Yomidebby

So you nod, hoping that maybe you can figure out what the hell is happening to him and get your happy ending. Maybe you’ll even figure out why you can’t remember anything before your meltdown, too. “You’re … Spider-Man? I kinda thought you’d be older. ” 

He looks almost taken off guard by that, and you have to push away your instinct to laugh; you can imagine that wouldn’t go over very well right now. He doesn’t answer, though, instead using his free hand to cup the back of your neck and pull. 

His lips meet yours in a fierce kiss, so rough you can feel your teeth click together; it doesn’t turn you off, though, quite the opposite, and the little mewl you let out is embarrassing, even for you. You can feel him respond to it, though, forgoing the web to your chest he was holding in favor of pressing it into the small of your back instead, just to hear the noise you make when he does. His length is already thickening, pressing up against your hip, and the size makes you gasp. Where does he hide this thing?This is all more intense than you imagined; your lips move in tandem with each other, his tongue licking deeper, deeper past your lips until you’re practically sucking on it. You follow his motions so fluidly; he’s a bit jealous that you’re so experienced – easier for him to take what he wants, though, and take what he wants he will. Your knees start to buckle, leaning your body into his own for support; he’s there, hands traveling to hold you in a grip so tight you can already feel bruises blooming. 

When you finally pull back, it’s because you need to breathe or you think you’ll pass out, the arachnid nipping your bottom lip as you pull away. You’re keenly aware of the fact that you can’t get out of his grip, which is worrying, yes, but not as worrying as it is now that you have no sound to latch onto. When you meet his eyes, yours are pained, tears already pooling along the rims of them.

“T-talk, talk – help me, p-please.”

“Oh, I'll take care of you, sweetheart, don’t worry. ” His words are so kind for someone holding you so roughly, but he loosens up enough to let you finally break free of the cocoon he’s had you in. Your hands grip onto the front of his suit as soon as they’re free, using him like your lifeline; Peter’s more smug about it than you know. “Just let me, okay?”

You nod, his voice and the hands traveling your body calming you enough to breathe a bit. Your cells feel all shaken up, like a soda you drop on the pavement, and it takes you a good, long moment of being grounded before you realize why. Your eyes widen, and when you go to make a move for them, all the way on the other side of the roof now, you feel his grip on you tighten again, black scleras studying you: Why are you starting to struggle?

“Spidey, just lemme – I need my headphones, f’I don’t have them I’ll – ”

Your knees buckle again, but you don’t move; he doesn’t let you. The smile he wears is unnerving when he speaks again. 

“You don’t need those right now, baby, it’s okay – you have me. I’ll make it all better for you, just let me in…”

“Spidey, that’s not – let me go, that’s not how that works – ” You’re quickly finding out that your struggle doesn’t matter. The webs entangling you vibrate from the force of your sonic booms, firing off unpredictably with every new noise you manage to process. His grip doesn’t move either, and you realize you’re not strong enough to defeat him, not with whatever … thing is happening to him, and he’s not willing to let you go. For the first time today, you’re actually worried that he might just let you get hurt, or maybe he’d hurt you himself. The only thing he’ll allow to ground you right now is himself. 

You can’t fight, you can’t run, so you do what you can, and you fawn. You throw your arms around him like he’s your lifeline – and you suppose right now, he is. 

“ Could be how it works, though, no? See, look at you, you’re calmin’ down already. Good girl. ” He shakes his head as if you were being little more than a petulant child, as if you couldn’t feel yourself shaking and breaking down to your marrow. “All you needed was me, baby – now let me take what I need, too.”

That’s about the only warning you get before he pins you back onto the ground. The force has you generating a wave of energy to protect your fall, and the crack of the concrete makes you wince; that could’ve been your head. All of the air leaves your lungs at the same time Spider-Man presses his mouth against yours again, but the burn in your chest is … nice. He is keeping you focused, however horrifying it’s starting to become. When you kiss him back this time it’s hesitant, less sure of yourself, though he doesn’t seem to care, not when he rolls his hips, and you feel the thickness of his cock press against your cunt through the suit. 

You both react at the same time: you whimper, and he lets out a guttural groan you didn’t even think he could make. It seems to spur him on, and you watch as he pulls back, putting a hand on either side of your suit – the part that’s hiding you from him – and tearing. It makes you yelp, but he laughs, letting out a low whistle. 

“No panties, huh? What were you comin’ here to do, Pinky? F’I’d have known you were such a slut I’d have done this sooner.” 

The words are mean, meaner than you’ve ever heard Spider-Man be, and you feel tears pricking at your eyes again. It’s all made even worse by the fact that you’re so, so wet, practically dripping down your thighs. 

“Just wanted – just wanted to be ready, i-in case…” You trail off because it sounds bad, so bad, and what’s worse is, you’re telling the truth (you don’t go into detail about the fact that there’s also the problem of panty lines, because you don’t think he’d be very receptive to that right now). Humiliation burns hot in your cheeks, and you try to move away, again to no avail, this time stopped by a large hand splaying across your hips, a clear message: Stay. 

“Fuck, you’re so cute. Pretty little whore, wrapped up in a bow just for me.” It’s like he’s talking to himself more than he is to you, and if you were any stronger, maybe you’d say something about it, a little quip to show you can’t be beat. But this isn’t Sonic Boom anymore; this is you, and you don’t have much fight left in you. You’re less an active participant and more a receiver, meant to take whatever he gives you – and something tells you it won’t be over very quickly. He doesn’t give you much time to dwell on it, anyway – your attention snaps to the noise of webs ripping apart, and for a second you think he’s had a change of heart and is gonna set you free, free to leave and act like this never happened. You’ve never been very lucky, though, so it shouldn’t be the surprise it is when he brings your arms above your head and webs them in place. His knee comes up to knock yours apart, pulling back from your body just enough to web your ankles in place, too. You feel so exposed, spread out like this, the early night air cold against your pussy; another tear falls down your cheek from the embarrassment of it all, and it only worsens when you squirm. All you can really do is move your hips, pulling another laugh from deep in his chest. 

“I know you want it, don’t worry, baby, m’gonna give it to you – ” You’re not really sure what it is, not until you feel the burn of two thick fingers shoved inside of you. The intrusion pulls another yelp from you, your hips bucking again as he stretches your hole to what feels like the brim. Even with your wetness, it’s so much, and he only gives you the reprieve of circling your clit with his thumb when he adds a third finger. This time, your long whine makes the air around you two shake, knocks off one of the bricks above the roof door; he laughs again, still unrelenting with the pumps of his fingers inside of you. 

