KELLYY

PETER PARKER

Quickie in the janitor's closet- oneshot

The sleepover-oneshot

We almost broke up last night- fic

impromptu "spider thing" - oneshot

JOAQUIN TORRES

house tour- fic

BOB REYNOLDS

one call away...- fic

SIMON RILEY

coworker!simon riley

coworker!simon riley pt 2

hard of hearing simon (1)

hard of hearing simon (2)

hard of hearing simon (3)

The pub was packed and noisy, the air thick with laughter, clinking glasses, and the smell of spilled beer. The rest of the Task Force had been going hard for the last couple of hours, celebrating the successful completion of their latest op. Soap was already on his fifth pint, Gaz wasn’t far behind, and even Price had loosened up, his boisterous laugh cutting through the chatter every few minutes.

You and Simon, however, were still on your first beers, sipping them slowly. Someone had to stay relatively sober to wrangle the idiots back to base, and somehow the two of you had ended up as the designated babysitters.

You sat across from Simon in a worn corner booth. He was quiet as always — mask pulled down just below his nose so he could drink, broad shoulders relaxed against the back of the seat. His dark eyes flicked between the chaos of your teammates and you. They lingered longer on you tonight. They had been doing that more and more lately.

You pretended not to notice, but you could feel the weight of his stare every time you laughed at something Soap said or leaned forward to grab another chip from the basket.

“Another round!” Soap shouted, slamming his empty glass down. Gaz cheered while Price just shook his head, amused.

Simon didn’t say much. He never did in group settings. Just occasional low grunts or short responses when directly spoken to. But he was listening. Especially when you spoke.

It was Gaz who eventually noticed the way Simon’s eyes kept drifting back to you. He smirked into his drink but didn’t say anything.

Then Soap — loud, drunk, and zero filter — suddenly pointed across the table at Simon with a sloppy grin.

“Ye know what, Lt?” he slurred. “Ye’re always goin’ on about her when ye think we’re no’ listenin’. ‘She’s got the best aim,’ ‘She’s fuckin’ brilliant,’ ‘I’d trust her at my back any day—’”

Simon’s head snapped toward Soap instantly.

“Johnny,” he growled in a low, warning tone, voice deep and dangerous. “Shut it.”

But Soap was too far gone. He just laughed louder, completely ignoring the threat.

“—‘She’s got a bonnie laugh,’ ‘She’s the only one who doesnae piss me off—’” Soap continued in a terrible impression of Simon’s voice. “Man’s been properly in love with her for months and won’t do shite about it!”

Gaz froze mid-sip. Price slowly raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. The whole table went quiet except for Soap’s drunken cackling.

Simon’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle ticking. He leaned forward, voice dropping into a menacing rumble. “Johnny. I said shut the fuck up.”

He even reached across the table and grabbed the front of Soap’s shirt, giving him a sharp warning shake. But the damage was already done.

Soap just grinned wider, clearly proud of himself. “What? It’s true!”

Simon released him with a rough shove and slowly turned his head toward you. His dark eyes met yours with zero guard left. Intense. Burning. No denial. No excuses. Just raw, heavy want staring straight at you across the sticky pub table.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Heat flooded your face as the silence stretched.

The rest of the night was a blur of wrangling drunk soldiers back to base. You helped pour Soap into his room (still muttering about how Simon “needed to get laid”), made sure Gaz didn’t fall over, and got Price settled. Once the hallway finally went quiet, you found yourself standing outside Simon’s door, pulse racing.

You hesitated for a second, then knocked softly.

The door opened almost immediately.

Simon stood there, mask completely off, chest rising and falling a little faster than normal. The tension rolling off him was thick. His eyes locked onto you with that same intense stare from the pub, darker now.

He didn’t say anything.

He just stepped back, holding the door open — a silent invitation.

You stepped inside. The second the door clicked shut behind you, the tension thickened. Simon leaned back against it, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched you.

“You’ve been staring at me for months,” you said quietly, turning to face him. “I thought I was imagining it.”

“You weren’t.” His answer was blunt. No hesitation. “Didn’t think the idiot would blurt it out like that, though.”

A small, nervous laugh escaped you. “Guess the secret’s out.”

Simon pushed off the door and walked toward you slowly, stopping just a foot away. He was so tall, so broad, that he seemed to take up all the air in the room.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower. “All of it. You’re good at your job. Steady. Fuckin’ beautiful when you’re focused.” His eyes dragged down your body slowly before coming back up. “Been driving me insane.”

Your breath caught. “Simon…”

He reached out, large hand cupping the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

You didn’t say stop.

Instead, you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down into a kiss.

Simon groaned against your mouth, the sound deep and hungry. The kiss went from heated to desperate in seconds — his tongue sliding against yours as he backed you toward the bed. His hands were everywhere: gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, palming your ass as he lifted you and dropped you onto the mattress.

He climbed over you, settling between your thighs. His mouth moved to your neck, sucking and biting hard enough to leave marks as he yanked your shirt up and over your head.

“Been thinking about this for too long,” he growled against your skin, voice rough with want. He unclasped your bra with one hand and tossed it aside, immediately latching onto one of your breasts, tongue swirling around your nipple.

You moaned, fingers threading through his hair. “Simon… fuck—”

He worked your pants down quickly, taking your underwear with them. Once you were bare beneath him, he sat back on his knees and drank in the sight of you, eyes dark with lust.

“Look at you,” he muttered, almost to himself. He shoved his own sweats down, freeing his thick, heavy cock. He was already leaking at the tip.

He leaned back over you, one hand bracing beside your head as he rubbed his cock through your slick folds.

“You wet for me already?” he asked, voice gravelly.

“Yes,” you breathed.

Simon didn’t wait any longer.

He lined himself up and pushed in with one slow, deliberate thrust, sinking deep until his hips were flush against yours. The stretch was intense — his cock thick and heavy as it split you open. You gasped sharply, back arching off the bed, nails digging hard into his shoulders as your walls fluttered around the sudden fullness.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon groaned, the sound low and wrecked. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut for a moment as he savored the feeling. “So fuckin’ tight… perfect. Just like I imagined.”

He stayed buried inside you for a few heavy breaths, letting you adjust, before he started moving. Deep, powerful strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. The bed creaked loudly under the force of his thrusts, the headboard knocking against the wall with each roll of his hips.

You moaned loudly, legs instinctively wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him even deeper. “Simon— oh my god—”

“That’s it,” he growled, mouth pressed right against your ear, voice rough and filthy. “Moan for me. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel. Been dying to hear you like this.”

