved your laugh. He loved the way you said his name when you were annoyed. He loved how you always made room for him beside you, even when he came home smelling like gunpowder and gasoline.

Most of all, he loved that you never looked at him like he was a monster. Even when you absolutely thought he was behaving like one.

Which was why, on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday evening, you were sitting curled up on the couch with a blanket over your legs when the front door suddenly flew open.

"Baby!" You looked up. Wade stood in the doorway. He spread his arms dramatically. "I have returned!"

"Welcome home."

He kicked the door shut behind him. Then he threw himself onto the couch beside you with enough force to make you bounce.

You laughed. "Careful."

"I'm home."

"I noticed."

"Did you miss me?"

"I did."

"How much?"

You smiled. "A normal amount."

He gasped. "Normal?"

"Very normal."

"That's devastating." He mocked a terribly sad face.

"You'll survive." you rolled your eyes with a smile.

"I might not."

"You've survived worse."

"Emotionally, perhaps not."

You shook your head, smiling. Then you noticed something. Your smile disappeared. "Wade."

He froze. "What?"

You stared at him. There was blood on his shoulder. Blood across his chest. A dark smear along one glove. You slowly lowered your book. "Why are you covered in blood?"

Wade looked down at himself. "Huh." He poked his costume. "Tuesday?"

"Wade."

"Okay, okay. It's not mine."

"That doesn't make it better."

"It makes it significantly better."

"No, it doesn't."

"It really does."

You stared at him. He stared back. Your expression slowly became more concerned. "Was anyone seriously hurt?"

Wade opened his mouth. Stopped. Considered the question. "...Define seriously."

"Wade."

"Okay!" He held up both hands. "Fine. Nobody who didn't deserve it."

You sighed. "That's not the point."

"I know." His voice was quieter.

You softened immediately.

Wade reached up and pulled his mask off. His face was flushed from exertion, dark eyes tired beneath the red fabric. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize for coming home."

"For the blood?"

"Yes."

He glanced down again. "Right." He stood. "I'll shower."

"Thank you."

"And I'll try not to bring home any more blood."

"Thank you."

He started toward the hallway. Then stopped. "Unless it's funny."

"Wade." you exclaimed.

"I'm kidding!"

"You aren't."

"No."

You pointed toward the bathroom. "Go."

He saluted. "Yes, ma'am." He took two steps. Then turned around. "Can I have a kiss first?"

You stared at him. "You're covered in blood."

"Love is blind."

"I'm not."

"You're cruel."

You laughed despite yourself.

Wade grinned. He leaned down and kissed your forehead anyway. "Love you."

"Love you too."

Then he disappeared down the hall. You heard the bathroom door close. A few seconds later, you heard him shout. "WE'RE OUT OF SHAMPOO!"

You shouted back. "BECAUSE YOU USE HALF THE BOTTLE EVERY TIME!"

"I HAVE A LOT OF HAIR!"

"You have a mask!"

"IT'S STILL HAIR!"

You laughed. It was ridiculous. Your life was ridiculous. You loved it anyway.

Until someone attacked you.

That was the moment Wade discovered there was one thing even more terrifying than an angry woman. A pacifist who had been given something to be angry about.

It happened outside the grocery store. You were carrying two bags. One contained vegetables, bread, and milk. The other contained an unnecessarily large amount of fruit because there had been a sale and you had never learned how to walk away from discounted strawberries.

You were halfway across the sidewalk when someone grabbed your arm. Hard. You startled. "Excuse me?"

The man yanked you backward. "Give me your bag."

You looked down at it. "Oh." You glanced back at him. "I'm sorry."

He blinked. "What?"

"I don't have any cash."

"Give me the bag."

"Oh." You looked at it again. "It's mostly vegetables."

The man stared at you.

You stared back. "This is awkward."

He pulled a knife.

Your eyes widened. "Oh." You swallowed. "Okay." You slowly lifted the bag. "Here."

Across the street, Wade had just stepped out of a convenience store. He had been halfway through opening a candy bar when he saw you. Saw the man. Saw the knife. Saw the way the man's hand was wrapped around your arm. Everything inside him went still.

He didn't remember crossing the street. One second, he was there. The next, the mugger was on the ground. The knife skittered across the pavement.

You screamed. "WADE!"

He froze. He looked down. Then at you. "What?"

"You hit him!"

"He grabbed you!"

"You could have talked to him!"

"He had a knife!"

"You could have talked to him about the knife!"

Wade stared at you. You stared back. The mugger groaned. Your expression immediately changed. You dropped your grocery bags. "Oh my God."

You crouched beside him.

Wade's jaw dropped. "Are you checking on the guy who just tried to rob you?"

"Yes!"

"He tried to stab you!"

"He might be hurt!"

"He is hurt!"

"Wade!"

"What?"

"You hit him!"

"Yes!"

"Hard!"

"That's generally how hitting works!"

You looked at the man. His eyes fluttered. You immediately touched two fingers to his neck. Wade watched you. You were checking his pulse. You were actually checking the pulse of the man who had threatened you. Something about the absurdity of it nearly broke his brain. "He's breathing."

"That's good."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm not disappointed!"

"You look disappointed."

"I am processing."

"Well, process quietly."

Wade stared at you. Then he looked toward the sky. "Why did I fall in love with Gandhi?"

You shot him a look. "Don't make fun of me."

His expression softened instantly. "I'm not."

"You are."

"I swear I'm not."

"You just compared me to Gandhi." you deadpanned.

"That's a compliment."

"You don't know that."

"I don't."

You sighed.

Wade crouched beside you. The joking expression disappeared from his face. "Are you okay?"

You looked at him. He wasn't smiling. Not even a little. His eyes moved over you, searching for injuries. Your wrist. Your arm. Your face. Your throat.

He gently took your hand. "Did he hurt you?"

You shook your head. "No."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Did he touch you anywhere else?"

"No."

"Did the knife cut you?"

"No."

Wade exhaled. His shoulders dropped. Only then did you realize how frightened he'd been.

You squeezed his hand. "I'm okay."

"I know."

"You don't look like you know."

"I'm working on it."

You smiled faintly. Then looked toward the mugger.\ "What happens now?"

Wade looked at the man. Then at you. "I'll call an ambulance."

Your eyebrows rose. "You will?"

"Yeah."

"And you're not going to hurt him anymore?"

"No."

"Promise?"

Wade raised two fingers. "Promise."

You smiled. "Thank you."

He stared at you. "You know you're ridiculous, right?"

"You love me."

"Unfortunately."

You smiled. "Good."

He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you against his side. You leaned into him. His chin rested briefly against the top of your head. For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

Then Wade sighed. "You know what the worst part is?"

"What?"

"I was prepared to kill that guy for hurting you."

You stiffened.

Wade immediately corrected himself. "Not doing it."

"Good."

"Not doing it."

"Thank you."

"I mean, I'm still thinking about it." He considere out loud, much to your utter dismay.

"Wade."

"I'm kidding."

"You need to stop joking about murder."

"That's a pretty major restriction on my conversational abilities."

"Then develop new ones."

He considered this. "Knitting?"

You looked at him. "Maybe."

"Could be sexy."

"You'd stab yourself with the needles."

"I heal."

"You'd still complain."

"I would." You smiled.

He kissed your temple. "Come on, pacifist."

"Where are we going?" you looked bewildered as he ushered you away from the utter crime scene.

"Home." he said simply.

"You aren't going to murder anyone on the way?"

"No."

"Really?" you gleamed.

"Probably." he smirked.

"Wade." you deadpanned.

"Kidding!" he joked.

You sighed. "You're impossible."

"I know." He squeezed your shoulder. "And you're the only woman alive who can make Deadpool feel guilty about punching criminals."

You smiled. "I'm talented."

He laughed. "Yeah." His voice softened. He pulled you closer. "You really are."

And that was the strange thing about loving Wade Wilson. He wasn't going to become a pacifist for you. You knew that. He was still going to fight. Still going to hurt people who deserved it. Still going to come home with blood on his suit and terrible jokes on his lips. But he would try. For you. He would call the ambulance. He would put the knife away. He would wash the blood off before sitting beside you. He would remember not to discuss murder while you were eating.

And sometimes, when you weren't looking, he would catch himself hesitating. Because he'd started wondering what you would think. Not because you demanded he change. You never did. You simply existed beside him, impossibly gentle, impossibly stubborn, making him remember that there were other ways to move through the world.

You had never asked Wade to stop being Deadpool. You had simply reminded him that Wade Wilson was still in there somewhere. And Wade loved you for it. Even if he would rather die again than admit it without making at least three inappropriate jokes first.

He squeezed your hand. "Hey."

"Hm?"

"I love you."

You looked up at him. "I love you too."

He smiled. "Even though I'm a murderous psychopath?"

You thought about it. "You're not a psychopath."

"That's incredibly generous."

"You're just emotionally complicated."

"That sounds worse."

"You'll live."

"Unfortunately." You laughed.

Wade smiled.

Then, after a moment, he glanced at your grocery bags. "Did you seriously buy twelve avocados?"

"They were on sale."

He stared at you. "Baby."

"What?"

"You're the dangerous one."

You gasped. "How dare you."

"I'm serious."

"You nearly killed a man five minutes ago."

"Yeah, but twelve avocados?" he exaggerated.

You burst out laughing.

Wade grinned. He wrapped both arms around you and pulled you against his chest.

You had been collecting in the forest since you were old enough to walk, trailing after your mother and grandmother, learning the difference between the bluebells that gave you headaches and the white wood sorrel that soothed them, the shapes of roots that would clot blood, and the berries that would stop a heart. But as you gathered elements into the basket on your arm, the familiar paths felt different. The knife tucked in the fold of your skirt was less for harvesting and more for caution after the fear that had taken root since the maiden from your village went missing.

You yourself sensed a difference in the forest—a heaviness to the air, the moss a little gray, the birds silent in the middle of the day, a wariness that seemed to rise from the soil itself, urging you back. But you were determined. You and your mother and your mother’s mother before her supplied the village with many medicines and balms that were not commonplace, not trusted by everyone, but were integral to many.

The lake at the edge of the trees was swollen with rain and the melting snow, the water so high that it had eaten half the lower meadow. You would have to cross damp ground and pick your way over drowned logs. And you did, pressing on until you reached the stunted willow on the northernmost part of the shore, where you knew the wild violets would bloom first. You were the only moving thing in the marsh, a fact that landed with an unnerving weight. Your own breath seemed to fog the air, as if you had walked into a story from before time.

You were kneeling, fingers plucking and gathering the papery layer of new leaves from a cluster of green, when you heard a splash. Not a fish jumping, but something large breaking through the skin of the water. Your hands went still against the leaves and you stood, knife steady in your hand, and you forced yourself not to imagine the threat.

You scanned the underbrush and waited as your mother had taught you, letting your breath go thin and quiet. That was when you spotted the man, tall with broad shoulders, a deep chest, and limbs that were unquestionably strong and formidable.

As if sensing your gaze, his head turned your way, and he locked eyes with you. He didn’t move right away. You watched how his hands hung at his sides, open, the fingers stained with earth and perhaps something darker, though at this distance you could not be sure. His hair was a mix of golden chestnut and birch, and his face was clean-shaven. There was something unusual in the way he stood, something not-quite-human in the perfect symmetry of his features, the strong jawline, his shockingly blue eyes.

You did not call out. There was no one for miles and if this shape was a threat, it wasn’t the kind that would be cowed by a girl’s bluff. Instead you held your position and waited, the knife a cold certainty in your grip.

He moved toward you, nothing hesitant in his approach. The sodden earth gave under his feet, the water lapping at his calves. As he drew closer, he seemed to grow, revealing a height you hadn’t realized, solid muscle beneath the strange patchwork of clothes, brambles clinging to the rough fabric of his jacket. His eyes didn’t blink, glass-bright and inhumanly clear and blue, and they looked you over with curiosity as if measuring your resistance.

He spoke first, and the voice was all wrong: too deep, carrying a timbre like wind in a dead trunk, creaking and full of hollow space. “You’ve come further into the forest than others have in weeks,” he said. “You’re not afraid.”

There was no question in his words. You found your tongue regardless. “I have reason to be cautious, but I’m not afraid, no. I know this forest.”

The man—if he was a man—cocked his head, smiling in a way that made you think of a wolf in sunlight: beautiful, hungry, and so unbothered by your blade it might as well have been a thorn.

“What a curious thing to say,” he remarked. “You think you know the forest, but you cannot possibly know all its secrets, and the forest does not always agree with you.”

You had no answer to that, not one that would make him believe you. “I only mean that I know enough,” you said. “Enough to respect it.”

He stalked a slow circle, just beyond the reach of your knife yet always within lunging distance. An old, deep instinct in you recognized this dance, this patient assessment before a strike.

“You are the daughter of healers,” he said, “the one who finds bones and stones and wild remedies for the sick. You think you are unseen, but the forest always has eyes.” He stooped then, picking up a half-buried stone and turning it over in his palm. The hands, you noticed, were not quite right. The fingers were a shade too long, the skin thick and tight over the bones and veins. “Your presence is noticed. Even now, when you twist violets and dockweed in your clever hands.”