“Careful, Pinky, they’re gonna hear ya – you don’t want that, right? Who knows, whore like you might. ” You whine again, cunt fluttering around his fingers; he’s so mean, but his touch feels so good dragging across that special spongy spot inside of you. It’s too much at once, too much sensory input; you feel like you’re being dug out from your core. You think you might scream, or kick, or … something, but instead you just cry more, pulled between feeling the best you’ve ever felt or feeling so scared you faint. 

He’s moved so he’s up in your face again, those onyx eyes watching you with a look you’d attribute to a predator who’s finally captured his prey. You feel him go harder when he sees your tears, fingers bullying into your pussy so relentlessly that it squelches humiliatingly with every pump. 

“Y’can focus on that, yeah? Don’t even need me to talk, just need me to touch you. Focus on how much that pretty cunt loves me, fuck, you drive me crazy – ” The arachnid leans down, then, capturing your lips in a deep kiss, all tongue and teeth and need. This time you return it, the ache in your cunt so good, so addicting you feel like – like –

“N-no, no, m’gonna – Spidey, m’gonna pee, g-get off –” He only goes harder, fingers curling so deliciously and palm grinding down into your clit with the perfect amount of roughness. One, two more pumps, and you’re squirting, muscles desperately trying to push him out of your pussy for your release – but he doesn’t let you, your juices flowing down around his hand and wrist like water. 

“Fuck.” Peter’s never seen someone squirt before – in person, anyway; he doesn’t really think the shitty pornos he’s seen count. Nothing could compare to watching you come apart below him.

You’re not given much time to recover; once he’s over the initial shock of being coated in your cum, he needs more, and any thought of getting normal Peter back is shoved to the back of his brain. He leans forward, his free hand stabilizing him against the ground while he pushes his weight down into you. “Gimme another. I need to see that again.”

The fingers in your cunt resume their brutal pace, and you do scream this time, overstimulation wracking your body. His eyes narrow and he looks up at you like he’s about to scold you; you try to flatten yourself further into the ground in response. 

“Stop it, or m’gonna web your mouth up and make sure only I can hear it. Be good.” You comply begrudgingly, but you can’t stop the noises that fall from your lips, high and wanton in a way you would be ashamed of if you were in your right mind. Instead you’re at the full mercy of the spider atop you, thrashing fruitlessly against the webs that bind you in place.

You know you’re going to cum again when you feel it, a wave beginning to form in your stomach, threatening to break at any moment. It happens less gradually this time, and you don’t even get to warn him, but Peter’s smarter now, putting all of your little tells away for later. And that way you start to clamp down around his fingers, sucking him in and pushing him out all at once – he knows you’re close. So, he goes even harder. 

“Give it to me, baby, c’mon, let me see how good m’making this slutty pussy feel, wanna see how she looks when she squirts for me this time. ” He does have to web your mouth when you cum this time. The scream you couldn’t hold in reverberates against the webbing and makes your brain shake in your skull. Your entire torso arches up, hips bucking wildly as you squirt for a second time, somehow even more than before, like he pulled it out of you. The fluid soaks Peter’s hand, his forearm, what seems like the entire front part of his suit, so strong you managed to push him out this time. His senses are so overwhelmed with how good you smell, how wet you are for him, just you, that he can’t hear E.V.I.E. cautioning him to calm down lest he crash. He’s too far gone now, though, any thought that doesn’t involve sinking his cock into your plush heat and finally getting what he wants fading into the background. You, as so often in his worst fantasies, are all that remains, bare and open for him to take. 

So, he takes. He has to rip his own suit to get his cock out (if he were in his right mind, this would embarrass him), and you gasp beneath the webbing when you see it. It’s so thick, angry, and throbbing in his hand; he must be really pent up, and you feel a little ashamed about the fact that you feel your overstimulated clit twitch at the thought. 

All of the scrambling your brain has endured seems to be taking its toll, because you can do little but whimper and grind your hips down in search of something, anything to fill the emptiness his fingers once occupied. That final little shock seemed to be all you needed to surrender to him fully, endless whines leaving your lips because you want to touch him, throw your arms around him and never let him go. 

“Cute.” It’s like he read your mind, or maybe he heard you babbling against the webs [ ‘ Please, wan’touch you, please –’ ‘N-need you, please, c’mere, c’mere, too far –’ ]. By now, you’re a little too far gone to care.“Shh, I’ve got you – oh, poor baby. ” Every word comes out coated in condescension, so sickly sweet you think your brain is registering them as candy. You’re confused for a moment, disoriented eyes watching him bring his thumb up to your mouth, but then he – oh. He’s poking into his own webbing, spreading it wide enough to push his thumb inside and rest the pad of it on your tongue. Your throat makes something between a gag and a pathetic whimper, and he actually laughs when your tongue starts to languidly swirl around his thumb. “Perfect whore, you know exactly what you’re good for, huh? You’ve earned it.” The ‘it’ in question being the full removal of the web (and, subsequently, being able to fully breathe again). Then, he’s freeing your wrists and ankles from his webs, letting you cling to him, arms thrown around his neck and legs wrapped tight around his waist. It’s hard for Peter to deny you when you’re like this, grabbing at him and kissing along his jaw like you love him, cradling him like he wasn’t being so, so nasty to you. It touches those parts of him that had been forced down for so long: his touch-starved senses, his love-starved brain, each sensation feeling like little fireworks across his body. It should bring him down, but all it does is encourage the possessiveness, the ruthlessness. He thinks he’d be so overwhelmed you might get hurt if you weren’t grounding him, just like he is you.

Spider-Man spears you all the way down to the base of his length in one powerful thrust, and your eyes blow so wide you think they might pop right out of their sockets. It’s everything you imagined and more; that toy you use doesn’t even compare. You’re so wet from your previous orgasms that you hardly feel any pain, the burn far from the impossible stretch you had been expecting. Spidey might not have the longest cock you’ve seen in the world, but what he lacks in length he makes up for in girth. This doesn’t mean he’s small, though, the head of his cock is brushing up against your cervix already. It’s snug, but he fits – perfectly, like the key to a heart-shaped lock.