His pace gradually picked up, going from slow and deep to hard and relentless. The wet slap of skin against skin filled the room, mixing with your desperate moans and his low, guttural grunts. Simon hooked one of your legs higher over his arm, spreading you wider as he drove into you harder, the new angle making you see stars.

“Fuck, you feel even better than I thought,” he rasped, teeth grazing your neck before he sucked a dark mark into your skin. “So wet for me… taking my cock so well.”

You could barely form words, every thrust punching a broken moan out of your throat. Your hands slid down his back, nails raking across his skin as pleasure built fast and overwhelming. Simon shifted slightly, reaching between your bodies to find your clit. His thick fingers rubbed tight, firm circles over the swollen bud in time with his thrusts.

“Simon— fuck, right there—” you cried out, hips bucking up to meet him.

He groaned at the sound of your voice, hips snapping harder. “Good girl. Louder. Don’t hold back.”

The pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, legs shaking around him. Simon could feel it — the way you clenched and fluttered around his cock.

“Cum on my cock,” he demanded, voice strained and rough. “Been dreaming about this pussy squeezing me for months. Give it to me. Now.”

You shattered hard with a loud, broken cry of his name, back bowing off the mattress as your orgasm crashed through you. Your walls pulsed and clenched rhythmically around him, waves of intense pleasure making your vision blur.

Simon cursed under his breath, hips stuttering as your orgasm milked him. “That’s it— fuck—”

With a deep, guttural groan, he buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard, thick pulses of heat flooding inside you. His hips kept rolling slowly through it, drawing out every last drop as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck.

For a long moment, the only sounds were both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. Simon stayed buried deep inside you, arms wrapped around your body like he didn’t want to let go yet.

Then he lifted his head, dark eyes meeting yours. He leaned down and kissed you — slower this time, almost tender, his tongue sliding lazily against yours.

“…Not done with you yet,” he murmured against your lips, voice dark with promise. He rolled his hips again, still hard inside you, drawing a soft whimper from your throat. “Gonna take my time with you tonight.”

You had grown close in a way that felt dangerous. Closer than teammates. Closer than friends. There were moments when your hands would brush while passing a coffee mug, and neither of you would pull away. Nights when you’d fall asleep on the couch and wake up with a blanket tucked gently around your shoulders, Bob pretending to read a book across the room like he hadn’t been watching over you. The way his gaze lingered on your lips when you laughed. The way your pulse quickened whenever he said your name softly, like it was something precious.

You hadn’t crossed any lines yet. Not really. But the air between you crackled with everything unsaid.

That night you were miles away, crouched on a rain-slick rooftop outside Chicago with Ghost and Walker. The old Hydra remnant warehouse loomed below, lights flickering weakly through the downpour.

Your comm crackled. Ava’s voice came through, calm as ever.

“Perimeter’s clear on the east side. Three hostiles inside the main lab. Walker, you in position?”

Walker’s gruff reply cut in immediately. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Shield’s ready if she needs me to play hero. You good down there?”

You pressed yourself flat against the metal catwalk, rain dripping from your hood. “I’m good. Moving in now. Stay quiet unless I call for backup.”

Ava phased partially visible beside you for a second, her voice low. “You sure you don’t want me to slip in first? I can go through the walls, make it easier.”

“I’ve got it,” you whispered, already dropping silently through the broken skylight. “Just keep eyes on the exits.”

You landed without a sound. The first guard never even turned around. You wrapped an arm around his throat, twisting sharply. A quiet crack. He slumped.

“First one down,” you muttered into the comm.

Walker chuckled over the line. “Damn. Remind me not to piss you off.”

“Too late for that,” Ava teased, her tone dry. “She already looks annoyed with both of us.”

You couldn’t help the small smile as you crept forward. “Focus. Second target in sight.”

The second guard went down with a silenced shot to the back of the head. The third spun at the last second, but you were faster — a quick kick to the knee, then a knife across the throat. He gurgled once and dropped.

“Lab’s clear,” you reported, breathing steady. “Downloading the files now.”

Ava’s voice returned. “Good. You’ve got maybe eight minutes before the next patrol cycle. Walker, anything on the roof?”

“Nothing moving,” Walker answered. “But if you take too long I’m coming in swinging. This rain is killing my mood.”

You worked quickly, gloved fingers flying over the keyboard as the drive filled with encrypted data. “Almost done. And stop complaining, Walker. You volunteered for this.”

“Yeah, well, next time I’m volunteering to stay home with the vodka,” he grumbled.

The mission dragged on, every minute heavy with rain and tension. Your mind kept drifting back to the compound. To Bob. You wondered if he was laughing at one of Alexei’s stories or quietly nursing a single drink like he usually did.

Finally, the files were copied. You slipped back out the same way you came in, meeting Ava and Walker at the extraction van.

“Nice work,” Walker said as he started the engine, wiping rain from his face. “You know you make the rest of us look slow.”

Ava leaned back in her seat, legs tucked up. “She’s efficient. That’s why we bring her. Though I still think I could’ve phased through half the guards and saved us time.”

You peeled off your wet gloves, exhaling. “Team effort. Let’s just get back to the safehouse.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Back at the compound, the common room was loud and bright with string lights. Empty pizza boxes littered the coffee table. Yelena was perched on the arm of the couch, pouring shots with a wicked grin. Alexei dominated the center of the room, arms waving as he told another ridiculous story. Bucky lounged in the armchair, metal arm resting casually, a half-smile on his face.

Bob sat on the far end of the couch in his gray pajama pants and soft black t-shirt, barefoot as always. He had started the night sipping slowly, but Yelena kept refilling his glass.

“Come on, Bob!” Yelena laughed, clinking her glass against his. “One more. You’re too tense tonight. Drink!”

Bob’s cheeks were already pink. He took the shot, coughing a little as the vodka burned. “Yelena… I’m gonna regret this tomorrow.”

Alexei boomed with laughter, slapping his knee. “Regret? In my country we drink until we forget the regret! Another round for the golden boy!”

Bucky smirked from his chair. “Take it easy on him. Last time he tried keeping up with you two he got sick.”

Bob laughed shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was one time…” His eyes kept drifting to the empty spot on the couch beside him — the spot where you usually sat. The longer the night went on, the more that empty space bothered him.

Yelena noticed. She leaned over, voice teasing. “You miss your girlfriend?”

Bob’s face flushed deeper. “She’s not my girlfriend…just a girl who happens to be my best friend.”

“Yes, that is what I said. Though it seems you wouldn't mind the other option.” Yelena laughed to herself.

“And I don't think she would mind too,” Bucky said calmly, taking a sip of his beer. 

Alexei raised his glass. “Bobby, your girlfriend will be home from mission soon.”