You recalled your grandmother’s lessons: never admit a name, never turn your back, never let a stranger dictate the space between you. “Then you know I am no threat to you or yours,” you said, and made yourself believe it, even as your heart raced. “The forest has given me its blessing,” you lied.

Something shifted in him then—not in his expression, exactly, but in the quality of his stillness, the way a predator goes motionless not from patience but from decision. “Your ancestors were blessed because of their bargains,” he said, weighted and deliberate. “They made their pacts and honored them. The land was shaped by their bargains, just as they were shaped by the land. But your generation—” he trailed off, gesturing at the bruised sky, the muddy water, the hush where birds used to cry. “No agreement has been struck. No tribute paid. The exchange must continue, or the balance will tip.”

“What exchange?” you demanded, pulse quickening.

“It has given many things to your kind,” he replied, pronouncing ‘your kind’ with a curious, almost academic detachment, “but there is always a toll, and it is different for each generation.”

“My mother still leaves honey in the hollows; it is a tradition I can continue.”

He shook his head, movement clipped, as if the neck itself was bored with the charade of human flesh. “Tokens are not tribute.” His tone was not cruel, only factual, and you realized, with a cold bloom in your belly, how many kinds of hunger there were in the world. “There is a price for the peace your village enjoys. Something must pass from you to the forest, same as it ever was.”

You tried to parse this—what your forebears had truly given, what they had perhaps hidden in their stories. “What price did the forest ask of them?”

“Your mother was clever enough to ask for nothing but safe passage between the trees. She left offerings. She did not take more than she needed. Your grandmother,” he paused, and here a ripple of amusement crossed his face, “your grandmother made a more interesting bargain.”

The wind pressed through the grasses, flattening the young reeds against the mud. A memory stirred—a story your mother told in the hush before sleep, stories half-forgotten. But his voice cut through the past, speaking the words you were beginning to recall.

“Your grandmother was greedy. She wanted safe passage and she wanted the voice of birds, the green touch, the sense for what flourished and what would die. She wished to heal but also to know when healing was hopeless, in her own marrow. Understand: the forest cannot birth a gift without first devouring the seed. When your grandmother asked, she gave up her dreams.”

You remembered the quiet unease of her sleep, the way she would doze sitting up, hands braided in her lap, or walk the lanes of her mind in silence for hours. She never dreamt or, if she did, she never remembered. You’d always assumed it was age—some feature of withered time. But even as a child you’d known there were no stories or nightmares waiting for you in her lap, only the faint comfort of her skin and the steady thrum of her heart.

You looked at the man—or the not-man—standing so tall his shadow cut the lake in two. His words hung between you, like frost in early spring, uncertain and unwilling to melt.

“What are you?” you asked.

He smiled, and it was as if a branch bent and split under its own weight. “I am not the forest, but I am of the forest. Some call me Waldgeist—the spirit of the green. I walk the trees as you walk your own paths. I am the mind that grows beneath the bark, the will curled in every root. You have seen me before, though not with these eyes.” He stated it not as a boast, but as a simple fact that had always been true.

You swallowed, tongue dry as birch. You remembered not just the old tales, but the feeling itself—a shadow in your childhood room that was too tall, a silence in the woods that felt like a held breath. You remembered the certainty, even then, that you were never truly alone among the trees.

“Why do you look like a man, then?” you asked, pulse quickening. “Why come to me at all?”

He shrugged, a gesture that sent a ripple through the nearby trees. “I take a form you can understand. “A bargain must be struck between equals; this shape makes us so. I am here to collect.”

The words buckled the hush between you. You clutched the basket closer to your chest and kept the knife steady, but you knew, in some deep, marrow-knowing way, that neither would help you if he truly intended harm.

“What will the forest take from me?”

His blue eyes shifted, and with the next blink you saw the gold in them, as though some animal watched from behind the skin of a man. “That is for you to decide. You may attempt to make a bargain, if you wish. Or you may leave now and accept what the forest will claim in time.”

“Has the forest not already laid its claim by taking one of our young women?”

He did not answer right away. Instead, his lips thinned, losing all softness, and the blue of his eyes darkened like a storm. For a moment, he became as implacable as the roots beneath the soil. When he did speak, his voice was careful, measured, as if you had stumbled onto a delicate membrane between two worlds.

“That was not my doing,” he said. “The lake has its own demands, its own bargains. It is not forest.”

The words struck you as both a warning and a promise, a declaration that the world was layered in negotiations far more ancient than the bargains of your ancestral line.

He glanced down at the bruised violets shivering at your feet. “The creatures that dwell in water are older and stranger and more varied than you can imagine.” His eyes found yours again. “Do not worry for the lost girl. Her fate is with the water. Your business is with me.”

You gathered the violets into your palm, feeling an ache in your fingers as if the mere act of picking a flower now implicated you in an ancient cycle of debt. The Waldgeist waited, patient and unobtrusive, but you felt the pressure of his presence, the sense that the moment for negotiation was finite and slipping away like dandelion seeds on the wind.

“If I try to bargain,” you finally said, forcing your voice to work, “will you truly honor it?”

“I have always honored my contracts,” he said plainly.

You squared yourself and let your breath settle. Out here, feeling small amongst a vast web of nature, you managed a plainness you hoped was strength. “If my grandmother gave up her dreams, and my mother only left honey, what do you want of me?”

“Each generation pays a new price,” he said. “The forest never takes the same thing twice. It adapts. It learns.” The Waldgeist, the not-man, walked nearer. “You come to this place for the plants that nurture your people. You heal, but healing is only one side of the balance—life and death, and the line between them. I want the possibility that both can flourish.” He let the words flower in the air between you. He continued, “The forest wants to plant its seed in your womb. It wants you to swell with its green life, to birth the next guardian from your own blood and breath.”

The air left your lungs all at once. Your body as tribute. Your womb as a clearing for the next green thing. You had imagined many prices—your sight, your voice, your years—but not this. This was so much more intimate, more invasive, than you’d ever imagined. But as you stood in the hush, with the Waldgeist’s gaze upon you, you sensed he was not mocking. Not even predatory, not in the way of men, though the need in him was elemental and absolute. It was the same law that pulled the river to the lake.

“The only thing you have to offer that’s of any interest to me,” he said, his voice lowering to the hum of sap rising in the spring, “is that sweet, warm place between your legs.”

It wasn’t even a vulgarity, the way he said it. If anything, it was a kind of reverence—a hunger for the continuity that pulsed under everything alive. But a hot flush crawled up your neck, and your hands clenched the fabric of your skirt so hard you felt stems of violets snap between your knuckles. The leaves in the trees did not shudder. The entire forest waited, patient and unashamed.

He lifted his chin, as if he had tasted the shape of your resistance, and made clear that there was no shame or cruelty in the offer—only the certainty of the seasons, the calm of a thing that had always been true. “You may refuse,” he said, “and if you do, the forest will find another way to balance what has been taken from it. But should you choose to accept, you may name your own terms. I will match them if I can. If you wish to leave this place with no bargain, as I said you could earlier, I will not hinder you. The path out is always open, though it may not lead you back the way you came.”

You swallowed, the reality of the choice settling like a stone in your gut. He would not touch you—he had offered that dignity. You could walk away, unchanged, and let the seasons turn. But a different kind of cold crept in at the thought: the forest, left to its own devices, drawing its tribute in some slow, unpredictable, and perhaps far crueler way.

You looked up at him—the way he stood entirely at ease, as if a body was just a garment to be worn when convenient. The blood-and-earth in his veins seemed almost visible, his presence an axis on which the wind and the water now turned.

“What is your name?” you asked.

He did not hesitate, but you sensed the concept of a single name was foreign to him. “I have no name your tongue could form,” he said. “But your people have need of them. There was one who called me Steve.” The word landed, dry and spare. “You may use it, if you wish.”

It was so ordinary, so unburdened with myth. You turned the name over in your mind—smooth, plain, almost laughably small. Children did this, you remembered: named the thing under the bed to make it small. But the trees did not shrink. The wind did not shrink. And neither did he.

“Steve.”

What a small name for such a vast thing.

Something moved in his face—not a smile, not quite. The corners of his mouth drew back the way bark splits open in heat. “If you ask for a name,” he said, “I gather you agree.”

Your heart twisted, then steadied, and you nodded.

Steve stepped through the reeds and the cold lake water, the space between you closing until you could smell the wildness on him, the sharp green tang of willow bark and moss. He stopped with his face a hair’s breadth from yours, searching you with those ice-blue, wild eyes. As Steve leaned in, his gaze flicked from your mouth to your eyes, measuring your anticipation and fear with the patience of a tree waiting for the wind.

He lowered his head, tendrils of his hair brushing your cheek, and the animal warmth of his skin woke every nerve, every inch of scalp and spine. He waited, poised, until your chin tipped upward, an invitation.

The tip of his nose nearly grazed yours, and you could see the sweep of gold and green in his irises.

“Your kind,” he said, the syllables vibrating just above your jaw, “often begin their coupling with a kiss. Would that please you?”

You did not know what you expected—a command, a taking, some gesture of force, but his hands hovered at your waist, not touching, not yet, as if some ancient etiquette held him back until you gave consent.

You met his gaze, the question hanging between you. This was the first step, the seal on a pact you barely understood. The instinct to flee warred with a curiosity that held you fast. “Yes,” you breathed, the word both a surrender and a choice. “I would like to be kissed.”

You felt the air shift, the certainty of the woods folding up around you. You had imagined your first kiss as a hush in the honeyed dark, a stolen moment behind a barn or beneath the hush of twilight. You had not imagined the sensation of a mouth as wild and strange as the lake wind, nor the certainty of a hand—large, warm, with fingers a shade too long—drawing you in. Steve cupped your jaw, his thumb spanning the distance from cheekbone to chin, and when he bent his head, there was no trembling or hesitation—only a gentleness so deliberate that you understood, even through your shock, how hard he worked to contain himself.

His lips were cooler than you’d expected, but they pressed to yours with a strange, melting pressure that drew the air from your lungs in one startled, high gasp. Your knees gave, not from weakness, but as if the ground itself had softened beneath you. His other hand closed around your upper arm, bracing, the grip light but immovable, like the gentle crook of a branch against a windstorm. The kiss was not the fluttery, weightless thing you’d read about in stories—it was a gravity, a falling through the earth. His touch radiated from your jaw to the soles of your boots, a hot, heady rush that left you breathless.

You let your basket fall, soft, to the mud and reeds. The knife fell from your loosening grip, but you did not care, not with his hands now cupping your face and the tangle of your hair wrapped around his knuckles.

Steve’s kiss was a demand and a question, and you felt yourself answering in the way your mouth parted for him, in the soft gasp that escaped you when his hand slid—firm, careful—down your neck to the slope of your shoulder. There was a steadiness to the way he touched you, as if he already knew you would break otherwise. When you shivered, he drew you nearer, until your body was bracketed by the length of him, the heat of him, the certainty.

Steve coaxed your mouth open further, the velvet of his tongue not so much probing as mapping. He kissed you with such unwavering patience that you began to ache, not from fear now, but from wanting the next gesture enough to hurt.

Your hand found his hair, feeling the strange, thrumming life under your palm—a rhythm denser and more vital than any human's. There was an ancient knowledge in the kiss, yet beneath it, a clumsy hunger, a desperate restraint. You felt his effort to keep from overwhelming you, and it sparked an unexpected tenderness.

His mouth relented, drawing back only enough that he could see how your face looked in the aftermath. You opened your eyes, though you found no words behind your teeth, only air and a low, helpless sound of longing. He smiled, a gentle recalibration of his features, as if observing minor marvels.

Steve’s gaze was so intent you had to look away, but his hand coaxed your jaw to center, thumb brushing over your lower lip as if to see how much of you he had changed already. “You are doing very well,” he said, his voice low and calm, the kind you’d use to soothe a frightened deer at the forest’s edge.

He cradled your wrist, and you saw the knots of lichen just under his skin, veins running wilder than any human’s. He gestured to the bare ground, and from the mud a fresh cluster of violets bloomed in an instant. He plucked one and tucked it behind your ear with a reverence that made you feel like the forest’s own altar.

Steve guided you backwards, his steps gentle and unhurried, until the soft earth gave beneath your boots and you realized the ground itself had changed. The waterlogged moss and churned mud had, in the span of a breath, thickened and risen into a plush, living mattress of green that welcomed the weight of your body as he guided you down. The rush of green scent was dizzying, a perfume of leaf-break, and violets, and deep, wet bark. You braced yourself on your elbows, startled by the way the bed molded around you.

Steve knelt in front of you, balanced and quiet, his hands braced on either side of your hips. The air around you felt altered, denser, each sound of the forest amplified, as if the world had shrunk to only the patch of earth the two of you occupied. He watched you for a long moment, letting you breathe, or maybe just savoring the fear that had turned itself, somewhere in the last dozen heartbeats, to anticipation. He leaned on his hands and bent toward you, the whole scaffold of his body arranged with an a predator’s poise that sent a shiver through your blood.