You might as well have hearts in your eyes from the way he fucks you – hard, fast, setting a ruthless pace that practically forces tears out of you. Somewhere along the way he’d ripped the top of your suit, too, wanting to see your tits bounce with every harsh thrust he delivers; it’s hard to ogle you the way he really wants to when you’re pressing yourself so close to him, but the feel of your breasts pressed against his chest is enough. 

“This is what you needed, huh? S’what I needed, this perfect pussy creamin’ like a whore all over my dick – shit, you’re so goddamn tight – ” You scratch your nails down his back at the same time you place open-mouthed kisses to the skin of his neck, and it makes him feel crazy; he uses it as fuel to fuck you even harder, slamming you down onto his cock with so much force you feel the wind knock out of you with every descent. You lose track of when your last orgasm was, when your next one begins, and where they all intermingle, melting your brain into euphoric mush. You kind of never want it to end, content to let Spider-Man keep you entrapped in his web forever – as long as it feels this good. 

When Peter feels his balls tightening, he pushes you back down onto the ground – subconsciously you cushion yourself again, super-powered senses unwilling to let you get hurt, and this time it does shake the building, which – had he web-locked the door? Can anyone see you guys up here? Whatever, you don’t care. Nothing else matters right now, not when Spider-Man’s fucking you so hard there are little stars clouding the edges of your vision, so deep you think he might breach your cervix. 

“Gonna cum in you, yeah? Gonna keep you plugged up with my cock and make sure it takes, baby, gonna keep you with me forever –” The arachnid is looking for a mate, and it seems you’ve become the perfect candidate (or maybe you always were, and it’s just another thing on the list of stuff Peter refuses to address). His thrusts are beginning to falter, though it’s an imperceptible change after all the abuse your pussy has endured throughout the past hour. He bears his weight down on you, now, arms encircling your waist to keep your hips in the perfect position for him fuck down into. You’re like his personal doll at this point, made exclusively to give him the best orgasm of his life. 

“C’mon, cum with me, show me how good my dick makes you feel. Let me hear you like the whore I know you are, sweet thing, this pussy can’t be the only thing talkin’ –” And that’s unfair, because you are talking! It’s mostly just ‘thank you’s and ‘so good’s, a few little ‘yours, all yours’, but it still counts! Still, on some level, you think you know that he needed this; you’d teased Spider-Man about needing to get laid enough times that you know he’s just giving himself what he’d wanted for a very, very long time. And in your lust-riddled mind, it’s nice to think that what he needed included you this whole time.

“ Fuck – here it comes, baby, take it like I know you can – take – it – ” The last word falls from his lips in a harsh grunt at the same time his thrusts stop, cock buried balls-deep inside of you. You feel the pulse of his tip shooting against your cervix, feeling a pleasant warmth spread throughout you that only added to the fire that felt like it was eating you from the inside out. His low groan turns up into a desperate whine, hips still trying to chase the heat of your pussy, the tightness of your walls around him; the sound of it makes you cum, gushing pathetically as your entire body spasms, before going limp. All you’d registered was pretty clouds dotting your vision, falling into what feels like the most peaceful sleep you’ve ever had. 

Peter breathes once, twice, heavy gasps that push him to stop smothering you and sit up. His irises shrink, inky black giving way to baby brown, and for the first time since Jean ripped your headphones off, he feels like he can think clearly again. He takes in the scene around him – you, practically naked with only a tattered costume, pussy leaking his cum; his cock leaking and spent between his thighs, sore from overstimulation; your headphones across the roof; the broken pieces of the roof; the webbed door. 

Fuck. 

“Shit, shit – no, no, no, fuck  –” Peter doesn’t have much else in him to say, panic overriding any previous emotion he had. He scoops you up into his arms, tears pricking at his eyes as he sees the state of you: your bruises, the tear tracks, all of it. Guilt starts to eat at him, crowding into his brain along with the uncertainty of what really happened. “ C’mon, Pinky, wake up, you’re okay, you’re okay –” Quickly he’s shooting a web to grab your headphones, placing them back into your ears carefully. 

Think, Peter, think. 

He manages to get you inside and into his bed before the room starts to swim, E.V.I.E.’s voice echoing throughout his brain. 

“I told you this would happen, Peter.”

Peter awakes with the feeling that he got hit by a semi-truck going 75 on the interstate. His head is pounding, his body feels like he took a beating, and the bruises littering his body tell the same story. Still, he’s awarded the peace of forgetting, groggy eyes still adjusting to his surroundings. 

That’s when he sees you, perched atop the table directly across from his bed, staring at him almost … suspiciously? For a split second he thinks he should be suspicious, because who the hell are you and why are you in his apartment?

And then – then, it comes back, all of it: Jean inside of you, his senses overloading, coming to with you naked in his arms, coming back inside, then … nothing. His eyes do a quick scan over your body, and he has to stop himself from wincing when he notices the bruises littering your skin, concentrated around your wrists where your hands grip one of his coffee mugs. You’re wearing one of his shirts, that old and impossibly soft I <3 NY one he’d gotten as a gift from some tourist trap he saved from getting robbed. He remembers working that job with you, wonders if the shirt reminds you of the one you have back at your place, and feels a wave of guilt wash over him. 

Peter’s, more than anything, thankful that you’re alive. You look like you’ve showered since the incident, curls he didn’t know you had falling down your shoulders and headphones plugged securely in your ears. You’re gorgeous, stunningly so, and not for the first time in his life, Peter wonders why a beautiful girl like you would give him the time of day. You startle a bit when he sits up, and another wave crashes over him, threatening to drown him. Your voice – that beautiful voice he’d managed to form a crush on – is what pulls him out, undeserving of his own life preserver. 

“Your name is Peter Parker.”

“Wha –”

“Stop – talking, I can’t focus,” Because you can’t focus on anything else when he speaks. “Your name is Peter Parker. You use really shitty 3-in-1 shampoo, and you’re a huge fucking nerd. And you’re Spider-Man. Nice to meet you formally.” Peter considers asking Frank to come by just to shoot him at point-blank range like he deserves. He has to groan, sliding a hand down his face – well, Peter, you’re well and truly fucked now. 