They all drank. Bob’s head was starting to feel warm and fuzzy. The vodka made everything softer, quieter. His usual careful filters were dissolving. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over your contact.

The first messages were innocent.

Bob: Team night is actually happening. Yelena brought three bottles of vodka. You’d love this more then me

He hit send, smiling a little.

Yelena peeked over. “Texting her already? Cute.”

“Shut up,” Bob mumbled, cheeks burning.

A few minutes later he typed again.

Bob: You’d laugh if you saw Alexei singing Russian folk songs. He’s terrible but loud.

Bob: Miss having you here. The couch feels empty without you stealing half the blanket.

As the night went on Bob in fact did try to keep up with Yelena and Alexei. His thumbs typing and hitting send before he can read what he typed.

Bob: God you’re so beautiful when you’re focused. I keep thinking about the way you looked at me last week during training. Like you wanted something more.

Bob: I want you so fucking bad it hurts. I’ve been trying to be good but I can’t stop imagining it.

He shifted on the couch, breathing a little heavier.

Bob: Want to pull you into my room and kiss you until you can’t think straight. Want my hands under your shirt, feeling your skin. Want to hear you say my name when I touch you.

Bob: I keep fantasizing about you on top of me. Slow at first, riding me while I hold your hips. You’d feel so good, so warm and tight around me. I’d let you take whatever you want. I’d beg if you asked.

Bob: Fuck… I want to taste you. Get on my knees and bury my face between your thighs until you’re shaking and coming on my tongue. I want to know exactly how you sound when you fall apart.

Bob: I’m so hard right now just thinking about sliding inside you. About fucking you deep and slow until you’re moaning my name. Want to feel you clench around me when you come.

His face was flushed, heart racing. The room felt too warm.

Bob: Come home soon. Need you here. Need to feel you.

Bob: Please.

The phone slipped from his fingers onto the cushion. His head dropped back against the couch as the alcohol finally won. Eyes fluttering shut, he passed out, completely unaware of how explicit his words had become.

Hours later, back at the safehouse, you finally collapsed onto the narrow bed after a long hot shower. You pulled on soft black leggings and an oversized hoodie, then reached to turn on your phone.

Dozens of notifications lit up the screen.

Your heart stuttered as you opened Bob’s messages. You read every single one — the sweet ones turning filthier and filthier. By the time you reached the last “Please,” your cheeks were burning and heat had pooled low in your belly.

You bit your lip, thighs pressing together. In one more day you’d be back at the compound.

You saved every message, turned off the light, and tried to sleep, his words replaying in the dark.

____________________________________________________________________________

A whole day of thinking about Bob, not that that was new but it was the fact he said everything you've ever thought. Every filthy line had replayed in your head all day — during the long hours of watching the warehouse, during the quiet drive back to the safehouse, and especially now, sitting on the edge of some bed u read the messages the night before.

Your heart was already racing when you picked up your phone and hit call on Bob’s contact.

It rang four times. You almost thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then his voice came through, sleepy and a little raspy.

“Hey…” Bob sounded surprised, but warm. “Isnt it late there? Is everything okay? I thought you’d be on your way back by now.”

You leaned back against the headboard, biting your lip. “Mission got hectic. One more night here. Everything’s fine, just… boring. I’ve been thinking about you.”

Bob let out a soft, relieved laugh. “Yeah? I’ve been thinking about you too. A lot. Especially after last night. I woke up this morning and saw that I sent you a bunch of texts and… fuck, I feel like an idiot.”

You smiled, voice gentle but teasing. “You don’t have to feel like an idiot. I read them. All of them.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on his end.

“Oh god,” he groaned, embarrassment flooding his tone. “Please tell me you’re joking. I was blackout drunk. Yelena kept shoving shots at me and Alexei was hyping me up and I just… I didn’t mean to send half that stuff. It was way too much. I’m really sorry if it made you uncomfortable. I can delete them right now if you want.”

“Don’t delete them,” you said quietly, already feeling heat pool low in your belly. “I liked reading them, Bob.”

Silence. Then a shaky exhale.

“You… liked them?” His voice was small, disbelieving. “Even the really dirty ones?”

“Especially the really dirty ones.” You let your free hand slide slowly down your stomach, slipping under the hem of your t-shirt. “Like when you said you wanted me on top of you. Riding you slow while you held my hips. Or when you said you’d get on your knees and taste me until I’m shaking.”

Bob made a choked, embarrassed sound. “Jesus… I actually wrote that?”

“You did,” you murmured, your fingers brushing over your already damp folds. “And I’ve been replaying it in my head all day. Tell me what you’d do if I was there with you right now.”

He hesitated, the awkwardness thick between you. “I… I don’t know if I can say it again sober. I sounded crazy last night.”

“Then read some of it back to me,” you suggested softly. “Start with the part where you said you’d kiss me until I can’t think straight.”

Bob took a deep, unsteady breath. You could hear him shifting in bed, probably running a hand through his hair.

“I’d… pull you into my room and kiss you until you can’t think straight,” he recited quietly, voice rough with nerves. “My hands under your shirt… feeling your skin. Want to hear you say my name when I touch you.”

Your breath hitched. Your fingers started slow circles over your clit. “Keep going.”

His voice grew a little bolder, though the embarrassment was still there. “I keep fantasizing about you on top of me. Slow at first… riding me while I hold your hips. You’d feel so good, so warm and tight around me. I’d let you take whatever you want. I’d beg if you asked.”

A soft sigh escaped your lips. “You’d beg for me?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, breathing heavier now. “I would. I want you so fucking bad, even right now. It’s embarrassing how much.”

Your fingers moved faster, slick sounds barely audible over the phone. “What about the part where you get on your knees?”

Bob groaned quietly, clearly starting to give in. “I want to taste you. Get on my knees and bury my face between your thighs until you’re shaking and coming on my tongue. I want to know exactly how you sound when you fall apart for me.”

“Bob…” you moaned his name softly, two fingers slipping inside yourself.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice cracking. “Are you touching yourself right now?”

“Yes,” you confessed, hips rocking gently into your hand. “Thinking about your mouth on me. Keep talking. Tell me what comes next.”

The awkward tension was quickly burning away, replaced by raw need. Bob’s voice dropped lower, rougher.

“I’d slide inside you after,” he said, breathing ragged. “Fuck you deep and slow at first… then harder when you start moaning my name louder. I want to feel you clench around me when you come. Want to watch your face the whole time I’m buried inside you.”

You gasped, thumb pressing firmer against your clit. “How would you hold me?”

“I’d grip your hips tight,” he continued, the sound of his own hand moving faint in the background now. “Keep you right where I want you while I thrust up into you. Or flip you over, pin your wrists above your head and fuck you while I kiss your neck. God, I want to feel you come on my cock. Want to hear you say my name when you do.”