“Are you afraid?” he asked, his voice low enough that you felt it more than heard it, a vibration that moved from your jaw down through your sternum.

“Yes,” you said, and then, as if your hand had its own will, you reached up and touched the side of his face. “But not—not the way I was before.”

Steve’s answering smile was frightening in its understanding. “That is good,” he said. “Fear makes everything sharp and honest.”

His hands were impossibly strong at your hips, the pressure just shy of command. One moved up your ribcage, charting the landscape of your bones. You gasped at the intimacy, and at the strange paradox of feeling safe. You sensed he would not take what was not offered, even as you knew he could take anything he wished.

He bent his head again but this time his mouth pressed not to your lips but to the angle of your jaw, your ear, the frantic beat hidden shallow under the skin. The weight of him, looming, should have been terrifying, but instead you were frayed with a kind of anticipation that would not have been out of place on the cusp of a summer storm. You forced your hands not to tremble as you cupped the back of his neck and felt the heat of his skin. Steve’s breath was cool on your neck, the hint of it unsettlingly gentle. You tipped your head back, a motion of surrender you didn’t recognize as your own, and he followed the column of your throat to the hollow at its base, then lower, to the line of buttons fastening your blouse.

He made a sound, not quite human, almost a purr or a buzz, and pressed his face against your sternum as if he could inhale your very shape. His hands, so careful at your ribs, curved around your waist with a certainty that left you breathless. He did not tug at your clothes. Instead, he pressed his face to the thin linen and breathed you in, as if scent itself was the substance of desire.

Your mind reeled. The other girls’ whispers, your mother’s warnings—they all spoke of pain, of a force to be survived. You had braced for a claiming, but Steve’s hands seemed to know nothing of that script. The warmth that bloomed low in your belly was not fear, but a bewildering curiosity. He brought his fingers to the top button of your blouse, unfastening it with a patience that was its own kind of power, pressing a kiss to each new inch of skin. The sensation was like a lightning strike, and your spine arched involuntarily.

He paused then, waiting, gaze fixed on your face as if he required your permission at every increment. You nodded, or maybe whimpered—whatever escaped you was enough for him to continue, and the next button, and the next, his fingers working each button loose without ever scraping your skin or snagging a hair. Only when your sternum and the pale slope of your breasts were exposed to the soft, damp air did he let the backs of his knuckles brush you, not quite a caress, more a sampling. Steve’s lips and hands traveled the exposed skin, tracing the hollow of your clavicle, the soft undersides of your breasts, his mapping every new inch as if memorizing a terrain he might never traverse again.

When his mouth closed around your nipple, you jerked, startled as if pricked by a holly leaf, but the wet heat had you keening the next instant. Steve groaned low in his chest, and the sound was so animal you felt it thrumming through your bones. His mouth was soft and deliberate, his tongue flicking where the air itself had barely touched you before. His hand stayed broad and steady at your hip, anchoring you so you didn’t float away.

He took the time to explore, open-mouthed at the soft edge of your breast, then the other and the valley between, all the way up to your throat, where his teeth found your pulse. Marks: not of violence, but of tribute, the press of a thumbprint onto fruit to test its ripeness. You shivered beneath him, alive to every place his tongue mapped and every inch of you that burned in the aftermath.

As glorious as that was, you knew what surely would come next, the act described in so many whispers and warnings: the press and pain, the split-second of being claimed and broken open. That was how it always happened, in the barns and haylofts and cold, wet fields, the wedding nights, the way the boys made the girls bite down on a hand or a sleeve, their haste to have it over with. You readied yourself to be bruised, to be stretched and split and left sore.

You braced for the press of his body at the split of you, the forceful push. Instead, Steve drew your skirts up methodically, slowly, and the cool air shocked the skin beneath as he exposed it to the forest. He planted himself between your thighs, the solidness of his shoulders between your thighs coaxing your legs to fall fully open to accommodate the breadth of him. Air stalled in your throat as you felt the heat of his gaze, unflinching on your most intimate place. He made a low sound in his throat that resonated through you and the trees, something between approval and hunger. “You’re wet here,” he murmured, his voice thick with wanting that hollowed your stomach. “Like the forest gives sap in the spring—slow, and sweet, and ready.”

He bent closer, the brush of his breath raising the fine hairs of your thigh, and he let his mouth hover over your slick, exposed folds. He watched your trembling, then the way your hips bucked when his tongue finally, shockingly, flicked at the bud of you. His gaze was open and unhurried, as if he had all of time. He groaned with the first taste, a deep and honest sound that made your hands fist into the moss, tearing up strings of it beneath your nails. Each pass of his tongue was a deliberate, patient movement, spreading your wetness with reverence, savoring you, as if tasting the salt and iron of the earth itself.

You moaned, the sound ringing out over the water, and he answered it with a pulse of suction that wrung more from you. His hands anchored your shaking thighs apart. He did not stop, even when the sensation crested past bearing and you twisted against him—whether to escape or to pull him closer you could not have said—but he wouldn’t let you go. From the creases of his palms, where his lifelines ran deepest, thin green vines emerged from his skin the way shoots push through soil in early spring. They wound around your upper thighs in slow, tightening loops, textured like the underside of a leaf, faintly cool where your skin was heated. The vines didn’t pull you wider, but held you just as you were, their cool, living pressure a patient, unwavering claim on the surrender you already offered.

You keened yet again, and Steve soothed it away with a tongue so dexterous and insistent he taught you a new way to live inside your own body, a way of being you'd never conceived. Your hands found his hair, and a sudden audacity took you, pulling him closer, grinding his mouth against you, feral and greedy and no longer a healer of the village but something wild, as much earthen as blood. He laughed, low and delighted, and you felt it where his mouth was still pressed against you—a terrible, gorgeous thing. He did not slow. He did not falter. He moved as though the wanting of you was its own kind of knowing, as though desire itself had handed him a map. His tongue traced your sex with an accuracy that made you wonder, briefly and wildly, if this was what it meant to be known—not seen, not touched, but learned, the way a river learns the shape of its banks over centuries of insistence.

When the wet, velvet heat of your climax broke over you, it did not snap or spark, but rolled up from your core in a long, rising wave—a secretion of you into the moss, into the air, into his mouth, which did not lose rhythm but drank and drew you further, until the only thing left was the trembling of your thighs and the stunned, empty ache where your voice used to live. Your eyes filled with tears, not of pain—never of pain—but of astonishment, as if every nerve in your body had just flowered at once, a bloom of both petal and thorn.

You had never known this could happen. That a tongue, a mouth, a pair of hands could make you forget yourself, undo the careful braid of your dignity and leave you sobbing for a mercy that, when he finally gave it, cracked open every seam in your body.

Your thighs still trembled against his cheeks when he slowed, his tongue drawing smaller and quieter shapes, the way rain gentles after a storm has spent itself. He did not stop, but his movements gentled and slowed. Your belly clenched once without warning, a small, wet sound leaving your throat before you could catch it, your spine curling involuntarily around the spasm. He raised his head at that. Steve pressed his lips, closed and warm, to the inside of your thigh. Then he moved up the length of you until his eyes were level with yours, his hands releasing your thighs, though the vines remained, loose now, a garland rather than a grip. You found his gaze before you meant to—bright with something that was not quite pride and not quite laughter, but lived fluidly in between. He kissed your mouth, unhurried, and you tasted yourself on his tongue, dark and unfamiliar, the flavor of a thing that had always been yours but that you were only now being introduced to.

He pressed his brow to yours and let you breathe, your own chest heaving against the solid warmth of his. The moss beneath you was velvet; the sky above, the dizzying blue, the gold of late afternoon flickering through willow fronds.

Your hunger had changed, no longer a storm but a strange, quiet hum beneath your skin. In the throb between your legs was both a memory and a promise, an echo of what he’d done and a question of what he still meant to do.

For a moment, Steve said nothing, only nuzzled into the hollow of your throat, the line of your jaw, as if the hollowed-out shape of your pleasure was a thing to be tended, not merely consumed. You lay in the aftermath, skin flush against the living bed of moss, feeling the pulse of your heart reverberate through your every limb. The world seemed sharper than it had ever been, each smell and sound and taste layered and immediate: the greeny wet-earth smell of the moss, the close heat of your own body, the lake’s cold mineral current threading through the trees, and him—less a presence than a gravity, one that didn’t pull you toward him but simply held you to the earth.

You did not want to move, but you wanted more, and he read both truths in your body. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers slicked with what he had drawn out of you, and he pressed the pads of them into you—not to hurt, only to test, to see how easily you would yield.

“The forest gives,” he murmured against your collarbone, the words a vibration you felt more than heard. “But it also takes. It’s only right you should receive first. It bargains in full measure… and now it is my turn.”

He stretched you open, one finger first, then two—so patient, so careful, you only realized you were being claimed when the green heat crested in you again, this time burning languid and low, like embers tended under moss. His hands were indecently strong, but he used them as if comfort was the primary goal—pressing, stroking, coaxing your body to soften around him. The first bite of pain was a shimmer, quickly edged away by the wet insistence of his movements and the wildness in your own hips. You rocked into him, greedy and bright, and the hesitancy that might have undone you was snuffed by a need to see how far, how deep, the pleasure could run.

You did not see his cock at first. When you felt the nudge of it, hard and impossibly hot against the inside of your leg, you looked down and saw that he was already bare, as if the forest itself had shed his clothes for him. The sight of him made your breath catch—he was built the way old trees are built, with a density that seemed to belong to something older and less tame than any man you’d known or could imagine.

An absurd, animal instinct made you shrink back, but his hands caught your hips and held you with tenderness—firm, but tender. The head of it was wet, already slick, crowned by a bead of clear fluid that you watched, dazed, as he thumbed down and pressed to your folds. You’d seen men before—quick glimpses, awkward fumbles in haylofts or behind market stalls—but this was not a man’s cock. It was a thing grown for a single purpose, and each time he guided it up your seam, parting you further, it was as if a new, second pulse had been hidden in your body, one that beat only for this.

He pressed the blunt head of his cock to your entrance and held it there. His eyes had gone wolf-bright, fixed on yours, reading the tremors that ran through you. The stretch was immediate, shocking—a white-hot claim of space where there had been none. Your body arched, seeking more instinctually, and a low rumble started in his chest, the sound of stone shifting deep underground. When he pushed past the first ring of resistance you gasped, a sound somewhere between agony and relief.

A white-hot seam of pain stitched through your hips and along your spine, pure and electric, and then, impossibly quickly, it was overtaken by the burning, desperate pleasure of being filled and filled and filled until you could not imagine more, and still he pressed deeper. You made a strangled noise that was half groan, half sob, your arms thrown up to brace against his chest, nails biting into the patches of moss-and-bark that surfaced between stretches of smooth, human skin. There was no logic to the fit of him, no sense in the physics of it, but he did not force. He gave, and your body took, the slow press of him unfolding you like a new language written into your bones.

His breath came hard through parted lips, but his eyes—his eyes did not move from yours, and what was in them was not hunger, or not only hunger… it was something older and more careful, the look of a man who understood exactly what he was holding, taking. The tendons in his neck stood out like roots finding purchase in stone, and he breathed through his nose in one long, deliberate pull, as if holding himself back from splitting you entirely. Inch by inch, he worked himself deeper, and you wept out loud when your body finally yielded and he was all the way inside you—a thickness that was almost unbearable, a depth that felt impossible as every nerve lit up and you did not think, for a moment, that you could bear another inch, even as his root dragged and pressed into a place you had never known you had. Steve made a soft, shushing noise, a caress of wind in your ear, and stilled inside you with a gentleness that nearly undid your sanity.

Your pulse beat hard in your throat. You felt full—so full—and with every tiny shift of your hips, every tentative intake of air, he seemed to bloom larger inside you. You didn’t think you could breathe until he gave you leave, and then you shuddered, the air shoving out in ragged, surprised gasps. The pain faded as swiftly as it had bloomed, replaced by the eerie awareness of being shaped from within. You were aware of every inch, every subtle shift, and it was intolerable and perfect.

He tilted his hips, a fractional shift that sent the cock inside you pressing higher somehow, grinding a spot that burned and throbbed with every minute twitch. All you could do was shudder and hold on as his hands ran up your body—stroking your sides, reverently palming your breasts, the whole time never pulling back, never pulling out, as if the very idea of separation was foreign to him.

He bent his head again, kissing all the places he could reach: your throat, wet with your sweat and the lake air; your ear, where he whispered words you barely understood, half in another tongue, the syllables soft and full of promise. His hands mapped you, his body claimed you, but it was not a violence, not an invasion. Something older than memory was being pressed into you, the way a name, spoken enough times, becomes the only word a mouth knows how to form.