“I’m sorry, Pi – Sonic Boom, I’m sorry, I can expl –”

“Shut up.” You turn his voice back on him to hit him with a wave intended to hurt his head only enough to make him be quiet. You try to ignore how your heart clenches when he foregoes your nickname. “ Sorry, just – can you listen to me when I tell you to stop talking? I talked with your … friend, E.V.I.E. She kind of explained it. Jean Grey makes you upset, you haven’t been taking care of yourself enough to keep your spider hormones – crazy shit, by the way – at bay, the spider takes over, bad stuff usually ensues. I get it.”

Peter’s eyebrows furrow. He’s trying to be polite and keep quiet, because if you’re asking for it, he’s going to give it to you, but he also knows that’s not the full story. E.V.I.E. wouldn’t tell you everything, and he’s still confused how you managed to get past her security protocols anyway. It’s like you can read his stupidly predictable mind, because the look you give him is somewhere between exasperation and pity. 

“You keep your override code on a sticky note under your desk. It’s not exactly hard. You’re actually really bad at this whole ‘hiding’ shit; I’m surprised I never found you before.”

You pause, then, inhaling deeply, and Peter wonders if you’re going to beat the shit out of him. He’d let you, let you beat him ‘till he was black and blue and sporting the same bruises you were now. But you don’t, because you’re kind, much kinder than Peter believes he deserves. 

Instead, when you speak, it’s measured, the only indication that you’re emotional at all being the slight shake to your voice and the glistening of your eyes; you look so pretty Peter feels nauseous. 

“I know that can’t be everything; only Peter Parker can explain everything. And I think I deserve to know everything.” 

So, Peter tells you everything, all of it. From the tank [ ‘Back when I had to take the scraps of Frank’s van back to his booby-trapped Titanic?’ ‘Yeah, that day.’ ] all the way to what happened on the roof, and even some things tying it all together. Where he can’t remember, you fill in the blanks, and vice versa when he tells you about Jean taking control of you. You visibly soften throughout your talk, the realization that he really is the loneliest man in the world, forgotten by all, tugging at your heart harder than you’d like to admit. Somewhere along the way you move closer, and Peter’s breath hitches at the proximity. His senses still heightened, he can smell you clearer than he ever could before, even through his apparently terrible shampoo-conditioner-body-wash. He can see how soft you are this up close, can remember how you felt beneath his hands, if only a little bit. He wishes he could reach out and touch you again. 

You inform him he was out for a couple of days and he panics; you have the fleeting thought that Spider-Man is way more fucked up than you could have ever theorized. You’d kept an eye on his vitals and went about your days here, unable to function as Sonic Boom without your suit and unwilling to leave until you got answers. Peter’s heart flutters a bit – you’re so determined, something he’s always admired about you. The more he talks to you, the more he regrets not allowing himself to pursue you sooner, further, friend or more. You’re someone Peter wants in his life, and his own neglect might have pushed you away forever. 

“Well, I don’t blame you, not really. I forgive you.” 

Peter steps out of his self-flagellation to meet your eyes in surprise. He tilts his head, eyebrows raised in confusion. “You what?”

“I forgive you.”

“Why?”

“You weren’t in your right mind, innocent by reason of insanity.” You shrug, and he frowns (Was he really going insane?). “Plus, you’re, like, really fucking sad, Peter. How can I judge Peter Parker when Spider-Man won’t even let him come out and say hi? Maybe la araña should share the spotlight sometimes.”

Peter feels his cheeks flush; you’re completely right, but it’s weird to see you scolding him without a mask on. You look cuter doing it than his imagination ever conjured up. 

“Sonic Boom–”

“Don’t call me that, say my name.”

“I don’t know your name, though, you didn’t tell me –”

“ – And I’m still not gonna tell you. My name, Peter. The one you gave me. ” 

“...Pinky.” He says it slowly and watches you nod to confirm he got it right. “M’sorry, Pinky, for – for everything. Not takin’ care of myself, getting you roped into this, letting Jean get you – ”

Peter stops abruptly, eyes looking back and forth before settling on the finger you’d pressed against his lips to shush him. You wait until he’s fully silent before sitting back on your haunches to look at him, that deep, disarming stare Peter had never had the pleasure of seeing under your mask, only felt through it. He’s already beginning to mourn it. 

“You do not apologize for what anyone else does. You can apologize for not taking care of yourself, because that’s what got you into this mess, and you can apologize for what happened on that roof, but you do not get to apologize for what she does, too. That’s not your burden. ” This is how Peter knows you – steadfast, warm, always knowing exactly what to say and just how to say it. He was stupid for thinking your entire friendship hadn’t just been him falling for you; he might have been talking to Sonic Boom, but Sonic Boom was you all the same, even if you seem to think you’ve got them separated. The shame he feels ebbs away enough that relief floods his body, and he nods.

“Okay – okay, yeah. I’m sorry for what happened on the roof – the sorriest I’ve ever been for anything in my life, actually. You can beat the shit out of me, if you want, or throw me off the Empire State Building and make me wait super long to use a web, or – I don’t know, anything you think is fair. The thought that I made you suffer like that – ”

Your finger is back, shutting him up once again. What did he say wrong this time?

This time when you sit back, you’re shaking your head. “I didn’t suffer. I mean – not from you, anyway. From Jean, yeah, when she took my headphones off, but I don’t even remember riding over here. You only hurt me when you thought she was in me, and even then it was only a little. And during the – ” You pause, bashful look a stark contrast from your usual bravado. “ – The thing, I had a good time. Honest. I know you got scared when I passed out and shit, E.V.I.E. let me see the footage –” 

Peter winces. “ – And, well, you can look at it later, I don’t care, but I had a good time. Was just kind of … spent, I guess. You helped ground me, however mean you were being, but –”

It’s your turn to shut up, because Peter gains enough confidence after hearing you liked it to press his finger against your lips this time. “ Whatever I said when I was like that, I didn’t mean it –” His finger presses a bit firmer, seeing your face scrunch up like you’re about to talk back. “ – I’m serious, I didn’t. I’m not – whenever I imagined us like that, it was gentle. And I was really, really friggin’ nice, because you deserve someone who’s nice to you. Even if you liked it, that doesn’t mean it was okay for me to do without talking to you about it, weird arachnid overload or not. I’m still sorry, and I will always be sorry, ‘cause that’s not what you deserved, not by a mile. F’you felt good, then I’m glad, ‘cause that means I didn’t do anything you didn’t like, but – I know it was scary. I’m sorry.”