Your thighs were starting to tremble. “Bob… I’m so close already.”

“Me too,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “Fuck, hearing you moan like that is driving me crazy. I’m stroking myself thinking about being inside you. Imagining how wet and warm you’d feel around me. How perfect you’d look riding me until we both lose it.”

“Come with me,” you whispered, fingers moving quicker, breath coming in short gasps. “Please, Bob.”

“Yeah— shit— I’m right there,” he panted. “Come for me, baby. Let me hear it. Say my name when you do.”

The orgasm hit you hard. You moaned his name loudly into the phone, body arching off the bed as pleasure crashed through you in waves, thighs shaking around your hand. On the other end, Bob let out a broken groan of your name, breathing sharp and desperate as he came too, the sound raw and desperate.

For several long seconds, the only thing you could hear was both of you trying to catch your breath.

Bob spoke first, voice shy and a little dazed again. “Holy shit… we really just did that. Over the phone. While you’re still on mission.”

You laughed breathlessly, chest heaving, a warm glow spreading through your whole body. “We did. And it was really good.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, sounding equal parts embarrassed and happy. “Really good. When you finally get back tomorrow… we should talk about this. In person. Maybe… not just talk.”

You smiled, curling up under the blanket, still tingling. “I like that plan. I’ve been thinking about everything you sent me all day. Can’t wait to see you.”

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, but there was a smile in his voice. “Get some sleep, okay? Stay safe out there.”

“You too. Night, Bob.”

“Night…”

You hung up the phone, heart still racing, body relaxed and satisfied for the first time in days.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

you’d both arrived early, like you do at least once a week. the underground parking garage was still dim and quiet when simon pulled you into his truck. he didn’t waste time with words. the second the doors shut, he had your pants yanked down and you straddling his lap, thick cock already hard and pressing against you.

“fuck, simon,” you’d gasped as you sank down onto him, the stretch burning so good it made your head spin. “we’re gonna be late again.”

he’d just growled against your neck, gloved hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. “then you better ride me faster, sweetheart.”

the truck had rocked with every bounce. windows fogging up fast as you rode him hard, hands braced on his shoulders, his tactical hoodie pushed up so you could feel the heat of his skin. every time you dropped down he bottomed out, hitting that perfect spot that had you whimpering his name.

“that’s it,” he’d rasped, voice rough with sleep and lust. “take every inch. been thinking about this cunt all week.”

you came first, clenching around him with a choked moan, thighs shaking. simon followed right after, thrusting up sharply and spilling deep inside you while he held you down on his cock, breathing heavy against your throat.

“good girl,” he’d murmured, not pulling out yet. “keep me warm a little longer.”

you’d stayed like that until the clock forced you to move — his cum still leaking out when you finally climbed off and fixed your clothes. he watched you with dark eyes the whole time, a satisfied twitch at the corner of his mask.

now, hours later, you’re still feeling every second of it.

price turns to you suddenly. “you good with the secondary extraction route?”

you blink, heat rushing to your face as you force yourself back to the present. “yeah — yeah, it looks solid. but what about the timing on the northern perimeter? if we hit traffic from the construction, we might need to adjust the window by ten minutes.”

your voice comes out steadier than you feel. soap nods in agreement. gaz scribbles something down.

across the table, simon’s eyes flick to you. dark. amused. knowing.

you squeeze your thighs together under the table, the dull ache between your legs reminding you exactly why you’re distracted. you can still feel how full he made you this morning, the faint stickiness in your panties every time you shift.

price continues, pointing to the next slide. you try to contribute properly.

“the intel on the guard rotations seems off,” you say, leaning forward a little. “we should double-check the night shift patterns before we commit.”

simon speaks up then, his low manchester accent cutting through the room calm and professional. “she’s right. better to confirm than risk it.”

you glance up at him. his gaze holds yours a second too long, and suddenly you’re back in the truck — remembering how he’d groaned your name when you clenched around him, the way his hands had guided your hips faster, the filthy praise spilling from his lips.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he’d growled this morning, teeth grazing your collarbone. “that’s it, love… come on my cock again. let me feel you fall apart.”

you clear your throat and add, “we could also scout an alternate route through the eastern sector if the main one gets compromised.”

gaz nods. “good call.”

but your focus is slipping again. every time simon shifts those broad shoulders or flexes his gloved hands on the table, your mind replays the wet sounds of skin on skin, the way the truck gently rocked, the deep groan he let out when he came inside you and held you there, refusing to let you go right away.

soap cracks a joke about the op. everyone laughs lightly. you manage a small smile, but it’s weak.

when price asks for final thoughts, you speak up one more time. “just make sure we have backup comms ready. last time the signal dropped in that area.”

simon gives a single nod, but you catch the subtle way his eyes darken behind the mask when he looks at you.

the meeting finally wraps. chairs scrape back as soap and gaz stand first, still chatting about potential adjustments. price gathers his files and heads toward the door.

simon lingers.

he walks past your chair slowly, close enough that his gloved hand brushes the back of your seat. his voice drops low, rough, only for you.

“still feeling me from this morning, sweetheart? couldn’t stop thinking about how you looked riding my cock.”

you swallow hard, heat flooding your face as you look up at him. “you’re an asshole for making it this hard to focus, simon.”

the corner of his mask twitches. “good. means you’ll be wet and ready when i text you after shift.”

he doesn’t wait for a reply. just straightens up and walks out, shoulders broad under his hoodie, like he didn’t just set your entire body on fire again.

forty-eight hours until the mission.

you’re not sure you’re going to survive the next two days without dragging him into the nearest locked room and letting him ruin you all over again.

“Peter, what’s going on?” you asked, letting him pull you along.

He backed you against the lockers, eyes wide and pupils blown dark. His hands settled on your waist, thumbs slipping under your shirt like he needed to feel your skin right now. He was breathing shaky, a fine tremor running through his shoulders.

“Okay, so… this is new,” he whispered, voice already rough. “Like, brand new. Never-happened-before new. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You frowned, concerned. “Are you okay? Is it a spider thing?”

He let out a nervous laugh and pressed closer so you could feel him — rock-hard against your hip through his jeans.

“I don't know. Definitely nothing I've felt before." He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks flushing. “All day I’ve been… hyper aware of you. Your smell, the way you move, everything. And now my body is screaming at me that I need to... take care of this…Like, right now. Insanely. It feels like if I don’t get inside you in the next few minutes I’m actually going to combust. Or swing around the city until I pass out. One of the two.”