He moved, slow at first—less a thrust than a rolling flex of pelvis and hip, a careful rocking as if he were teaching your body how to say yes. The first withdrawal was exquisitely, almost cruelly, slow. You felt every millimeter of him slide back along the walls of your cunt, a velvet scrape that left you gaping and gasping for more. Before you could mourn the loss, he pressed forward again, filling you deeper, the new angle making you see stars. Your hands clung to his shoulders, to the strange lattice of moss and bark beneath the skin, the unreal heat of him burning into your palms.

He began to fuck you then, not with the frantic, selfish rhythm of a man, but with the slow, inexorable certainty of a season turning. His eyes never left yours, reading every flutter of your lashes, every catch in your breath, as if cataloging the ways your body learned to take him.

That rhythm was slow and considerate, but soon the tempo changed. Steve braced his hands in the moss at either side of your head and moved with deliberate, rolling thrusts that grew in force and speed. Your gasps, your shivers, the dull percussion of your bodies meeting each other—it all became the rhythm of the forest, mingling with the hush of wind, the wet shudder of leaves. You felt the moss bed beneath you shudder, the roots trembling, as Steve’s hips snapped forward with more force. The careful, reverent worship of your body became an urgency, a drive, and it overtook both of you—his hands pinning yours above your head, his mouth finding your throat and holding it there, as if he could root you to the earth by the pulse alone.

He did not ask if you were ready. He did not have to. Your body gave its own answer, arching up, knees drawing higher and wider to accommodate the relentless, beautiful force of him. With each thrust, the forest blurred into green-gold strokes, the sky itself seeming to fall away, leaving only the bright, unspeakable ache of being filled and fucked.

You came apart, succumbing to it like a riptide. You clung to the filaments of his shoulders, body locking in great, shuddering spasms around the cock that was still splitting you. The sound that tore from your throat was not yours, or not one you had made before, and he drove into you through the whole shaking length of it, unhurried, relentless, the way weather moves through a valley.

Your cunt rippled, clamping, until you felt the answering quiver in him—a hardening, a climbing tension, the way his entire body drew up. Steve bowed over you, his hair a whisper against your skin. A grimace of pure ecstasy pulled at his mouth, and a low growl built in his chest as he fought for the last vestiges of control, holding himself back from breaking you completely. Only when you sobbed his name—ridiculous, simple—did he splinter, driving into you with a force that shoved all the air from your lungs, holding you impaled as his cock pulsed inside you, hot and fevered, a flood that felt like it was remaking you from within.

You were pinned to the earth not merely by his body, but by a force that had nothing to do with choice or want, something closer to gravity than desire. Even after he stilled, the moss beneath you continued to tremble in sympathetic rhythm with the frantic ricochet of your heartbeat. Steve did not move at once—he seemed to savor the heat of you, the locked and wet hold of your cunt, the way your body shuddered around every last pulse. When he finally withdrew, you felt the loss, whimpering at the stinging ache, the slow, deliberate slide of him from your body.

Steve knelt between your legs, cock smeared with your blood and his own seed, and in a motion so gentle it nearly made you weep again, he bowed his head to you. His tongue drew shudders from your body, tracing reverent patterns over newly awakened nerves, and you basked in the deliberate, shocking care of it.

When he was satisfied with his work, Steve moved back up over you, and his lips brushed your temple. “Hush,” he murmured, the words a soft vibration against your skin. “Again and again, until there is no question. The forest wants its fruit… and I will make sure it takes root.”

You could only nod, your body still caught between tremor and euphoria, your chest rising and falling in time with the damp, living earth. The words he’d spoken echoed in your mind: the seed, the fruit, the next guardian. You had thought life a slow accrual, a distant, speculative thing. But there was no speculation now. As your blood quieted, a stillness gathered deep in your womb—a heavy, waiting calm that confirmed the change was not coming, but had already arrived.

Lake monster Curtis being a bolotnik meant that when I incorporated another creature, I wanted to draw on more European folklore and play with the elements, and that's how rooted around until I found mention of the Waldgeist. I definitely took liberties in my interpretation, but just like I did with bolotnik!Curtis, I wanted to play around with the lore the way we've so commonly played with vampire and werewolf lore.

This was its own vibe to write - it flowed from beginning to end, and felt very magical-realism, and created its own kind of creative track in my head that was very different from some of the ideas and projects I've been working on lately, and so I hope it was as immersive to read as it was to write!

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Now here you sat in one of the nicest restaurants in the city, waiting for Hugh to show up. Taking another sip of your drink you wrinkled your nose.

"Next one order a double, they never put enough booze in." Your eyes widened as you took in Hugh. Your shock at his sudden appearance hid your perusal of him.

He wore a maroon sweater, he must have checked his coat, but still had a vibrant scarf around his neck. His pants were dress pants, but together the outfit seemed far too casual for the type of place you were in. Certainly compared to the cocktail dress you wore. 

"Hmm," you hummed softly as you swirled your drink in one hand and gestured for him to sit with the other, "I'll remember that for next time." 

With that, you shot back the rest of your drink, and gathered your purse. 

"What are you doing?" Hugh's look of confusion could be considered cute, if you didn't see the tick in his jaw.

"Our date," you brought your wrist up with your watch on it, "was supposed to be an hour ago. So, thanks for the drink I guess." 

Hugh's eyes narrowed for a moment, and you knew, you knew, you should try and mind your attitude. And yet, here you were mouthing off, like usual. Before you could scurry away, he was closing the distance between you both. Both of his arms, stronger than you had expected wrapped around you. To anyone else, it would look like an intimate embrace, being the one wrapped in it you knew the truth. You had been captured by a wolf.

"What the hell are you doing?" Your own voice was no louder than a whisper, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention your way.

"I think I owe you a dinner, but if you really want to get out of here, I can't say I mind." You could hear the smirk in Hugh's voice. The note of triumph ringing loudly in your ears. Despite the danger you now found yourself in, you couldn't help the thrill of want that electrified your spine. 

You bit your lip, part of you, the part that had gotten used to only your own toys for pleasure was screaming to take him up on his offer. The rational part of your brain, thankfully stepped in. "Fine. Dinner, and then I go home alone."

Hugh simply smirked at you before releasing you. "We'll see."

He pulled your chair out, with a practiced grace, waiting for you to be comfortably seated before resuming his own. As you perused the menu, you found your gaze tracking back to him. The furrow of his brow as the server approached. The stress stretching his shoulders. The constant tap, tap, tap of his foot beneath the table.

When the two of you were alone at the table again, you smirked over your menu to him. "You're nervous, Hugh." Your eyes twinkled with mirth you couldn't quite contain.

His eyes narrowed as he looked up at you. A rosy tinge working its way from his neck to his cheeks. "No one calls me that." 

At your arched eyebrow he continued, " 'Hugh' no one calls me that. Everyone calls me Ransom."

You snorted out a laugh at that, your mirth quickly dying at another tick in his jaw. "Wait - no as in 'pay me the ransom?' Where did that come from?" You couldn't help it, you were genuinely curious how this rising star Mobster had gained the nickname Ransom.

Ransom's eyes narrowed again briefly, before he shrugged a short laugh rumbling his chest. "It's my middle name, I'm not sure who's idea it was."

"Yeesh," you folded the menu closed and smiled at him, much more genuinely then you meant to, "How much do you hate the name Hugh?"

That earned you a twinkle in Ransom's eyes that had warmth settling in your chest. Something about that look, it struck you immediately. His lips twitching into a smile that seemed to glow.

"I guess it's for the best." You continued, taking a sip of the new drink Ransom had ordered you. His brows twisted in confusion and you smirked at him again. "I don't know if 'Mob Boss Hugh' has quite the ring you're going for." 

Ransom paused for a moment before a full belly laugh shook his frame. The pure joy, something you weren't sure you had ever seen in any of your encounters with the man across the table from you, had you laughing as well.

This seemed to be the moment that had snapped the tension from earlier. All of a sudden the conversation between you two flowed like two souls connecting. Ransom animatedly told you of childhood stories with Lloyd, while you eagerly shared your own antics. You weren't sure why exactly you were opening up, but there was something in the way he listened. Hell, something in the way he spoke that had you feeling more at ease then you could ever remember feeling.

When the server came for the fourth time to ask if you wanted anything else, you sadly looked down at the table. For something you had been dreading, you were surprised to find yourself sad at the prospect of your date being over. You missed the exchange between Ransom and the server, but far too soon he was standing, and you mirrored him.

Pulling your purse securely into your shoulder, a small sigh escaped your lips as Ransom tucked you into his side and walked you to coat check. 

"Shoot!" You began fumbling as the worker went in search of both your coats.

"What's wrong?" Ransom's brow was quirked as he watched you fight with your accessory.

You gave him a withering look before successfully pulling your phone out in triumph. "I forgot to call the car service, I hate having to wait." 

Ransom smirked, as you pouted up at him. "I'll bring you home, couldn't let a Treasure like you sit here all by herself." 

It was the wink he followed it with that had you rolling your eyes. Even if you didn't argue with him.

The drive to your place seemed to pass in no time at all. Before you knew it Ransom was pulling his beemer into your driveway. You hesitated for a moment then steeling all your courage asked, "Would you want to come in for coffee?"

Ransom looked across the car at you, his expression guarded. He must have seen whatever he was looking for in your eyes, because soon he was following you up the garden path to your front door. 

"You garden?" He murmured. He was closer than you expected, your fingers struggling to find your keys. His hands on your hips steadied you a moment, until you felt him step closer. The heat radiating off of his body, through his clothes and wrapping around you. 

You could only hum in response, your brain struggling to string words together at Ransom's proximity. There was a part of you, deep down, that knew sleeping with Ransom was a bad idea. But there was another part, the part that hadn't had sex in months, that was too damn horny to care.

Once you were finally through the door, Ransom pinned you to the wall, his mouth on yours. The small gasp that fell from your lips was all the permission he needed to let his tongue meet yours. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around his neck. His hands felt like they were everywhere, on your hips, your ass, the back of your neck. 

It didn't take long before your mutual frustration had him growling out a breath. He hooked his hands behind your knees and you squealed as he lifted you, and hooked your heels around his waist. 

"Bedroom?" Ransom's grunted words shook you from your haze.

"Upstairs," You panted, hands coming up to frame his face, "On the right, end of the hall." You pulled him back to you, moaning into his mouth and grinding against him.

Ransom made short work of the trip to your bedroom, even with your best attempts to distract him. Trailing kisses down his neck, a well placed bite to his earlobe, and a lick across his jaw. 

Once in your room he dropped you on the bed, he looked around before sitting in the armchair you normally used to read in in the evening. "Strip."

You gulped, no man had ever asked you to do that before. You glanced up at him through your lashes, heat rising to your cheeks at the simple request. You tried to hide your shaking hands as you unzipped your dress, but you knew Ransom saw. A smirk playing across his lips as he watched your movements.

With a whoosh your cocktail dress slid to the floor, leaving you in your black strapless bra and matching panties. Ransom hummed in appreciation, and you saw him palm himself through his trousers. "Keep going, Treasure." The words were barely above a whisper, but they were certainly an order. 

Seeing the effect you had on him emboldened you, you took a few steps closer to where he was perched on your armchair and straddled his lap. You hands coming up behind you to undo your bra first. He groaned as your breasts spilled forward, close enough for him to touch. Just as his hand rose, you moved back off of his lap. Walking backwards towards your bed. You laid down, making sure to position yourself so he got a full view as you peeled down your panties. As slowly, and what you hoped was sexily, as you could you pulled your panties down. You lifted your hips and arched your back, so he would have a perfect view of your exposed cunt. 

You couldn't see him from this angle, but you were sure he sucked in a breath at your little show. Just as you propped yourself up on your elbows, you felt the bed dip by your hip. Ransom's hand trailed from your ankle, his fingers light as air on your skin, up to the bend of your knee, and back down to the vee where your thighs met. 

He dragged the feather light touch down the cut of you. One that had your hips thrusting up to meet his touch. He simply tutted, and pulled his hand back. He dipped his hand down again, but this time his touch was firmer. His thumb landing on your clit, while his fingers dragged between your lower lips. 

You found yourself rutting into his hand, one of your own had grabbed onto his wrist holding him where you wanted him. When you chanced a glance up at him a triumphant smirk met your gaze. You wanted to huff, to roll your eyes, but all you can manage is a whine of frustration. Because you want more.

"Alright Treasure, I'll give you what you want." Ransom's voice was low, lower than you had ever heard it before.

He moved off of the bed, stripping out of his sweater and trousers and boxer briefs. You only had a moment to take in the flex of his abs, and the trail of hair down his stomach before he was on you. You heard the familiar crinkle of a condom wrapper and grabbed his wrist. 

"I'm on the pill." You looked him straight in the eye, trying to convey all the want, need, desperation you felt. "I want to feel you." 

Ransom groaned, his head dropping down to your chest, "Keep talking like that Treasure, and I'll never let you go." 

You giggled and pulled his face up to yours. "I'd like to see you try Drysdale." 

He sealed your lips in a kiss while he lined himself up with your entrance. Even the blunt head of him felt large, and you found yourself both nervous and excited for the size of him. Ransom hitched one of your legs over his hip and then slid home. 