You’re crying now, stunned by the genuine apology. Your eyes flick down towards his finger, and he removes it quickly, a little ‘Oh shit, sorry’ falling past Peter’s lips as he does. You laugh a little through the tears, eyes rolling softly. You don’t speak for a long moment, trying to compose yourself with Peter looking at you with those stupid twinkly puppy eyes. Eventually you realize you can’t do it yourself and sniffle, trying to blot the tears with the back of your hand. “Can – Can I have a hug?”

Peter tries to hide his surprise at the fact you’d even want to touch him, but he nods anyway, quietly excited to have you back in his arms. That’s all the permission you need to fall into them, strong biceps curling around you as you settle your cheek atop his well-defined chest. He’s soft when he’s not exerting himself; the comfort is only comparable to the old, beat-up squishmallow you hold when you’re sad. Your tears fall freer now, and Peter squeezes you just a bit tighter in response, his chin resting on the top of your hair. He plants a kiss there, and when you finally speak, your voice is quiet in a way that breaks Peter’s heart. 

“Thank you, um – for apologizing. I – I liked it, but you said … you called me a lot of mean things. Felt like I was easy, n’stuff – ” Peter’s sure the arachnid was much harsher, and the guilt comes back, this time accompanied by anger at himself. How could he say those things to you? Even if it wasn’t him, he should’ve – he doesn’t know. Still, he listens, fingers rubbing small circles at your back while his other hand smooths down your hair. 

“ – It feels better, now, t’know – t’know you didn’t want it to go like that. Kinda over the moon to know you wanted it to go any way at all. I’ve had a really big crush on you, but – bet she told you that too, huh?”

He nods, face twisting into a little grimace he’s glad you can’t really see. “She said some stuff, yeah.”

“Right. Well – yeah, guess m’happy you thought of me at all.” Peter, once again, thinks he might just kill himself. “I’m just … I'm also sorry it happened like that. But don’t, um – I’m okay. I think I just needed to talk to … you, not him. Y’know?”

“Trust me, I get it.”

You two lay there like that for a while, soaking in each other’s presence and the sounds of Queens outside. It’s so domestic you find it cruel. You fall asleep after a bit, finally crashing from staying up so long waiting for him to wake up, lulled by the rise and fall of his chest. When you both wake up, it’s dark outside, and Peter gently lays you down so he can sit up and stretch his arms. 

“You want to have dinner together?”

“Mmm, maybe in a bit. Don’t have much of an appetite.”

“ No, yeah, totally fair – think m’gonna take a shower, though, that okay with you? ”

“ Yeah, of course. Just don’t, like, get sensory overloaded in there or something. I’m sore. ”

“Ha-ha, very funny. I’ll be quick. ” As he walks towards his bathroom, you realize there was something you forgot to get clarification on. You prop yourself up on your elbow so you can look at him more clearly, eyes hopeful in a way he can’t see in the dim light. 

“Hey, Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you write that note? The one that got me to come over here?”

Peter frowns, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. Your heart deflates like the saddest balloon animal on the planet. 

“Ah – no … that was Jean. I’m sorry. It was really screwed up of her to mess with your feelings like that. ” “No, yeah, it makes sense for it to be her, anyway – I knew your writing couldn’t be that bad.” 

He laughs, bounding over and onto the bed to give you a kiss on the forehead, accepting your kiss on the cheek in return. You do a good job at hiding your disappointment, because really, he’s still here, so that means something, no? Maybe this could be it, the very thing you’d been hoping for – seeing the Spider beneath the mask, getting to call him yours. Your Spider-Man, your Peter Parker.

You figure you should go rifle through the kitchen to see what you could make the two of you for dinner. That’s where it catches your eye, the random reflection of blue on his fridge giving you pause. You turn, your eyes landing on his desk, a random coffee cup on it – so messy, you think, walking over to pick it up, the oversized fuzzy socks you’d borrowed from him nearly making you slip on the way there. You hear the rustle inside, notice it’s not empty. 

When you open it, you pull out a piece of notebook paper; curiosity really has always been your downfall. Somehow you haven’t yet learned to stay out of people’s business. 

You turn your head towards the bathroom, latching onto the sound of the shower running to make sure Peter’s still in there. Just a peek couldn’t hurt, right?

When Peter walks back out into the room, towel slung low on his hips, the first thing he registers is that you’re not on his bed anymore. Not completely suspicious; maybe you’re in the kitchen, so he starts to make his way over to check there. 

The next thing he registers is how fucking cold it is in here all of a sudden, a biting draft cutting through the apartment.

“Pinky, did’ya turn on the AC? It’s cold outside, you should just open a window. Also, you really gotta tell me your name, ‘cause you’re not even pink all the time now – ” Peter stops in his tracks, because you did open a window, the window right behind his desk that leads to his fire escape. His brows furrow and his lips pull down into a frown as he steps forward to close it. Weird, but maybe you just forgot. 

The third and final thing Peter registers is the note on the table – a new one, placed next to the coffee cup MJ had given him four years ago. Dread fills his veins like cold lead – you’re not even in the apartment anymore. You’d left it. 

He picks up the note you’d left with shaky hands, scrawled in whatever pen you could find on his workstation – you’d made a quick getaway, clearly. He feels a lump in his throat, remembering all those times you’d ridden your way back to the Bronx. Something tells him that this time, you don’t plan to look back. 

          there’s a girl you’d write a note for. you should tell her.           see ya around, spidey.                 – Y/N <3          p.s. don’t say i never told you anything :P

Unable to do anything to find you but look through an open window, Peter Parker has once again become the loneliest man in the universe.

a/n: SONIC BOOM WILL RETURN. no but actually, she will. this is nowhere near her end with peter for me, so i'm very excited to see where this version of reader goes and how she meets peter again (i've already got stuff planned out ehehehehe so i hope u want to see more of her :3) special thank u to @cardayn for telling me to let this out into the atmosphere <3

note: i am so hungry, and i hope this will also make you all full of peter. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

Walking home alone with too much alcohol in your system makes the city streets feel a little less lonely at night. You stumble slightly over the curb while you check your phone for the time. Spiderman is out there swinging between the buildings somewhere above you. You know he exists without ever trying to follow where he goes. Seeing him on the news occasionally is enough for you. You keep walking down the sidewalk until footsteps drop from the rooftops above you. Tonight feels like an ordinary walk home before someone bumps right into you. Peter is fighting bad headaches that won’t go away no matter what he tries to do about it. His arachnid genes are acting abnormally lately and pushing past his human side in ways he can’t control. He spends his nights searching for a cure because the animal instincts keep taking over his thoughts. Stress makes the biological changes worse tonight since his mind is already exhausted, and seeing MJ kissing another man at her housewarming party earlier today makes it worse.