His words hit you hard — heat flooding through you mixed with surprise. You’d only been officially dating for a couple of weeks. Sweet, shy Peter who blushed when he held your hand and asked permission for everything was suddenly looking at you like he was one second away from losing control.

“Peter… I can’t right now,” you said regretfully, sliding your hands up his chest. “I have practice. Coach will kill me if I’m late again. Championships are coming up.”

He groaned dramatically, thunking his forehead lightly against the locker beside yours.

“Of course. Practice. Perfect timing. I can feel the universe laughing at me right now, I can feel it.” He gave you the biggest puppy-dog eyes. “Can’t you fake a sudden illness? I’ll even write a doctor’s note in my best handwriting.”

You laughed softly and kissed him quick, trying to ignore how desperate his hands felt on your hips.

“I’m sorry, baby. After practice, okay? I’ll text you when I’m done.”

Peter sighed, long-suffering and tragic, but nodded. He stole one more deep, needy kiss before stepping back and tugging his hoodie down to hide the very obvious bulge.

“Fine. Go be all athletic and bendy and unfairly hot. I’ll just be here. Suffering in silence. Because my girlfriend hates me.” He shot you a crooked, sarcastic little grin. 

You rolled your eyes fondly and hurried off to the gym, heart racing from the intensity in his eyes. This was definitely new territory for both of you.

Practice ran long — an extra hour of stunts and conditioning that left you sweaty and exhausted. The girls’ locker room was almost empty by the time you finished showering. You were the last one there, towel-drying your hair and the other wrapped around you, when the door creaked open.

You turned, expecting a teammate.

It was Peter.

He slipped inside quietly and locked the door behind him with a soft click. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it, cheeks flushed. His eyes were dark and hungry in a way you’d never seen before.

“Peter?” you startled. “How did you even get in here?”

“Spider-Man privileges,” he said with a nervous, boyish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I may have been waiting on the ceiling outside the gym for like forty minutes. Like a total creep. In my defense, this spider thing has been driving me crazy since lunch and your voice during practice only made it worse.”

He took a step closer, voice dropping.

“This has never happened before. Ever. I swear. One minute I’m normal Peter — doing calculus, avoiding Flash, the usual — and the next my entire body is yelling that I need to have sex with you. Badly. Like, can’t-think-about-anything-else badly. If this is too weird or too fast, just say the word and I’ll leave. I’ll go home and take seventeen cold showers and maybe hide until it passes. No pressure. Well… some pressure. A lot of pressure, actually.”

The raw desperation mixed with his awkward sincerity made your stomach flip with heat.

You dropped the towel and crooked a finger at him.

“Come here, spider-boy.”

Relief flashed across his face. Peter crossed the room in two strides, mouth crashing into yours with frantic hunger. His hands shook as he shoved your shorts and underwear down your legs, lifting you effortlessly onto the wooden bench between the lockers.

“God, thank you,” he mumbled against your lips, fumbling with his jeans. “You’re seriously the best girlfriend in the history of girlfriends. Most people would have run away screaming by now.”

He freed himself — hard, flushed dark, already leaking — and stepped between your spread thighs. No slow teasing. He lined up and pushed inside you in one deep, urgent thrust, both of you groaning at the feeling.

“Fuck— you feel incredible,” he gasped, forehead pressed to yours. His hips started moving immediately — deep, fast, desperate strokes that rocked the bench beneath you. “This is exactly what I needed. All day. Just you. Like this. I couldn’t focus on anything else.”

Even lost in it, Peter couldn’t stop his nervous rambling, voice breathless and nerdy between moans:

“Been thinking about this nonstop since third period… couldn’t do my lab worksheet… you’re so warm and tight and— shit, do that thing with your legs again, that’s perfect—”

You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders. The sheer overwhelming need rolling off him pushed you over the edge fast. You came hard, clenching around him, biting his shoulder to muffle your cry.

Peter followed right after with a broken groan, burying himself deep and coming hard inside you, hips jerking with every pulse.

For a long moment he just held you there, panting against your neck, body trembling while his cock still twitched inside you.

Then the sweet, embarrassed Peter returned.

He pulled back enough to look at you, cheeks burning red, eyes soft and worried.

“Okay… wow. That was intense,” he said with a shy, self-deprecating laugh. “Did I hurt you? Was I too rough? Because this whole ‘insane spider sex drive’ thing is brand new and I have no idea how to control it yet. If it freaked you out, I’m so sorry. I can try meditation or… science experiments or something to fix it.”

You laughed breathlessly, cupping his face and kissing him softly.

“You were perfect. It was a lot, but… really good.”

Peter grinned, boyish and relieved, carefully helping you down and fixing your clothes with surprisingly gentle hands.

“Next time this happens — if it happens again — maybe give me a heads-up so I can prepare. Or at least not ambush you in the locker room like a horny spider.” He peeked out the door, then took your hand, lacing your fingers. “Coast is clear. And as an apology I was thinking maybe we can see a movie?”

You smiled with a nod, heart still hammering, and squeezed his hand as you slipped out together.

This was definitely the first time.

The service elevator opens with the softest chime. Joaquin steps out—hoodie up, sweats, backpack with the wings slung low. He sees you and stops, that slow, guilty grin spreading across his face like he can’t help it.

You push off the wall, arms crossed, trying (and failing) to look stern. “You’re late, Torres.”

“Traffic in the sky,” he says, stepping closer. “Plus I had to dodge three separate security sweeps just to get in here. You’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes but you’re already smiling. “Take your shoes off before you track dirt everywhere.”

He laughs under his breath—quiet, fond—and kicks them off, nudging them neatly against the baseboard. “Better?”

“Much.” You tilt your head down the hall. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”

He falls into step beside you, shoulder brushing yours. “The famous house tour. I’ve heard legends.”

You snort. “Shut up.”

First stop: the common lounge. Big windows, city lights painting gold streaks across the floor, the sectional nobody ever uses unless they’re half-dead after a mission.

You gesture lazily. “Living room. Where the team has forced bonding sessions and I sit there thinking about how much I’d rather be with you.”

Joaquin slides his arms around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. “I think about you too. All the time. Even when I’m supposed to be paying attention to Sam’s briefings.”

You lean back into him, voice dropping. “That’s dangerous, you know.”

“I know.” His lips brush your ear. “But I can’t stop.”

You turn in his arms, hands on his chest, pushing him gently toward the next doorway. “Kitchen next.”

You palm the door open. Stainless steel, fridge humming, the faint smell of coffee lingering.

“Here’s where I hide your stupid beer so Yelena doesn’t steal it,” you say, opening the fridge to show him the last two Modelos tucked behind the oat milk. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He reaches past you, grabs one, pops the top with his thumb ring, offers it to you first. You take a sip, hand it back.