You threw your head back, tears gathering in your eyes at the stretch of him. His thumb returned to your clit, and began rubbing lazy circles into you. After a few moments of letting you adjust he began to move. 

"Ohhhh Hugh…" the words left your mouth without permission. You reached for him, arms wrapping around his broad shoulders. 

"That's it Treasure, let me take real good care of you." Ransom smirked before dipping his head down to pepper kisses along your collar bone. The pressure of his thumb on your clit increased until you were meeting his every thrust. Mouth descending to your breast to nip at your nipple. His tongue soon joined and he was trading off sucks and bites keeping pace with his thumb.

Your breathing became more frantic and soon you were chanting his name "Hugh, Hugh, Hugh." 

"Fuck," Ransom groaned into your chest, his words muffled by your breasts, "This pussy is too good. Sucking me right in and holding me tight. I think I'm gonna have to keep you Treasure."

You moaned, your thoughts blurring between the pleasure you felt and the words leaving Ransom's mouth. A drawn out "Yesssssss" the only thing your scattered brain could articulate. 

"Yeah?" He smirked down, slowing his thrusts only slightly, he ducked down his lips caressing your ear with his next words. "Bet you'd love it if I fucked a baby into you huh?"

You felt a buzz race down your spine and into your core at his words. Although, you both knew that's not what was happening, the thought of him fucking you over and over, filling you sent your pleasure into overdrive.

"Hmm," He hummed, your core clenching around him and your body writhing at his words were all the answer he needed. "That's right Treasure, just lay there and take it. Let me fill you up."

His pressure on your clit increased and returned to sucking on your nipple. The dual sensations and his words still ringing in your ears sent you flying high as your orgasm hit. Your head fell back as your mouth formed a silent scream. Ransom didn't stop his assault on your body though, if anything this just spurred him on. 

His thrusts increased, and he ripped his arm away from your cunt to push both your legs up until you were folded in half. When you blinked your eyes open you saw his own gaze was fixated on where you both connected, the lewd squelch echoing loudly in your bedroom. 

A sheen of sweat had broken out on Ransom's brow, and you could feel the stutter in his hips, you knew he was close. "That's it Treasure, take it." You brought your hand up and gripped his shoulders, your nails biting into the skin. He groaned, a dark look taking over his eyes, "You're mine now Treasure."

"Yes, Hugh, yours. All yours." You babbled along with him, another high cresting at the possessive streak in him. 

Ransom didn't miss the cues, his thumb dropping from your knee to thrum at your clit once more. Determined to see you come on his cock once more. "Fuck yes, that's it milk me dry." He slowed his pace minutely, wanting to feel your walls clench around him again. 

Your grip on his shoulders increased the closer you got until you were pulling him down, so his weight rested against your own. Just as your orgasm hit you bit down on his shoulder, causing Ransom to groan and you felt the flood of his come. 

He stayed still a few moments, his hips sealed to your own. Then when he pulled back, you both gasped as his cock left you feeling empty. Just as you were about to sit up to clean yourself, you felt Ransom's large fingers circling your entrance. He began to finger his come back into you, until he was satisfied none had leaked. 

When your eyes fluttered open, it was to Ransom's fingers in front of your mouth, and your greedily sucked your combined juices from his fingers. He simply smirked at you before laying beside you, cuddling you into his chest. 

Laying over Ransom's heart, listening to the thrum begin to slow, it began to ease you into sleep. You were just on the edge of sleep when you heard him murmur something.

"What was that?" Your head popped up to look at him.

"I meant it." The dark look that you had seen before was back. "You're mine now Treasure."

You hummed and let your head fall to his chest. Sure it was just the post fucking that was getting to him. There was no way that Ransom Drysdale would want more than a night or two with the daughter of a rival family. You pet his chest, his own hand drawing lazy circles on your back. Placing a kiss onto his chest, you murmured your own, "Sure Ransom, whatever you say." Before nipping at his pectoral. 

His hum of satisfaction was the last thing you heard before you drifted off into an easy slumber.

***

2nd A/N: I’m kind of in love with these two…their dynamic is just so different. Once again Siri, I hope you have the absolute best birthday, and enjoy all the fics that everyone is ready to send to you. You’re the absolute best, and this place wouldn’t be the same without you here ❤️

You were Tony Stark’s daughter—sharp-tongued, stubborn, pride thicker than the Compound’s reinforced walls, and currently burning with enough jealousy to melt the entire facility.

Stephen Strange stood across the room at yet another one of your father’s parties—silver streaks at his temples, that infuriating sharp jaw, dark knowing eyes, and an ego so massive it practically outshone every light in the room. He was older. Decades older. And tonight, he let every woman within ten feet fawn all over him—laughing too low, leaning in too close, letting them touch his arm, brush his chest, giggle at every damned thing he said.

And you? You stood there glaring. Arms crossed so tight your shoulders ached. Scowling so hard your face felt stuck. Every time someone drifted near him, you drifted closer—hovering, sipping your champagne like it personally offended you, staring them down until they shifted uncomfortably and wandered off. Every time he smiled at someone else, something twisted tight in your chest. And every single time you looked his way. Stephen was already looking at you—smirking. That slow, lazy, I know exactly what you’re burning up over and I’m loving every second smirk.

Eventually you couldn’t take it anymore. You turned on your heel and stormed away, down quiet hallways toward the kitchen—empty, cool, blessedly silent. You marched to the counter, grabbed a glass, filled it with water so hard it sloshed over the sides, leaned against the marble, and scowled at the floor.

“Running away from the party… or standing guard like a very cute, very territorial little bodyguard?”

You jumped so hard that water splashed your chest, spun around—and there he was, leaning in the doorway, arms folded, that damned smirk stretched wide across his face.

“I’m not running from anything,” you snapped, setting the glass down with a sharp clink. “And I’m not territorial. I just have standards. Watching you stand there preening like a peacock while every woman throws themselves at you? It’s embarrassing. That’s all. I was embarrassed for you.”

“Embarrassed, are we?” Stephen strolled inside and clicked the door shut, sauntering toward you like he owned the house—and honestly, the way he looked at you, you’d almost believe he owned you too. He stopped so close his chest nearly brushed yours, and suddenly you could smell him: warm, rich, something like sandalwood and dark spice, filling your senses until you could barely think. “Or embarrassed that you’ve been staring at my mouth all night? Wondering exactly what it feels like?”

Your face burned hot. “You’re absolutely disgusting. And old. Practically ancient. Shouldn’t you be resting instead of letting them all hang off you? You’ll strain something.”

Stephen gasped—loud, dramatic, hand flying to his chest.

“Old? Ancient? I am appalled. Here I was thinking I looked distinguished. Timeless. And you see… old.” He stepped impossibly closer, looming over you, voice dropping to that smooth, taunting purr. “Though for the record? ‘Old’ means stamina. Experience. Knowing exactly what I’m doing so I don’t waste your time. Whereas boys your age? They’re still rushing through the motions just to finish. So tell me—does that scare you? Or are you just worried you’ll tire me out?”

“I’m worried you’ll tire yourself out!” You shoved hard at his chest—he didn’t budge an inch. “You’ll be huffing and puffing and begging for a nap before we even get started! Stamina my ass! Five minutes, tops! And then you’ll need a cane just to get around!”

Stephen leaned down, face inches from yours, lips barely brushing yours, eyes dark and delighted.

“Five minutes,” he murmured, breath warm against your mouth. “And a cane. Keep running that mouth, sweetheart. One of these days… I might just call your bluff. And then where would we be? You’d be embarrassed. I’d be proven right. And I’d very much enjoy watching you eat every single word.”

“I’d like to see you try!” you breathed—barely a whisper—eyes locked on his mouth, burning, aching, furious that you wanted him to close that last fraction of an inch so badly it hurt.

“Oh, I intend to—”

“Y/N?”

Tony’s voice rang out—clear and close—from the hallway. You jerked back, chest heaving, face flaming, lips swollen and trembling. Stephen didn’t even flinch—just stepped back slowly, hands behind his back, looking perfectly composed.

“Coming, Dad!” you called out, voice shaking a little.

Stephen leaned in, quiet enough only you heard: “Later. Keep making those jokes. I’ll be counting every single one I prove wrong.” Then he winked. The absolute bastard.

You stormed past him without another word, wanting to scream and kiss him and throttle him all at once. You hated him. You absolutely, undeniably, completely hated him.

********

Later that evening, Stephen found you, wrapped a firm hand around your wrist, and tugged you along.

“Come with me,” he murmured, low and rough. “Now. Before you bite someone’s head off.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you hissed, yanking uselessly at your wrist. “You’re just going to stand there being smug and ancient and make fun of me. And if you get winded on the way? Don’t ask me to carry you.”

Stephen chuckled—low, dark, delighted—and didn’t let go. “Such concern. But don’t worry—I’ve plenty of breath left, and I plan on using every last bit to prove you wrong. Choose—walk away… or let me see exactly how much attitude you still have behind closed doors. And if you’re very lucky… I might even let you try to make me shut up.”

You glared at him—furious he could read you so easily—and didn’t pull away again.

He led you through quiet corridors, straight to your bedroom door, pushed it open, stepped inside, pulled you with him—kicking and muttering—and locked it with a soft, definitive click. He leaned back against the door, arms folded, watching you with that infuriating smirk.

“Well?” Stephen tilted his head. “Go on. Tell me again how old I am. How tired I’ll get. How I’ll need a nap halfway through. I’m listening.”

You stood there, chest rising and falling, pride warring with the throbbing, aching need between your legs—and finally you snapped.

“Fine!” You stepped right into his space, jabbing his chest. “You’re old! Ancient! You talk way too much! And I still say you’ll be exhausted in five minutes flat! That’s what I think! Happy?!”

Stephen’s smirk softened into something darker, hungrier, utterly triumphant.

“Five minutes,” he repeated low, voice rough and thick. “Noted. Now—you had plenty of fire out there. Let’s see what else those hands are good for. And let’s see if you can actually make me shut up.”

He reached for you—but you caught his wrists, shoved him back hard, and walked him until his legs hit the edge of your bed. You pushed him down onto the mattress, stood over him, chest heaving, eyes blazing.

“I’m doing this,” you snapped. “And you? You’re going to be quiet. For once in your long life. Just. Shut. Up.”

Stephen leaned back comfortably, hands behind his head, legs spread wide—thoroughly entertained.

“Oh, I’m going to be quiet? That seems unlikely. Go on then. Big talk. Show me what you’ve got. And try not to look too eager on your knees for an old man.”

“I said shut up!”

You undid his belt with sharp, angry movements, yanked his trousers and briefs down just enough to free him—thick, heavy, already half-hard and throbbing, leaking clear fluid at the tip that made your mouth water despite every ounce of your pride. You glared up at him, spat into your palm, wrapped your hand firm and tight around him—and stroked. Hard.

Stephen hissed, head falling back, one hand fisting tight in your sheets—but his mouth kept going.

“Eager little thing, aren’t you? Can’t wait to wrap your pretty hand around this old man’s cock after all those jokes? Look at you—practically salivating. Go on—tighter. Unless you’re already nervous you can’t handle it?”

“I’m not nervous!” You stroked faster, harder, twisting your wrist, dragging your thumb firm and rough over his sensitive, swollen tip—pressing circles, rubbing the fluid slick and warm down his length.

Stephen groaned—deep, guttural, cracking just a little—his hips jerking up off the mattress. “Fuck—that’s it—don’t stop—all fire and attitude—and your hand feels perfect. Wonder how long you’ve been imagining this? Keep going—harder—if you can make me lose control… I might even apologise for being so old. Though I should warn you—this ‘fossil’ has plenty of stamina. You’ll tire out long before I do.”

“I won’t tire out!” You stroked him relentlessly—fast, slick, perfect rhythm—while your other hand drifted lower, cupped his heavy, warm balls, and rolled them in your palm, teasing him from both ends. Stephen’s breath hitched hard, his thighs tensed and shook, his cock throbbed and pulsed heavy and hot in your grip—but he still wouldn’t shut up.

“Fuck—yes—right there—squeeze harder—trying so hard to break me—and you’re still pretending you hate every second? Adorable. Keep going—I’m not stopping you. And I’m still not shutting up.”

“You’re impossible!” You stroked him with everything you had—fast, rough, relentless—working him over until he groaned loud and raw and arched completely off the bed—and then he caught your wrists suddenly and pulled you abruptly to your feet.

He stood towering over you—flushed, breathless, chest heaving, cock still throbbing hard and heavy—that damned smirk wrecked but unbroken, eyes gleaming dark and hungry.

“Beautiful,” he panted. “Absolutely beautiful. You tried everything, didn’t you? And I’ll admit—you almost had me. Now—turn around. Get on all fours on the bed. Ass up. Face down. I want you exactly like that.”

You froze, face burning. “I— what?”

“You heard me.” Stephen’s voice dropped lower. “All fours. And remember—walls are thin. Your father is not far away. Think you can stay quiet? Or are you going to give the whole place a show?”