Watching her with someone else triggered something feral inside him, and it doesn’t help that no one remembers who Peter Parker is anymore. His arachnid instincts take over as he drops over the street before he bumps right into your path. Organic web shoots directly from his wrists instead of mechanical shooters before it wraps around your waist. He grabs you with him to swing around until both of you are up on a rooftop. You don’t know Spiderman personally for him to do that so you think you are in danger as he lands on the roof. The spinning motion, together with the drinks in your stomach, creates a terrible feeling by the time you reach the top of the building. You immediately bend over to throw up all the alcohol in your stomach right onto the roof. He watches you puke before he lets out a loud laugh. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand while he just looks at you and shakes his head.

That first night didn’t end up so terrible because Spiderman brought you home safely after you threw up on the roof. He even apologized for grabbing you off the sidewalk before he left you outside your building. Running into him once feels like a simple coincidence when you think about it the next morning. He knows he doesn’t mean to keep doing it, but he saw you walking home alone weeks later and decided to give you another ride across the city. Happening twice is already something unusual, yet a third or fifth time tells both of you that this is no longer an accident. He can’t control the urges yet since he hasn’t managed to suppress his arachnid genes. Everything that happened on that first night opened his eyes to the idea of trying again. He isn’t actively searching for another girlfriend, though he feels open to the possibility now. He doesn’t understand why his arachnid side feels so protective over you whenever you are out late at night.

He isn’t stalking you by any means, yet his senses alert him whenever someone gets too close to you on the street. He has no idea why his biological instincts react so strongly whenever you walk home alone after a night out. The urge to check on you keeps happening without any clear explanation. Maybe he even programmed your details into E.V so his tech tracks you whenever the cameras catch you walking by yourself. E.V notifies his mask display whenever you leave a building late at night so he can make sure the streets are clear. He tells himself it’s just a safety measure to keep you out of trouble. You never actually saw each other face to face during any of those times E.V watched over you from above. He waited up on the roofs while you walked down the pavement. You only knew he was around when he decided to drop down to pick you up for another ride home. Those repeated trips across the city happened several more times over the past few weeks.

Neither of you talks about why he keeps showing up whenever you are out late. His arachnid side feels satisfied whenever he drops you off safely at your front door. He never fails to bring you home after you finish drinks with your friends. Tonight tests his patience because the alcohol in your system makes you act way too clingy. You wrap your arms around his shoulders instead of holding onto him normally while he takes you above the street. You press your face into his neck right over his collar. He tries to ignore the way you rub your nose against him as he moves between the buildings. “Don’t move around so much up here,” he grunts while he checks the distance to the next roof. You ignore his warning before you inhale the scent of his suit right against his throat. Your mouth opens against the material as you leave small pecks along his neck. He tenses up when your teeth bite down on him through the fabric.

His senses are already too sensitive tonight, so your mouth against his neck distracts him. His web misses the next building after your teeth catch him by surprise. “F-fuck- what are you doing?” he curses as he brings you closer against his chest. Both of you almost fall before he shoots another web to find support and avoid touching the ground. “You smell good,” you mumble against his throat while your teeth nip at him again. He manages to get both of you across the rest of the blocks without falling again. He lands on the floor of your balcony before he sets you down. You refuse to let go of his shoulders even after your feet touch the ground. His arachnid side reacts badly because your mouth keeps trailing over his neck. “Stop biting me,” he warns you as his hands hold your waist. He backs you toward the wall of your apartment while his breathing turns ragged behind his mask. “Mmm- no,” you say before you tug him closer by his shoulders.

He looks down at you with his chest heaving while he tries to control his urges. He raises one arm while he keeps you against the wall of the balcony. A line of web shoots from his wrist toward the knob of your balcony door. It sticks to the handle before he pulls his arm back to slide the door open. He wants you inside because standing out here makes everything too complicated. You ignore the open door while you keep your arms around his shoulders. Your hands leave his shoulders before you reach up toward his mask. You try to pull the red fabric up over his chin so you can look at his face. His right hand leaves your waist before his fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you from lifting it higher. He pushes your hand away from his face while he looks down at you. “Don’t do that,” he warns you as he shoves your wrist back down between your bodies. You try to reach for the mask again with your other hand, but he blocks you easily.

“I can’t let you see me,” he tells you while he keeps your hands away from his head. The alcohol in your system makes you stubborn, so you push your hands against his chest in frustration. You hate that he stops you every time you try to see who hides behind the mask. “That’s not fair,” you complain while you try to wiggle your wrists away from his fingers. He keeps you against the wall while your feet kick slightly against the floor. “You always pick me up and bring me home, but you won’t even show me your face,” you whine as you bump your forehead against his shoulder. He watches you throw a tantrum before he finally lets go of your wrists to guide you through the open balcony door into your living room. He swats your hands away whenever you try to touch his chest again. He walks you backward across the floor while he watches your face. “You’re too drunk tonight,” he tells you as he tries to keep some space between your bodies.

You ignore his warning before you wrap your hands around his arms. “I’m very aware of what I’m doing,” you complain while your fingers caress the fabric of his sleeves. He tries to shake you off, but you refuse to let go of him. You look up at him while he keeps walking you backward across the room. “Don’t you want a reward for keeping me safe?” you ask him while your hands move up to his shoulders. He shakes his head immediately before he tries to remove your hands from his suit. “You need to sleep,” he answers while he pushes you toward your bedroom hallway. You hate that he keeps rejecting you after everything he did for you tonight. You stop walking backward so you can look up at his face. He pulls the bottom of his mask up just enough above his chin to leave his lips exposed so he can catch his breath. You stare at his mouth while he tries to get you to move again.