“Comfy couch in there too,” you add, nodding back toward the lounge. “Good for… crashing. Or other things.”

His eyes darken just a little. “Other things sound better.”

You laugh—soft, breathless—and keep walking, pulling him by the hoodie strings. “Training bay.”

Lights low, mats still out from your earlier session, faint smell of sweat and rubber.

“Gym,” you say. “Where Bucky tries to kick my ass and I remind him I’ve got backup.” A tiny black tendril curls around your wrist for a second—Venom saying hi—then vanishes.

Joaquin steps closer, backing you against the padded wall. “You ever think about sparring with me? No symbiote. Just us.”

You tilt your chin up. “You’d lose.”

“Probably.” He grins. “But I’d enjoy it.”

You duck under his arm, slipping away down the hall. “Last stop.”

Your bedroom door slides open. City glow spills across the unmade bed, your tac gear half-folded on the chair, one of his hoodies (another stolen one) tossed on the floor.

You turn to face him, backing toward the mattress. “Bedroom. Where I miss your stupid face, check on you on the news when you’re gone. Where I wonder if we’re ever gonna stop doing this.”

He closes the distance slowly, hands finding your hips. “We should stop. This is wrong on like… every level. Different teams. Different rules. If they catch us—”

“I know,” you whisper, fingers curling into his hoodie. “But I don’t want to.”

He exhales, forehead dropping to yours. “Me neither.”

You tug him down onto the bed with you. “So stay. Just for tonight. What’s mine is yours. Door’s locked. Team’s not back till sunrise.”

He kisses you then—slow, careful, like he’s memorizing every second. Hands gentle under the tee, tracing the faint black lines where Venom rests, warm and approving but staying out of it.

You both pause at the foot of the bed, still fully clothed, the door sealed behind Joaquin. Neither of you speaks for a long second. You just stand there, breathing the same air, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him after the flight.

You let him tug you forward until your knees bump the mattress. He sits on the edge, thighs spread, and pulls you between them so you’re standing in the cradle of his legs. His free hand finds your hip, thumb tracing the hem of the tee where it skims your thigh. You rest your hands on his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the way his muscles flex under the hoodie like he’s still braced for takeoff.

“I don’t want to rush this,” he says quietly, looking up at you. “Not tonight. I want to remember every second.”

You nod, throat tight. “Then take your time.”

He starts with the hoodie. Pulls it over his head in one slow motion, dark curls falling messily back into place. The undershirt clings a little from sweat and altitude; he peels that off too, revealing the lean lines of his chest, the faint scars from wings and crashes, the way his skin glows warm in the low light. You trace one scar with your fingertip—light, reverent—and he shivers, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat.

Your turn.

You lift your arms. He takes the hem of the tee and draws it up inch by inch—slow enough that the fabric drags over your ribs, your breasts, your shoulders—cool air kissing your skin in its wake. When it’s off, he lets it fall to the floor, hands settling on your waist again, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. No words. Just the soft hitch in his breath, the way his gaze darkens as he looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

You step out of the shorts next—simple, no ceremony. Just slide them down your legs, kick them aside. He watches every movement, eyes tracing the faint black veins curling along your hips and thighs where Venom rests, quiet and content tonight. One tendril flickers briefly across your skin—like a hello—then fades.

He stands long enough to shove his sweats and boxers down in one go. Cock already hard, flushed, curving up toward his stomach. You both pause again, naked now, inches apart, hearts hammering loud enough to hear in the quiet.

Then he’s guiding you down onto the bed—gentle, deliberate. You lie back first, sheets cool against your spine. He follows, settling between your thighs, weight braced on his forearms so he can hover close, forehead to forehead.

“I love you,” he whispers, like it’s the only thing left to say.

“I love you too,” you breathe back.

He kisses you then—slow, deep, tongues sliding together in lazy strokes while his hand drifts down between you. Fingers part your folds, finding you already slick, swollen, ready. He groans softly into your mouth when he feels how wet you are, circles your clit with the lightest pressure, just enough to make your hips lift.

You reach between you, wrap your fingers around him—hot, thick, velvet over steel—and guide him to your entrance. He notches there, pauses, eyes searching yours in the dim light.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs.

“It won’t be.”

He pushes in slow—agonizingly slow—so you feel every ridge, every vein, the blunt stretch as he fills you inch by thick inch. Your breath catches; your nails dig into his shoulders. When he’s seated deep, hips flush to yours, he stills, letting you adjust, letting you feel him throb inside you.

“God,” he chokes out, voice wrecked. “You feel… like home.”

You clench around him on purpose—just once—and he hisses, hips jerking forward in a helpless little thrust. Then he starts moving—long, languid rolls that drag him almost all the way out before sliding back in, deep and steady. You meet him on every downward glide, ankles locking at the small of his back, pulling him closer, deeper.

His mouth finds your throat—open kisses, soft bites, the scrape of teeth that makes you arch. One hand slips under your lower back, tilting your hips so he hits that perfect spot on every slow stroke. The other threads with yours, pressing your palm to the mattress, fingers laced tight like he’s anchoring you both to this moment.

It builds quiet and inevitable—heat coiling low in your belly, thighs trembling around him, breath coming in soft, broken gasps. He keeps the rhythm steady, unhurried, grinding deep circles at the base of each thrust that press him against your clit until sparks dance behind your eyes.

“I’m close,” you whisper against his ear.

“I know,” he breathes. “I’ve got you. Let go whenever you want.”

You come like that—quiet, shuddering, face buried in his neck as your walls pulse and flutter around him in long, rolling waves. He follows right after—hips stuttering, low groan muffled against your skin as he spills deep inside you, warm pulses that seem to last forever.

He doesn’t pull out.

He lowers himself over you carefully, arms wrapping around your shoulders, face tucked into the crook of your neck. You hold him just as tight—legs still locked around him, fingers stroking through his damp curls, soothing the tremor in his back.

Neither of you speaks for a long minute. Just breathing. Just feeling him soften slowly inside you, still joined, still close.

____________________________________________________________________________

The first pale gray of morning seeps through the glass wall, turning the room soft and hazy. Joaquin is still inside you—soft now, but neither of you has moved to separate. His face is tucked against your neck, breath slow and even, one arm slung heavy across your waist, the other curled under your head like a pillow. Your legs are still loosely wrapped around him, ankles crossed at his lower back, holding him close like if you let go the spell breaks.

You’re tracing idle patterns on his bare shoulder with your fingertips, memorizing the texture of his skin, the faint freckles scattered there, when the distant sound of voices filters through the Tower’s corridors. Doors opening. Footsteps. The low murmur of debrief chatter.