“I’ll be quiet,” you snapped—though your voice shook. You turned, climbed onto the bed, hands and knees sinking into the mattress, heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten. Five minutes. That’s all you’ve got. Then you’ll be begging for a rest. And maybe a walking stick.”

Stephen’s laugh was dark, rough, and utterly delighted. He stripped off his clothes, then knelt behind you, gripping your hips hard and guiding you exactly where he wanted you

“Five minutes,” he repeated. “Noted. And we’ll see who’s begging by the end of it.”

He hiked your dress up over your hips, dragged your underwear down your legs, and tossed it aside. Then he ran his hands over your ass—squeezing hard, spreading you open, dragging his fingers slowly and taunting through your soaked folds—making you shudder and arch back instinctively before you could stop yourself.

“Soaking wet,” he murmured, pressing the thick, weeping head of his cock slow and torturous through your folds—coating himself. He rubbed small circles over your sensitive bud, teasing you mercilessly, barely pushing inside before pulling all the way back. “All this just for me? All because you had your hands on me? And you pretend to hate me? Pretend I’m nothing special? Go on then—keep pretending. I love it when you lie.”

“Just—get on with it—”

Stephen pushed inside—slow, thick, inch by throbbing inch—stretching you wide, pressing deeper and deeper until he was buried to the hilt, balls deep inside you, groaning loudly against your back. He was huge. Thick. Heavy. Filling you completely, pressing so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach.

You bit down hard on your lip, fighting every instinct to arch and cry out—forcing your voice cold, flat, utterly unimpressed.

“Is that it?” you said, over your shoulder, as dismissive as you could manage. “That’s… adequate. Honestly? Bit of a let-down, really. For all that big talk? You’re useless. I’ve had better.”

Stephen looked at you and chuckled, low and amused.

“Adequate? Bit of a let-down? Fascinating.” Then he stopped moving completely. Just stayed buried deep inside you, perfectly still, heavy and throbbing and filling you—and said nothing. Just waited.

You froze. Tried to breathe. Tried to pretend you didn’t feel every pulse, every inch of him sitting there deep inside you. Tried to pretend you didn’t ache. But he was there, and he wouldn’t move. Seconds ticked by—long, torturous, agonising seconds.

“Well?” Stephen murmured, calm and taunting and perfectly still. “Nothing to say? Still adequate? That’s fine. We can stay right here as long as you like. I’m perfectly comfortable. Got all the time in the world. Old man’s pace, remember? No rush.”

“Stephen—”

“Yes, sweetheart?” Calm. Smug. Still not moving. “Changed your mind? Or is it still adequate?”

“I— just—move—”

“Beg nicely. Admit it’s better than adequate. Admit you need me.”

“I don’t need you!”

But then your hips moved on their own accord. Before you could stop yourself—you were pushing back. Slow. Shaky. Desperate. Rolling your hips, sinking back onto him, taking him deeper, grinding against him, moving yourself on his cock because he wouldn’t do it for you. You gasped, and kept going—rocking back, taking him deep, fucking yourself back onto him, desperate and shameless, faster and harder with every passing second, breath coming in ragged gasps, pride completely shattered. You didn’t care anymore. You just needed it. Needed him.

Stephen let you. Just knelt there, hands resting lightly on your hips, letting you use him—watching your every move.

“Look at you,” he growled, every word thick with dark, wicked delight. “So proud. So stubborn. Telling me it’s adequate. Telling me I’m old. Telling me—loud and clear—that you don’t need me. And yet? Here you are. Fucking yourself back onto my cock because I wouldn’t move. You can’t stop. Because you do need me. Exactly this. Exactly here. Deep inside you. Go on then—keep lying. Tell me again you don’t need me. While your body screams a very different story.”

“Shut up—you’re—such an—asshole—” you gasped, rocking back to meet every inch of him, heat coiling tight and blinding in your stomach.

“Say it again,” Stephen teased. “Tell me you don’t need me. While you’re clamping down so tight around me. While you’re shaking and sobbing and fucking yourself back onto me for all you’re worth. Tell me. Look me in the eye and tell me.”

“I hate you—” you sobbed, grinding back hard, every stroke dragging that perfect friction. “I hate you—I hate—”

It built fast. Every drag of him inside you felt sharper, hotter, overwhelming. You bit down hard on your forearm, sobbing muffled, broken cries, rocking back harder, faster, chasing that peak—and Stephen finally moved. Drove into you—deep, hard, perfect.

“Now,” he commanded. “Let go.”

And your body obeyed.

Pleasure tore through you like lightning—searing, blinding, all-consuming. Your whole body arched, your pussy squeezing tight around him, knees buckling—and the word ripped out of you, shattered, helpless, completely beyond your control:

“Fuck, Daddy!”

Stephen froze for a split second—then groaned loudly and gutturally, thrusting deep and hard, his grip tightening on your hips.

“Say it again,” he commanded, leaning over your back, mouth close to your ear. “Say it again. Loud and clear. Look at me when you say it. And don’t you dare take it back.”

You were still trembling, chest heaving, face burning—mortified, exposed, and completely unable to lie. You turned your head, looked back at him—eyes dark, blown, and honest—and said it again, clear and steady and entirely your choice:

“Daddy.”

Stephen groaned again—low, broken, satisfied—and thrusted deep once more before pulling out and turning you gently onto your back. He guided you up the bed, sat back against the headboard, and patted his lap—throbbing hard and ready again, his eyes dark.

“Come here. Ride me. And while you’re at it—tell me again how you don’t need me. Go on. I dare you.”

You hesitated for a moment before slipping your dress up and over your head, dropping it aside to sit bare-chested before him—every curve, every inch of you laid open, just for his eyes. Then you straddled him, sinking down slowly, taking him deep inside you, gasping as he filled you completely, stretching you wide and warm. Stephen’s hands settled heavy on your hips, his gaze dropping—fixed on where you were joined, watching his cock disappear inside you, glistening wet and slick with every slow, perfect movement you made.

“Go on,” he teased, thumbs brushing slow, taunting circles right over your sensitive skin, pressing just hard enough to make you jolt. “Say it. Tell me you don’t need me. Tell me who was desperate. Tell me who screamed that name when they fell apart. Go on. I’m listening. And look at you—swallowing me down so perfectly. Taking every inch like you were made for it. Keep moving. Show me exactly how badly you need me, and how badly you wanted to be right here.”

“You’re—the most annoying—man alive,” you gasped, rising slow and then sinking all the way down, taking him deep, rolling your hips so his length dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and let your breasts sway right in his face—nipples hard and peaked, skin flushed and burning. “And I didn’t need you! I wanted to! And—and you were being absolutely useless! Making me do all the work!”

“Useless? Is that what we’re calling it?” Stephen laughed, and then he leaned forward, took one hard nipple straight into his hot mouth, and sucked—hard, wet, relentless—while his hands guided you faster, grinding you down harder onto him. “I was testing you. Testing your pride. And look what happened. You broke. You needed it so badly you had to take it yourself. Now ride me—properly. Grind those hips. Show me exactly what you’re so proud of. And don’t you dare slow down—not until I say so.”

You gasped, arching into his mouth, your rhythm faltering, then picking up—bouncing harder, rolling deeper, dragging him through you with every desperate stroke, your slick coating him, making every slide wet and loud and shameless. “I’m—not—breaking—”

“Then why are you trembling?” Stephen breathed against your skin, releasing your nipple only to nip along your jaw and down your throat. “Why are you clutching at me like this? Why does your pretty little pussy keep squeezing me so tight? Like it’s trying to milk me dry. Go on then—pretend you don’t love it. Pretend you’re not desperate. Grind right there—yes—exactly like that—don’t stop—you look incredible like this. Bouncing on my cock, all flushed and breathless, pretending you’re in charge when we both know exactly who’s really in control.”

“I am—in charge!” you gasped, sinking all the way down and rolling your hips slowly, rubbing yourself against him, watching his eyes darken further, watching his composure crack all over again. But then he opened his mouth to tease you again—and you’d had enough. You stopped moving, reached up, curled your fingers tight into his hair, yanked his face hard to yours—and kissed him silent.

It was fierce, burning, every ounce of your frustration spilling into it—teeth clashing, lips parting, kissing him hard and hungry like you were trying to swallow every taunt right out of his throat. You kissed him until he couldn’t speak, until he groaned deep and broken into your mouth, until his jaw went slack and he forgot every clever word he’d been about to say. You poured everything into it—the jealousy, the stubborn pride, the desperate need you refused to admit out loud—and you kissed him until he was the one left breathless, dazed, completely silenced.

When you finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, his chest was heaving, and he was staring up at you—stunned, flushed, his usual smug smirk completely wrecked. But then it returned—slow, wicked, and delighted.

“Someone’s been holding back,” Stephen teased, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips. “Couldn’t stand one more word, could you? Had to shut me up the only way that works. Kissed me senseless just to make me be quiet. And you know what the funniest part is? It worked. You kissed me straight into silence. Took the words right out of my mouth—and replaced them with that. Clever girl. You’ll have to teach me that trick sometime.”

“Stop talking!” you snapped, shaky and fierce.

Stephen let out a low laugh—dark and delighted and utterly undone by you—his breath hitching sharply, gaze dropping to your lips, eyes hungry and hot and entirely yours.

“Do it again. Kiss me quiet every time I tease you. Every time I tell you how badly you want this. Every time I tell you who’s really in charge. Kiss me until I can’t speak. I dare you. Because we both know you will—and we both know exactly how much you loved silencing me like that.”

You glared, chest heaving, cheeks burning—and didn’t let go of his hair.

“I didn’t love it,” you snapped, rolling your hips hard. “I just— you talk too much. And I can shut you up whenever I want. And I did.”

“Can you?” Stephen chuckled, low and rough. “Because it looked an awful lot like you needed to. Like you couldn’t stand hearing the truth one more second, so you kissed it right out of me. Go on then—prove me wrong. Kiss me again. Shut me up again. Show me who really calls the shots.”

And you did—leaned right back down and kissed him hard, silencing him completely, pouring every last bit of frustration and fire into it until he could do nothing but hold you tight and groan into your mouth, defeated and delighted.

When you pulled back, you rocked against him slowly, and Stephen’s hands slid down to grip your hips, guiding you up and down his length, watching where you moved together. His voice dropped, low and rich and dark with want.

“That’s it,” he said lowly, eyes locked on yours. “Take what you want. Use me. But don’t pretend you’re not falling apart for me. Look at you—riding me so good, making such pretty, quiet little sounds—but don't forget that the walls in this place are thin. Anyone could walk past. Anyone could hear how much you love this. How much you love being filled up by this ‘old man’. Keep going. Harder. Faster. Show me exactly how well you take it. Show me exactly what you’ve been hiding all night.”

You did—you rode him harder, deeper, grinding down so he hit that perfect spot every single time, your slick dripping down onto his thighs, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, your head falling back, every movement unashamed and greedy and entirely his. “Stephen— I—”

“Say it,” he commanded, thumbs pressing into your ass, pulling you tighter, guiding you deeper. “Say you need it. Say you love it. Say it. Right now.”

“I need it!” you gasped, grinding down hard, your nails digging into his chest, your walls clamping around him so tight it made his hips jerk up to meet you. “I love it—I love how you feel—I love how deep you go—please—Stephen— don’t make me stop—”

“Never,” he groaned, eyes fixed on yours, dark and burning and triumphant. “Now cum for me. Cum all over my cock. Let go—and scream it quiet.”

You shattered—silently, mouth pressed hard to his shoulder, body convulsing, trembling all over, clinging to him as pleasure tore through you, wave after blinding wave, your hips stuttering, rolling, taking every last inch of him through it all. Stephen held you steady, thrusting up into you through every tremor, murmuring dark praise against your skin, watching you fall apart, waiting—until you were still gasping, still trembling. Then he took over completely, driving up into you hard and deep one last time before groaning your name, spilling himself inside you while you slumped forward onto his chest, spent and breathless and utterly ruined.

********

He held you long after—tangled together, breathless, spent—brushing hair from your face, tracing lazy lines down your side, that damned, infuriating smirk back in place.

“Well,” Stephen started, kissing your forehead, voice rough and thick and smug, “I believe we established several things this evening. One: I am not too old. Two: I have plenty of stamina—and the self-control to make you ride me until you break. Three: you absolutely, undeniably do need me, no matter how loud you shout otherwise. And four? You call me Daddy when you fall apart. And then you say it on purpose. Who was right? Hmm? Who was right all along?”

You buried your burning face in his chest and mumbled: “You’re still old. And you’re still an asshole. And I still hate you.”

Stephen laughed—warm, deep, entirely too pleased—and held you tight.

“Sure you do. Hate me all you want. Just remember—you’re the one who rode me until you broke. You’re the one who calls me Daddy when you fall apart. And you’re the one who keeps coming back. So I think we’re even. And for the record? Your dad would absolutely kill me if he knew. So this stays quiet. Understood?”

You lifted your head, smirking through flushed cheeks.