You lean forward quickly to try to kiss his lips. He catches your shoulders with his hands before your mouth can touch him. He pushes you back away from him while he turns his head to the side. “No,” he warns you as he holds you at arm’s length. You stumble backward into your bedroom while you look at him in disbelief. “Why won’t you let me thank you?” you whine before you try to step toward him again. He acts quickly by shooting a thick line of web around both of your forearms to bind your wrists together behind your back so you stop grabbing him. You stumble back a step until the back of your knees hit the mattress, and you sit down. His hands reach for your ankles before he starts taking your shoes off your feet. He tosses your shoes aside while he tries to ignore the way you keep staring down at him. You spread your legs wider apart on the edge of the mattress to get his attention.

He tries to ignore what you are doing while he drops your second shoe onto the floor. You lift your right leg before you place your foot right on his shoulder. You use your leg to pull his shoulder closer toward the bed. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your knees. “Why are you acting like you don’t want me?” you whine while you pout down at his mask. He lets out a loud sigh before he leans forward between your knees. He drops his forehead right against your thigh with his shoulders tensed up. The mask is rolled up above his chin so his mouth is uncovered. His exposed lips touch the fabric of your pants while he rests his head on your leg. “You’re making it really hard for me to behave tonight,” he warns you as his chest rises against your knees. You feel his breath through your pants while he keeps his forehead on your thigh. He tries to control his arachnid side before he does something he can’t take back.

You feel the web that binds your arms together behind your back. The alcohol makes you bold, so you lean your chest closer toward his face. “I wouldn’t mind if you tied the rest of me up with your web,” you tease him while you nudge his shoulder with your foot. He lifts his head from your thigh to look up at your face. His jaw tightens after he hears what you want him to do. “Jesus- don’t give me ideas like that,” he mutters before his hands reach up to hold your hips. He pulls you closer to the edge of the mattress until your thighs surround his chest. He refuses to back away from you now that you invited him closer. “I can’t do much with my arms tied up anyway,” you tease him while you look down at his exposed mouth. He looks at your face before his hand reaches up to grab your ankle. He removes your foot from his shoulder and sets your heel down onto the floor between his knees. “Are you really going to leave me here like this?” you ask him before you nudge his side with your leg. He shakes his head as he kneels on the floor in front of you.

“This is some freaky shit you’re doing tonight,” you joke while you watch his jaw tighten. He keeps looking at you like he is trying to figure out how far you are going to push this. “Don’t make this harder than it already is,” he warns you while his jaw tightens behind his mask. He keeps his head down as he tries to ignore the way you lean toward him. “If you won’t untie me, then at least help me get my pants off,” you complain while you tilt your chin down at him. You don’t really care about changing your clothes tonight. You only want to make it look like you need help so you can see how far you can push his patience. He looks down at your lap before his thumbs touch the waistband of your pants. He knows you are trying to mess with him, but he refuses to back away from the bed. “Come on, do the belt first,” you chuckle while you wiggle your hips slightly on the mattress. He looks up at your face while he kneels on the floor between your knees.

You watch him hesitate before he reaches for the front of your waist. Both of his hands move to the belt around your pants so he can undo it for you. He removes the belt from your waist. He drags the strap free while you keep your attention on his exposed mouth. He drops the belt onto the floor before his hands return to the sides of your waist. “You took the belt off, but you aren’t going to unzip them?” you complain while you shake your head at him. You start pulling your wrists apart behind your back while he kneels in front of you. “What the fuck is that about?” you ask him while you try to push your hips forward on the mattress. You manage to tear through some of the web around your hands even though it doesn’t come off all the way. You keep pulling your wrists apart while you wait for him to answer you. He hears the web tearing behind your back while he kneels between your knees. He doesn’t try to stop your hands from moving because he is just letting you have your fun.

He ignores what you are doing behind your back while his thumbs move to the top of your pants. “Just stop moving for a second,” he tells you before his fingers pop the button open. He pulls the zipper down until your pants open wide at your waist. You spread your legs wider on the edge of the bed so he can take them off. You wait for him to lean closer, but he surprises you by moving away instead. He crawls backward on his knees two steps away from the edge of the mattress. He pushes your knees together with his hands before he grabs the waistband of your pants. He pulls the pants all the way down your legs in one motion until they slide off your ankles. You smirk down at him because he stripped them off you so easily. “You can look,” you tease him when you notice him turn his head to the side. Your smirk grows bigger as you watch him avoid looking at your red panties. “I’m trying really hard to be responsible here,” he mutters while he looks away from you.

He keeps his eyes away from your waist while he drops your pants onto the floor beside him. “You don’t always have to be the good guy,” you tease him while you wiggle your knees on the edge of the mattress. You pull your wrists apart harder behind your back while you wait for him to look at you. “They match your suit,” you point out as you lean your chest forward. He turns his head back toward you before his eyes drop down to your red panties. He doesn’t mean to stare, but your words make him look anyway. “I knew you wanted to see,” you laugh while you keep working your wrists apart behind your back. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your feet. “You’re not helping my case here,” he groans before he looks up at your face. You stretch the last strands of web behind you while you watch him hesitate. “Take them off,” you tell him as you tilt your chin down at him.

His jaw tightens while he tries to ignore what you want him to do. “It won’t hurt anyone if you do,” you add while your shoulders twist on the bed. His human side wants to back away so he doesn’t take advantage of you. His arachnid instincts fight harder against him because every second near you makes him want to stop holding back. He keeps his mouth shut while his hands hover over his knees. You force your wrists apart until the web snaps behind your back. You bring your arms forward so your hands sit in your lap. The web still covers your fingers and wrists, but your arms are finally free. You grin down at him while you show off what you did. He scoffs at your face because you look so proud of yourself. “You know I let you do that, right?” he asks you while his mouth almost forms a smirk. You ignore his excuse before you rest your hands against your thighs. “I’m stronger than you thought,” you boast while you look down at his exposed lips.

He shakes his head while he reaches forward to touch your knees. You lift your hands to grab his mask again, but he tilts his head back away from your reach. “Keep trying that, and I’m going to tie you to the bed,” he warns you while his hands move up from your knees to your waist. He looks up at your face before his thumbs hook over the waistband of your red panties. “Yeah? With your web?” you smirk down at him as you open your knees wider against his sides. You ignore what his hands are doing at your hips before you grab the bottom of your shirt. You pull the top over your head in one motion and toss it across the bedroom floor. Taking off your shirt leaves you sitting on the mattress in only your underwear and your bra while he kneels between your feet. “Jesus- I told you to stop making this worse,” he mutters while his jaw clenches below the rolled fabric of his mask. You reach your hands behind your back to undo the clasps of your bra so you can take it off too.