Then—louder, closer—John Walker’s voice, sharp and impatient, echoing down the residential wing.

“Hey! You up yet? We’re back. Debrief in twenty. Get your ass moving!”

You freeze. Joaquin tenses against you, head lifting just enough for his eyes to meet yours—wide, alert, the sleepy softness gone in an instant.

Another call, closer now. “Yo! You deaf or something? I’m not dragging you out of bed myself.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. The team’s home. Early. Too early.

Joaquin’s already moving—careful, quiet—sliding out of you with a soft, reluctant exhale from both of you at the loss. The sudden emptiness makes you ache in a way that has nothing to do with the physical. He rolls off the bed in one fluid motion, grabbing his sweats from the floor, yanking them on while you scramble upright, sheets pooling at your waist.

“Window,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “Now.”

He nods once, snatching the collapsed wings backpack from where it landed last night. He slings it over one shoulder, zipping it just enough to secure, then crosses to the massive floor-to-ceiling glass in three long strides. You’re right behind him, naked except for the rumpled sheet clutched to your chest, heart in your throat.

John’s voice again—right outside your door this time, muffled but unmistakable. “Seriously? You better not be ignoring me. I’m giving you ten seconds before I—”

You palm the hidden release panel beside the window frame. The glass panel slides open with a near-silent hiss—emergency egress, thank god for paranoia. Cold morning air rushes in, carrying the faint metallic scent of the city waking up.

Joaquin turns back to you, eyes searching your face. For one heartbeat he just looks—like he’s memorizing you all over again—then leans in, cups your jaw, kisses you hard and fast and desperate.

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I’ll find you soon.”

“I love you too. Go.”

He steps out onto the narrow ledge—forty-seven stories up, wind whipping at his bare shoulders—and the wings snap open with a metallic whir, red-and-white panels unfolding like a hawk’s spread. He gives you one last look—soft, aching, full of everything you can’t say out loud—then leaps.

The rush of air swallows him. He’s gone—diving into the gray dawn, vanishing between buildings before anyone can glance up.

You slam the panel shut, heart hammering so loud you’re sure it echoes. The room still smells like him—sweat, jet fuel, sex, the faint trace of his shampoo on your pillow.

The door hisses open without a knock.

Ava phases straight through—ghostly for half a second, then solid again—eyes scanning the room like she’s already expecting trouble. Her expression is tight, worried, the way it gets when someone’s been off comms too long.

“You okay?” she asks, voice low but sharp. “Walker’s about to break the door down. Said you weren’t answering.”

You force a casual shrug, turning away to grab the discarded tee from the floor, pulling it on quick to hide the flush still on your skin, the faint red marks Joaquin’s mouth left along your collarbone.

“Yeah. Just… overslept. Rough night.”

Ava’s gaze flicks to the rumpled bed, the open window panel still cracked a fraction, the faint breeze stirring the curtains. She doesn’t miss much. Ever.

Her eyes narrow. “Window’s open.”

“Needed air,” you say, too fast. You palm the panel closed again. The seal clicks. “It’s fine.”

She studies you another beat—long enough that your pulse spikes—then nods once, slow. “Debrief in fifteen. Don’t make Walker come get you. He’s in a mood.”

“I’ll be there.”

Ava hesitates, like she wants to say more, then phases back through the door without another word.

You exhale, shaky, leaning against the glass where Joaquin disappeared. The city sprawls below—endless, indifferent, swallowing secrets like it always does.

Somewhere out there, he’s flying low, staying off radar, heading back to whatever safehouse Sam has him stashed in.

“Come back soon.”

The Tower hums around you—alive now, team voices filtering in, alarms distant, life moving on like nothing happened.

But everything did.

I yank my mask off first, hair sticking to my forehead in damp clumps. My suit feels like it’s glued to me—sweat, grime, the faint metallic tang of blood that isn’t all mine. I don’t look at him right away. I can’t. Not yet.

He peels his own mask off slower, like every movement costs him something. His lip is split again; fresh red smears the corner of his mouth. The web-shooters on his wrists are scuffed raw, one of the cartridges cracked. He doesn’t say anything. Just stands there breathing too hard, staring at the floor.

The silence stretches until it hurts.

“You okay?” I finally ask, voice flat.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the blood. “Yeah. You?”

“Peachy.”

We both know it’s a lie.

Tonight was supposed to be routine. Stop a smash-and-grab at the bodega on 47th, web up the guys, swing home, maybe split the leftover empanadas from last week. Instead we walked into an ambush—three guys with military-grade tranq darts and a very clear agenda: take down the spiders nobody’s supposed to remember. One of them clipped me with a dart that grazed my thigh; the antidote burned going in, but it still left my left leg numb and shaky. He took a pipe to the ribs trying to shield me. I heard the crack. He didn’t even flinch until we were clear.

Now we’re here. Safe. Alive. And furious.

I turn away first, stripping off the top half of my suit with sharp, jerky movements. The fabric sticks to the shallow cut across my shoulder blades—courtesy of a broken bottle one of them swung like a bat. I hiss through my teeth.

“You didn’t have to jump in front of me,” I say without looking at him. “I had it.”

“You were slow. The dart—”

“I wasn’t slow. You were reckless.”

He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Right. Because me getting hit is worse than you getting tranqed and dragged off somewhere.”

I spin on him. “Don’t do that. Don’t make it about protecting me like I’m the one who needs saving. We’re supposed to be a team.”

“We are a team.” His voice cracks on the last word. “That’s why I—”

“That’s why you almost got your ribs caved in? That’s why we almost lost the whole damn fight because you were too busy playing hero?”

His eyes flash. “You think I wanted that? You think I like watching you take hits you don’t have to?”

“I can handle myself.”

“I know you can.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “But I can’t handle watching you go down. Not again.”

It was just something about how he looked at me when he said that.

I surge up and crash my mouth against his—hard, angry, desperate. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth and fury and the metallic tang of his blood smearing between us. He groans into it—low, guttural—and his hands finally move: one fists in my hair at the nape, tilting my head exactly how he wants it, the other clamps around my waist and yanks me flush against him.

We kiss like we’re fighting. Tongues clash, lips bruise, breaths stolen between bites. I taste copper and sweat and him—always him—and it only makes me angrier because I can’t stop wanting more.

He backs me against the wall beside the window, the impact rattling the single pane. My head tips back; his mouth drops to my throat, sucking hard enough to mark, teeth grazing just shy of breaking skin. I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails scraping through the suit fabric.

“You drive me insane,” I hiss, even as my hips rock forward against his, feeling how hard he already is.

“Feeling’s mutual,” he growls against my pulse.