“Aw,” you teased. “Is the big, strong, experienced old man scared of my dad? How cute. Fine. I won’t tell him. But only because you’re… marginally adequate. And don’t get used to the name. And don’t get used to the kisses. I only do that to shut you up.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow at you, then let out a little laugh.

“Marginally adequate. Kissing me just to silence me. And lying through your teeth. But fine. Deal. Keep it quiet. And keep calling me that name. And keep kissing me to shut me up. Because we both know you want to. And we both know you’d miss me running my mouth if I ever actually stopped.”

You glared. He smirked. You leaned in and kissed him quiet again. And you both knew—you were absolutely, completely his. No matter how much you complained about his age. No matter how much you pretended to hate it. No matter how hard you tried to lie.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, he didn't let you go. He kept his arms wrapped around you, thumb brushing slow, steady circles over your hip, eyes dark and soft and searching yours.

"You can keep pretending all you want," Stephen said, voice low and quiet. "Keep calling me old. Keep telling me you hate me. Keep kissing me just to shut me up. I don't mind."

"You should mind," you muttered, resting your forehead against his chest. "It's true. You are old. And you do talk too much. And I do hate you."

Stephen chuckled, the vibration rumbling deep beneath you.

"Keep telling yourself that. But we both know the truth, don't we? We both know exactly what you reach for when you're jealous. Exactly who you come running to when you're angry. Exactly whose name you scream when you fall apart. You don't hate me. You never have. You just hate how much you need me. And that's fine. I'm old, remember? I've got plenty of time."

You opened your mouth to snap at him—and the words died on your tongue. Because he was right. And you hated it. And you loved it. And you couldn't bring yourself to say a single thing that wasn't the truth.

"You're insufferable," you said instead, quiet and fierce, leaning closer until your lips brushed his. "Arrogant. Infuriating. And far too pleased with yourself."

"And yet," Stephen whispered, kissing your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, "you're still here. Still holding onto me. Still calling me yours—even if you use a different name to say it."

Your heart gave a sharp, traitorous thud.

"Maybe," you admitted, so quiet he almost didn't catch it, eyes dropping to his lips. "Maybe I like you a little. Just a tiny, tiny bit. Don't let it go to your head."

Stephen smiled—soft, genuine, nothing like the smug smirk he wore all evening. He leaned in and kissed you slow and deep and thorough, like he had all the time in the world, like he knew exactly what you meant to say even if you wouldn't say it out loud.

"I won't," he promised against your lips, voice warm and thick and happy. "And for the record? I like you too. Even when you're jealous. Even when you're yelling. Even when you're lying about not needing me. Especially then."

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, and for once, you didn't argue. You didn't call him old. You didn't say you hated him. You just looked at him—really looked—and let him see it all.

"Good," you said simply. "Because you're stuck with me now. And if you tell anyone I said that? I'll deny it. And I'll tell everyone you needed a nap halfway through."

Stephen laughed—bright and loud and entirely unashamed—and pulled you close, tucking your head under his chin, holding you tight.

"Deny it all you want," he murmured. "I'll know the truth. And so will you. Every time you call me that name. Every time you kiss me quiet. Every time you come running back. We both know. And that's enough for me."

You snuggled closer, closing your eyes, listening to his heartbeat slow beneath your ear.

"Stephen?"

"Mmm?"

"…You're still old."

Stephen squeezed you tight, laughing quietly into your hair.

"And you're still mine. Go to sleep, trouble. Before your father realises we're both missing."

You smiled, eyes already drifting shut, and mumbled one last thing — soft and quiet and only for him.

"Yours. Even if you are ancient."

"Did I wake you?" He speaks softly down the line. You can hear white noise in the background, the sound of tyres on asphalt.

"No- no-" you slump your head against the back wall, "-I'm up- I'm awake-"

He gives a hesitant laugh, "Look, I'm only a couple hours away, honey- I- you free tonight?"

You state the obvious, "You're already driving."

So does he, "I'm already driving."

"Then yeah- yeah I'm free-" you suck in a small breath, "-you on a hunt?"

"Just got done with one-" he speaks quieter, "-Sammy can take care of the cleanup."

You don't even want to start to understand what cleanup refers to in this case, "Did it go alright?"

"Yeah- yeah look I've gotta go- just don't wait up, okay? I'll call when I get there- go back to sleep-" He hangs up- you don't take it personally, he's always blunt on the phone.

Despite his request you don't sleep. You wouldn't be able to even if you tried. Instead you pull yourself together, slowly, as slow as you'll let yourself. It's always exciting knowing Dean's coming, you get a secret giddy feeling- it's not supposed to be such a big thing. He's said it from the beginning, it's supposed to be easy, relaxed, no commitment. As much as you tell yourself that, you'll never truly believe it.

You have a shower, scrubbing yourself clean, dousing yourself in the scents of your bathroom, your shampoo, your soap. You're not sure if he ever notices things like that, he certainly never says it, but do it anyway, just in case.

The time ticks on, you start feeling nervous as you tidy away your apartment. You don't know why, Dean's never given you a reason to feel like that- maybe it's because you're starting to realize this means a lot more to you than you previously thought.

You tuck yourself back in to bed, staving off sleep for as long as you can. You pull an old movie up on your laptop, something you're barely watching as your eyes fall heavy. But you don't let yourself sleep, not even when you have to switch to a different movie. Four hours without a call- if it was anyone else you'd start to worry, but you know how Dean is.

You want to picture him again, that way you only can when you're just waking up. But you refuse to let yourself get to that point, even if it is tempting. You don't want to miss a second once he arrives.

Your phone goes, you don't even let it ring once, picking up straight away, "You here?"

He laughs, "Downstairs"

"I'll buzz you up."

You can hear him on the stairs as you head towards your door, that excitement's back- pumping through your body.

You open the door, Dean drops his duffel, dragging you into a hug before you even get a look at him, "Oh there's my girl-" his arms wrap around you tight, over your shoulders keeping you close, "Fuck, honey- missed you like you wouldn't believe-"

He sinks into you, relaxing against your body- a comfort he's been seeking since the last time he saw you. Your arms wrap around his waist, palms smoothing over his back.

After a moment- longer than either of you have an excuse for- he pulls back, a slow blink as he finally gets his look at you.

You suck in a small breath as you take him in, he looks wrecked, utterly wrecked. The first thing you notice are the deep circles under his eyes, the creases in the corners just begging for sleep. Then you see the bruising, the cuts.

"You wanna wash up?" You prompt, the same routine as always.

He shakes his head, "Let's just go to bed."

You give a small nod, picking his duffle up from the floor and carrying it through to your bedroom. He trails behind, watching you carefully, taking in everything he's been missing. You drop it once you get in the room, hesitating to wonder what it's filled with.

Dean looks at you, meak. You don't see him like this often- you're not sure you've ever actually seen him quite like this. You push yourself up onto your toes, pressing your lips against his. He's soft against you, a small smile.

You pull back, reaching your hands up and pressing your palms onto his chest, "You okay?"

He smiles, "I'm just glad I'm here."

Your hands move over each other slowly, first his t-shirt- you tug at the bottom of it, pulling it up as he stretches his arms up for you. You're thankful that his body seems to be in a better condition than his face- though not by much. There's still a scattering of bruises across his chest and stomach, thick gauze on his abdomen you imagine must cover a deeper cut. Then it's his turn, he reaches out for your own t-shirt, dragging it up, exposing your bare chest to him. He smiles at you, taking you in, eyes washing over you with a look of admiration.

He deals with his own belt, you reach out to the waistband, both of you working to shuffle him out of his pants. More bruising, another gauze on his outer thigh- maybe Sam bandaged him up, maybe he did it himself.

He reaches out to your waist, both of you left in only your underwear as he pulls you towards the bed. The back of his knees hit the mattress, he collapses against it, sinking down onto the edge as he tugs you on top of him. You follow, both of you sitting, his legs hanging off the end, your legs either side of his hips.

Your hand moves instinctively, up to his face, cupping one cheek. He closes his eyes, head tilting into you, a quiet hum as he feels you. You lean forward, kissing his forehead, then his cheekbone, working your way over his face. You press kisses against bruises, brush your lips against the cuts. He keeps his eyes closed, letting you follow through the process.

Finally you pull back, a soft voice, "Tough hunt?"

He glances at you, a small smile, "I'm alright, these cuts are old, honey."

These cuts are old. - You don't know how bad I missed you.

You laugh slightly- it sounds forced, "Can't be that old."

"They're from a couple weeks ago- had a hunt that was- fuck it was something else- really thought you were gonna get your phonecall for a minute there-"

You know the deal- you've always known the deal. Sam has your number, tucked away somewhere safe, waiting for the day he'll need to ring- the day he's going to tell you Dean's dead.

It had started as a joke- a sick, twisted thing both of you laughed about- when Dean dies you'll lose your best customer- who would eat your leftover pie if not him? But then the thought dwelled, more than either of you pretended it did. How would you know?

Dean couldn't stand the idea of you thinking he'd run off without telling you, and you couldn't stand the idea of never knowing what happened. So he made the deal, Sam will call- he'll keep it simple 'Dean's dead, bullet through the temple, died quickly.' And that will be that.

You've met Sam before- right at the beginning- you know he won't keep it simple, but you have to commend Dean for trying.

You press your lips back against his cheek, staying there as you speak, like you're afraid to see his face when you do, "You've been getting worse."

He swallows hard, "I know."

"You need to stop."

"I can't." One hand moves up to settle on your thigh, the other on your waist, thumb rubbing small circles against you.

"You're gonna die-" It's more blunt than you normally are.

He pulls back to look at you. You watch him carefully, his eyes jut between your own, then fall down to your lips, just for a moment, before they settle back up again, "I can't just quit, honey. It's not how it works. Ain't got nothing else."

"You've got more. You've got Sam." You don't say the obvious. That he has you. It feels like you've had enough candor for the night.

"This kind of life-" he shakes his head, "-it's not something you can turn your back on."

You brush your thumb against the bruise on his jaw, pressing another gentle kiss against it. You speak quietly, "What would you do instead? If you weren't doing this?"

"Those are dangerous thoughts to have, sweetheart."

"We both know you're never gonna leave it, I just wanna pretend."

He considers for a moment, eyes glossing over you, more thoughts in his mind than he's willing to let on, then he takes a careful breath, "Maybe I'd fix up cars."

You smile, "Yeah? Old ones like your baby?"

"She's not that old-"

"Older than you- and you're pretty old-" you laugh.

He shakes his head, face breaking into a smile, "Shut up-"

You kiss the tip of his nose, "Go on, what else?"

"I'd- uh- I'd want a house, with a yard. Somewhere I could have a dog, maybe even a couple kids- treat 'em right-" he takes a deep breath, "-read 'em stories before bed, eat at the table- like a family's supposed t'. Maybe I'd grow a beard out- finally let myself get fat-"

"Get a dad bod?" You laugh.

He grins at you, "With all the pies you bake I wouldn't get a choice!" He joins your laugh, "Just think, honey, we could fuck ourselves silly every night with no hunts to stop us."

You laugh back, "That sounds good-"

He pauses for a moment, let's his fingers tap against your skin as he thinks, "How did I get you, pretty girl?"

You smile, "Who said you've got me?"

He swallows hard, "Don't tease- not tonight-"

You nod, voice quieter, "You've got me-" you lean forward, pressing your lips against his, "-you've always got me."

He pulls your body closer, sinking into a kiss, your chest against his, your hands moving to his shoulders, running along them, feeling the shallow muscles that frame his body. One of his hands moves to your back, the tips of his fingers gliding up your spine, a gentle pattern against your skin.

He shifts, lifting you slightly, his arms still wrapped around you as he lowers you to the mattress. His body finds its place against yours, lips pressed against your own, his hands moving to cup your cheeks, your own hands smoothing down his chest, your legs wrapped around his waist.

He kisses you deeper, mouth opening slightly, then moves his lips, kissing along your cheek, across your jaw. He nestles his face into the crook of your neck, hiding himself away, his lips still against your skin, "I've got you-" he says it more to himself than to you.

He trails lower, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. He's being messy with it- leaving a trail of saliva against your skin as you smile down at him, your fingers tangling into his hair. He keeps going, across the top of your chest, the valley between your breasts, down to your stomach. He grins up at you from your abdomen, his worries dissolving as he explores your body.

You reward him with the only thing you know he wants, hooking your fingers around the sides of your underwear and starting to drag them down. His eyes widen slightly, wetting his lips in anticipation as he looks down at you. You shuffle awkwardly, laughing as you get them down past your knees- Dean takes over, pulling them off the end of your legs, throwing them to one side as he looks back at you, naked and stretched out beneath him.

He thinks you look gorgeous- a sight he'll never get used to- he'll never get the chance. Not when he only visits once every few months, when he only sees you on random nights scattered between hunts. You're his reward for not dying, a pretty moment of peace between so much blood. You don't deserve that- he knows- but he can't imagine letting you go.

He kisses up the inside of your thigh, hooking his arms around your legs as he pulls you into him. You relax against the mattress, pushing one hand down into his hair, the other tangling behind your head into the pillow. He doesn't tease, tonight isn't the night to make you beg, he can barely hold back long enough to make sure you're comfortable before he's diving in.