He pulls back just enough to look at me—eyes blazing. 

I shove him back—hard—until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the couch. He drops down with a grunt, ribs probably screaming, but his hands are already reaching for me. I don’t give him time to pull me onto his lap.

Instead I sink to my knees between his spread thighs.

His breath catches—sharp, audible. “What are you—”

“Shut up,” I say, voice low and rough

 My hands go to take off his suit, yanking it down just enough. No slow tease. No games. He’s already straining against the fabric; when I free him, he’s thick and hot in my hand, flushed dark, tip slick with precome.

I look up at him—eyes locked on his—and drag my tongue along the underside in one long, deliberate stroke. He swears, head falling back against the couch, one hand slamming down to grip the cushion like he’s trying not to grab me.

I don’t let him hold back.

I take him into my mouth—deep, sudden—hollowing my cheeks and sucking hard. His hips jerk up involuntarily; I let him, relaxing my throat so he can push deeper. The stretch burns my jaw, the taste of him floods my senses—salt, skin, the faint edge of adrenaline still clinging to him. I moan around him, the vibration making him curse again, louder this time.

“Fuck—baby—” His free hand finally moves to my hair, not guiding, just holding on like I’m the only thing tethering him to reality. Fingers thread tight, trembling.

I work him slow at first—long, wet pulls, tongue swirling around the head every time I pull back—then faster. Messier. My hand wraps around what my mouth can’t take, stroking in time with the bob of my head. Saliva drips down his length; I don’t care. Neither does he. His breathing turns ragged, hips rocking shallowly, chasing the heat of my mouth.

I look up again—eyes watering a little from the depth—and find him staring down at me like I’m 

everything. Like he’s terrified and in love and furious all at once.

“Gave me your whole heart,” I murmur against his skin, pulling off just long enough to speak, voice wrecked and teasing. Then I take him deep again—swallowing around him until my nose brushes his pelvis.

He breaks on a choked groan—whole body tensing, hand tightening in my hair. “Fuck—I’m—”

I don’t pull away. I take every pulse, every hot spill down my throat, swallowing around him until he’s shaking, hips stuttering, breath punched out in sharp gasps.

When it’s over I pull off slowly—lips swollen, chin messy—and look up at him. He’s wrecked: head tipped back, chest heaving, eyes glassy and dark. His hand loosens in my hair, thumb brushing my cheek in a shaky, reverent sweep.

 “We almost didn’t make it out tonight.” I lay my head on his thigh.

“Yeah,” he says. Quiet. “We almost didn’t.”

A beat.

Then softer: “I’m sorry.”

I close my eyes. Hear it in his voice—the same exhaustion I feel in my bones. The same fear we never talk about.

I’m sorry too, I want to say. For snapping. For being scared. For the way every close call feels like it’s chipping away at whatever’s left holding us together.

But the words stick.

Instead I just sit there, listening to his heartbeat across the room—too fast, too loud in the silence.

Bullshit repeats itself.

We save the city nobody remembers us saving.

We come home bleeding.

We fight.

I look up at him.

His eyes meet mine. Dark. Steady. Full of that stupid, stubborn love that’s kept us glued together since we were kids sneaking kisses on rooftops.

“You can't keep saving me”

“I can't not,” he says. Simple. Like it’s physics. “You’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.”

Something in my chest cracks open.

I lift my head up and drag his head closer to me and kiss him—not angry this time. Deep. Hungry. The kind of kiss that says I’m still mad but I’m yours anyway. His mouth opens for me immediately; tongues slide, slow and filthy, tasting salt and the faint copper of his lip. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating into my mouth, and suddenly his hands are moving—gentle but firm—peeling the rest of my clothes down like he’s unwrapping something precious.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing—spider-strength, careful of my leg where the tranq grazed—and carries me the three steps to the bed. We fall together, him on his back, me straddling his hips. No rush now. Just heat. Just need.

I brace my hands on his chest—right over his heart—and rock down slow, grinding against the hard length of him. He hisses, head tipping back, throat working. His hands slide up my thighs, thumbs tracing the sensitive skin where the numbness is finally fading, then higher—cupping my ass, spreading me open just enough to feel how wet I already am.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes locked on mine. “Look at you.”

I lean down, kiss him again—slower this time, deeper—while my hand slips between us. He’s thick, hot, pulsing in my palm. I stroke once, twice—firm, deliberate—watching his abs flex, watching the way his jaw clenches like he’s fighting not to thrust up into my grip.

Then I line him up and sink down—slow. Inch by inch. Letting us both feel every stretch, every slide, until he’s buried so deep my breath catches and my thighs tremble.

He swears under his breath, hands gripping my hips—not guiding, just holding. Like he needs the anchor.

I start to move—slow rolls at first, grinding my clit against him on every downstroke. His head falls back again, eyes half-lidded, watching me ride him like it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

“You feel—” His voice breaks. “So fucking perfect.”

I lean forward, palms flat on his chest, picking up the pace. Harder now. Deeper. The bed creaks under us; the headboard taps the wall in steady rhythm. His hands roam—up my back, over the cut on my shoulder blades (gentle, always gentle there), then down to my ass again, helping me slam down harder, meeting every roll with a sharp upward thrust that punches the air out of me.

I gasp his name—once, twice—voice cracking. He answers by sitting up, arms banding around my waist, pulling me flush against him so my chest presses to his. Our mouths crash together again—messy, desperate—while he thrusts up into me, deep and relentless, hitting that spot that makes my vision blur.

One of his hands slides between us—fingers finding my clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that match the rhythm of his hips. I’m shaking now, thighs burning, walls fluttering around him every time he bottoms out.

“Come for me,” he murmurs against my lips. Not a demand. A plea. “Please—let me feel you.”

I shatter.

Hard. Whole body locking, clenching down on him in pulsing waves that drag a broken groan from his throat. My nails dig into his shoulders—not to hurt, just to hold on—and I bury my face in his neck, muffling the cry against his skin.

He follows right after—thrusting deep one last time, burying himself completely, coming with a low, shuddering moan. Hot pulses inside me, filling me up, hips jerking like he can’t get close enough.

We stay locked together after. Breathing hard. Sweaty. Still joined.

His arms don’t loosen. Mine don’t either.

He presses his forehead to mine, eyes closed, voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you.” Raw. Honest. Like the words got torn out of him. “Even when we’re fighting.”

“I know.” I kiss him—soft this time. Slow. “I love you too. Even when you’re reckless. ”

He exhales shaky, thumbs stroking my sides.

We don’t move.

Don’t pull apart.

Just hold on—bruised, sticky, loved—because the alternative isn’t an option.

Not tonight.

Not ever.