He laps at you like he's starved, eyes fluttering shut, a deep groan pushed out of him. You gasp, hips lifting into him for more, gripping his hair tighter, pulling him closer. He pushes his tongue into you, a glazed look across his face as he tastes you.

He's slower than he wants to be, but he needs you to feel all of it- the way his tongue curls around your clit, already swelling under his touch, the way his stubble rubs against you, harsher than you're used to. He wraps his mouth over you, sucking at your pussy, dragging his tongue through your folds, face buried between your thighs.

Your back arches off the mattress, body grinding against him without meaning to. You tug hard at his hair, he lets out a quiet moan- you don't mention it, too consumed by your own feelings.

You're soaking over him- he's in fucking paradise. His cock is strained against his boxers, so hard it almost hurts- taking in every second he can of you wrapped around his face.

"De-" you stutter out nothing, your mind too overwhelmed to get out anything else.

You feel him grin against you, he pulls back only slightly, "Pretty girl?"

You look down at him, pulling on his hair to get him to ease up, "Dean- seriously-"

He draws back further, raising an eyebrow.

"Come fuck me-"

He doesn't need to be told twice. He moves quickly, tugging his boxers off while you pull yourself back up the bed slightly, regaining some composure as you let your eyes wash over him. He looks back at you, watching you watching him, your eyes meet as you give each other a small smile, safe.

He shifts up next to you, one hand running along your cheek, pushing a hair out of your face. He wets his lips as he pulls you closer, your legs tangling slightly, your hand finding his chest. He's half on top of you, half next to you, your legs caught around each other. He can't pull himself up to get properly above you, his leg too damaged to hold himself up for long enough. Even if he could, he doesn't want to, doesn't even want to turn you over, he wants to see you. He spreads your legs apart with his knee, moving to fill the gap between them.

It's awkward, the sort of position he'd never normally let himself get into. He's supposed to be laying under you so you can see his abs, or above you so you can watch him fuck into you. And sure when his body's busted he doesn't want you seeing him at all- but this is different, this feels clumsy.

But you don't care, he realizes. You're just happy to be here with him, your bodies meeting, faces so close. He pushes into you slowly, your face breaks into a dazed smile, eyelids fluttering shut. He leans forward to kiss you, lips staying hesitant against yours as he lets out his own soft noises, breathy and desperate as he starts to roll his hips.

"Fuck honey- you're too sweet to me-"

You run your hand down his chest until you reach his stomach- you press it flat against the bandage holding him together, not firm, just feeling the damage under your palm. He takes a shaky breath, rubbing his thumb across your jaw as he kisses you again. You take his lips between yours, fitting together perfectly as you hold him there for a moment, breaking apart only so you can both rest your cheeks against the pillow again.

He looks exhausted, you can't look much better, both of you too tired to care, too desperate to do anything but feel the way your bodies react to each other. Dean fucks you deep, pushing his whole length in every time, forcing a breathy gasp out of you on every thrust. He's only just managing to hold back his own sounds, a whimper stuck in his throat he's refusing to let out.

You're stretched out around him, he feels bigger at this angle, maybe you're just not used to it, or maybe you're not used to him going so slow. The way he's moving sends your mind dizzy, you can feel every careful inch, every steady moment.

Your lips land back against his jaw, planting a light kiss against his skin. You draw in a breath, speaking quiet, "Tell me what you want-"

He goes to what he knows, "I wanna fuck you 'til you can't walk-"

You smile but shake your head, "No- no honey tell me what you want-" 

He thinks for a moment. It must be a trick, an impossible question he can't answer- he wants to fuck you senseless, wants to make you scream, wants to leave hickeys on your neck to mark you for the next man.

But that's not right. That's not what you want to hear. And he realizes, maybe tonight that's not what he wants either, maybe tonight he can ask for more, "I- jesus I want you- wanna make you mine-"

You give a subtle nod, kissing his stubble again, your own hips rolling in time with his, helping him hit that sweet spot that's sending your thoughts tumbling.

He keeps going, he can't stop himself now "-want to make you breakfast in the morning- every fuckin' morning-"

He feels an ache in his chest he'd blame on the hunt if he was more lucid- he's not in control enough to do anything right now though, too exhausted and too overwhelmed to have any tangible thoughts, "-want us to spend Sunday's in the yard- watching our kids play, getting covered in dirt-"

He says it like he can't imagine not saying it, like it's all he's ever wanted. It is all he's ever wanted.

"-want to sit on the grass with those tiny little yellow flowers sprouting up all around us-" He can't believe he's saying this. He feels like a fucking idiot, too tired to stop himself. He knows it's too much. He knows he shouldn't. God this is more than he's ever said to you. More than he's ever even said to himself. He knows you won't look at him the same after, it's fucking shameful.

"Buttercups." You murmur, your eyes still half lidded.

"What?" He swallows hard, part of his brain wondering if this is some safe-word he's forgotten about.

You offer a small smile, kissing the tip of his nose, "Those flowers- they're buttercups."

"Buttercups?" He can only repeat it, confused that you're going along with his crazed ramblings.

You murmur in affirmation, too focused on the way he's pushing into you to realize how much weight your reply seemed to hold. Your fingers trickle over his skin, light, feeling your way up his side.

"Those are some pretty flowers, pretty boy." You say it like praise- it makes him giddy.

He kisses you again, deeper, lips holding onto yours, keeping you close. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth, making you gasp into his mouth. He feels like he might come right now, but he focuses on your lips, trying to stave off the feeling in his core.

He pushes in harder, filling you deep. Your mouth stays hesitant against his, breath shared- fingers tangling into your hair, holding you steady as he speeds up.

"Just- fuck- just like that-" you mumble against his lips.

"Yeah?" He murmurs, missing you again.

"Don't stop- I'm so close De-" you whimper out, nails digging into his skin, "I'm so- jesus-"

He moves faster, tugging you into him, his hips bucking into you. Your legs tangle into his, your whole body shaking with pleasure. You grip hold of him tighter, desperate for him, desperate to feel him.

He kisses you gently, voice quiet, "I want you, honey- want you every damn day-"

Your orgasm floods through you, filling your body with silky pleasure. You keep him close, your hands on his body, your lips against his. It feels like honey in your body, sticky and sweet and delicious.

He can't hold back any longer, his hips buck as he spills deep into you. He groans out, quietened only by your lips, his body overwhelmed with everything he's been begging for, his breath stuttering as he squeezes his eyes shut.

You stay like that for a long time, your legs tangled up, your hearts pounding in your chests. He feels a drowsy fog overtake him, but staves it off just long enough to pull out of you. You whine quietly, head relaxing against the pillow, too dazed to get any real expression out.

He's so exhausted he thinks he might wipe out before he manages to move any more, but he still wants to check you're okay before he sleeps, still needs that moment of careful consideration. He drags himself up, stumbling his way to your bathroom in the dark, dragging his hand along the wall to work out where he is. He wets a washcloth, then makes the journey back the way he came, your bedroom easier to find.

You're still stretched out across the mattress when he walks back in, your dozing body just as gorgeous when you don't realize he's looking. He makes his way back towards the bed, you stir only slightly as he settles beside you, opening your eyes only when he presses the washcloth between your legs.

"Shit- that's cold, Dean-"

He laughs slightly, "Sorry, sorry I'm done-" he moves it away again, throwing it to the floor next to the bed.

You smile at him, pulling him back towards you and planting a small kiss against his lips. You pull back to look at him- it seems like you're going to say something- but then you stop yourself, pulling him back into you so he can lay his body against yours.

You drag your hand down him, fingertips across his skin, rippling against the muscles on his back. You find the gauze at his abdomen again, just for a moment, then pull away, back to your patterns across his body.

He settles, finally, breath falling slower, mind lethargic. He wants to talk to you, wants to explain all the stupid things he was saying, wants to defend his exhausted state and confused mind and insane thoughts. But he can't right now, his body won't let him, too tired to even picture opening his eyes.

You run your fingers over his arms, just slowly, glancing across the scars that cut deep. You take a slow breath, falling into the same state as him, your night finally catching up with you. You crease your eyes open to take one final look at him, his body pressed against yours. He looks smaller like this, delicate.

"Sleep, honey-" you kiss the top of his head, "-sleep and dream of buttercups."

🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That had been one year ago. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A promise was a promise. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

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

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

“Message already sent.”  

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

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

Oh fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

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

“EV?” 

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

“Online.”

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

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

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

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

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

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

There was only you. 

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

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

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

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

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

This was wrong. So wrong. 

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

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

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

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

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

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

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

Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.

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

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

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

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

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

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

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

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

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

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

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

One second enough. 

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

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

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

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

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too hard. 

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

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

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

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

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

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

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

Fucking hell. 

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

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

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wanted more.

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

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

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

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

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

“Breathe,” you reminded.

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

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

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

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

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

“Can I?” He whispered.

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

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

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

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

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

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

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

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

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

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

“Can–can I–?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not stopping, baby.” 

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

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

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

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

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

The plea undid you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

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

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

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

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

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

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

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

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

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

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

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

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

He could feel it coming. The change. 

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

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

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

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

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

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

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

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

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

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

Good. 

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

His bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peter…” 

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

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

God. He was never going back. 

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

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

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

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

“Need what?”

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

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

“Yeah?” 

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

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

But something made him stop. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What? What is–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

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

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

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

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

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

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

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

he likes the blue one best because the sleeves cover half his hands, even though he insists that isn’t the reason. he likes sweatpants after exactly one suspicious hour of pretending they are “structurally confusing.” he likes fuzzy socks so much that dean catches him standing in the hallway one morning, sliding one foot slowly across the floor just to feel the texture, and has to leave before he laughs himself sick.

you don’t laugh.

well... not where cas can see.

tonight, he appears in your doorway wearing the blue hoodie, grey sweatpants, and the soft white socks you bought him because he kept staring at them in the store with the grave wonder of a man witnessing divine revelation in aisle four.

“may i come in?” he asks.

you lower your book. “cas, you live here.”

“yes,” he says. “but this is your room.”

your heart does that small, helpless fold it does around him. “come here.”

he doesn’t hesitate after that. he crawls onto the bed with more focus than grace, mattress dipping beneath his weight, and then he simply lowers himself on top of you. all of him. chest to chest, hips heavy over yours, arms sliding under your shoulders as he buries his face in the side of your neck and lets out a long, quiet breath.

you go still for one second, surprised by the sudden warmth of him, by how completely he gives himself over to the contact.

then your hands come up to his back. “comfortable?”

his answer’s muffled against your skin. “extremely.”

you laugh softly, fingers moving into his hair. “you’re crushing me a little.”

he lifts his head immediately, concerned. “should i move?”

“not yet.”

his expression softens so much it almost hurts to look at, and then he settles again, more carefully this time, cheek pressed near your collarbone. he’s heavy, warm, solid in a way that makes the whole room feel quieter.

the bunker hums around you, pipes ticking somewhere in the walls, but cas melts against you as if there’s nowhere else in creation he’d rather be.

after a while, he shifts. “i would like to try another position.”

you bite your lip. “another cuddle position?”

“yes,” he nods solemnly. “it is important to be thorough.”

so you let him be thorough.

he turns onto his side and pulls you against his chest, one arm around your waist, chin tucked over your shoulder. then he changes his mind and lies on his back, guiding you carefully until your head rests over his heart. then he wants your legs tangled together. then his forehead against yours. then your hand in his because, apparently that counts too.

between each adjustment, he kisses you. your temple. your cheek. the corner of your mouth when he misjudges and then looks so pleased with the accident that you kiss him properly. his lips are soft and slow, his hand cupping your jaw with that gentle seriousness he brings to everything he loves and doesn’t fully understand yet.

“you’re very affectionate tonight,” you whisper.

his thumb brushes your cheek. “i am happy.”

oh. as simple as that.

you blink at him, suddenly too full of something warm and breakable. “yeah?”

“yes.” his gaze moves over your face with quiet certainty. “i like being here. with you. in soft clothing.”

a laugh slips out of you, small and wet around the edges. “that’s very romantic.”

“i intended it to be.”

you kiss him again before he can look worried about getting it wrong, and he sighs into it, hand spreading over your back, socks brushing clumsily against your ankle beneath the blanket.

later, when he settles on top of you again, lighter this time, face tucked back into your neck, you hold him there and feel him smile against your skin. he stays that way until your breathing matches his.

@bitchinwallaby requested ⠀ ݁⠀ 𓂂　 I crave for Castiel fluff, can you pretty please supply?I just want him to be happy and living in the bunker with reader. He should have comfortable clothes, right? No more stiff business wear. Just soft hoodies, comfy sweatpants, fuzzy socks. Mmmm. I want him to be a cuddle bug. He'll crawl on the bed and lay on top of reader with his whole weight, bury his face in their neck and just melt. Blissful. He'll move after a while, assume some other cuddle positions hehe, he wants to try them all. Soft touches for both him and the reader. And kisses, lots of kisses.