He raises his right hand before a line of web shoots from his wrist right onto the center of your bra. He yanks his arm backward so the web snaps the clasps open behind you and pulls the bra away from your chest. He catches the bra with his right hand and throws it into the corner of the room. “I told you not to be stubborn,” he warns you while he drops his right arm back to your waist. You cross your arms over your chest to cover yourself because you didn’t expect him to strip you like that. Your face heats up while you look down at his exposed mouth in surprise. You look up at his eyes through the mask and think they look like they are turning black. You blame the dark room and the bad lighting for making his eyes look so strange. He knows it isn’t the lighting because his arachnid genes are fighting harder to push past his human side. His animal instincts want to take over now that you are sitting unprotected in front of him.

Both of his hands return to your hips before his thumbs hook into the waistband of your red panties. You push his hands away from your waist before you crawl backward toward the middle of the mattress. He gets up from the floor while he watches you get to your feet on the bed. You hook your thumbs into the sides of your panties to push them down your legs. You kick the red fabric off your ankles before you throw it right at his chest. “I can take them off myself,” you tease him while you stand naked in front of him. He catches the underwear with one hand before he lets it drop onto the floor. He tries to avoid looking right between your legs, but his arachnid side takes over. He raises his wrist before a line of web hits your stomach. He yanks his arm backward to pull you off the mattress and into the middle of the bedroom. The web lifts you up so your feet leave the floor. “What the fuck- are you serious right now?” you laugh while you kick your legs in the air.

He ignores you before he lifts his other wrist to send another web around your right forearm. He attaches the other end to the ceiling so your right arm stretches above your head. He casts more web across your waist before he connects the ends to the walls to keep you in place. The web holds you high enough so your hips align with his waist. You yank your free left arm around to see what he will do about it. He releases another line of web around your left wrist before you can swing at him again. He pulls your left arm upward before he attaches the end to the ceiling on the opposite side of the room. Both of your arms spread wide open above your head while the web wraps down to your elbows so you can’t pull your hands down. “Are you going to fuck me like this, spidey?” you tease him while you try to wiggle your hips against the web. He watches you test the hold before he shakes his head at your consistency in trying to get into his pants.

“You wanted me to tie you up,” he grunts before he sends more web across your chest and hips. He attaches the ends to the walls around you until you have nowhere else to go. Your legs dangle in the air while your feet hover above the floor. He aims his wrist at your right leg to put web around your thigh before he lifts your knee up to the side to connect the end to the wall. “Like what you see?” you tease him while you look down at where his eyes drop. He ignores your joke before he raises his left wrist to release more web around your left calf and ankle. He pulls your other knee upward and attaches that web to the opposite wall so your legs spread wide apart. The web bends your knees back until your feet hang high off the bedroom floor. Your entire body hangs in the center of the bedroom right at his hip level with your knees bent back. The web covers your forearms before it wraps around your waist to hold your body up in the air.

Your bent legs hang open so your chest and your cunt are exposed to his eyes. He steps right between your spread knees while he looks down at your waist. You can’t move your limbs away while he stands right in front of you with his mask rolled up above his mouth. “You’re not so talkative now,” he mutters while he looks at your face. You try to wiggle your hips against the web, but it holds you tight in the air. His suited hands reach toward your thigh where the web wraps around your leg. His hands trail slowly over the web while you watch his mouth open slightly. “What’s wrong, spidey? Are you going to leave me here like this?” You laugh as you push your hips forward. His hand leaves your thigh before his palm slaps hard against your exposed cunt. “Ah-! F-fuck-” you gasp while your thighs flex against the web. He watches you react to the slap while his head tilts to the side. “I told you to stop testing me,” he warns you before his hand rests against your inner thigh.

He lifts his left hand between your legs before he presses his covered palm right between your legs. He rubs his palm over you while you try to push your hips forward to meet his hand. The web around your waist holds you in place so you can’t grind against his palm. “Is this what you want?” he asks you while his fingers trace over your wetness. You nod at him while you pout down at his exposed mouth. “You can’t tie me up like this and not give me anything,” you complain as your knees pull against the web. He hums at your answer before he rubs his palm harder against your cunt. “Nnngh-” you gasp while you try to close your legs, but the web keeps your knees apart. He watches your mouth open while he keeps working his hand between your thighs. You try to move your hips again, but the web holds your waist in the air. “You’re really asking me to do this?” he asks you while his teeth clench below the red fabric.

He slows his hand down between your thighs while he waits for your answer. “That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do all night,” you answer while you look down at his face. He stops rubbing your cunt before he pulls his hand away from between your legs. He takes a step back from your feet before he turns around so his back faces your body. He reaches for the shoulders of his suit and starts pulling the fabric down his chest. You watch him peel the top half of the suit off his back while he stands in the middle of the room. “What about the mask?” you ask him as he pushes the suit past his waist. He keeps his back turned toward you while he steps out of the bottom half of the suit. “The mask isn’t coming off,” he tells you while he drops the suit onto the floor. He wears only his boxers and the red mask over his head before he turns around to face your spread knees. He brings his right hand back between your legs without the suit in his way anymore.

He brushes his middle finger down your folds while his thumb presses against your clit. You bite your lower lip and try to wiggle your knees, but the web around your hips stops you from moving closer. He raises his left wrist and shoots another band of web around your right thigh to stop you from moving around. “Ah-! Why did you do that?” you whine as the web wraps tight around your leg. He ignores your complaint before he slips two fingers inside your cunt. “You look adorable tied up in my web like this,” he tells you while he watches your mouth open. You try to push your hips forward to take more of his fingers, but the web holds you back. “Yeah? Adorable enough to actually fuck?” you tease him while you look down at his face. His lips curve up into a smile below his mask before he pushes his fingers deeper inside you. “Nngh-! F-fuck-” you gasp as his fingers move inside your wetness. He watches your chest rise and fall while he keeps his hand between your thighs.

“You’re so desperate tonight, you can’t even wait five seconds,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside your entrance. He pushes his hand deeper between your legs while you look down at his mask. “You’re still holding back on me,” you complain while you try to move your knees against the web. He steps closer between your spread legs and brings his face right next to your neck. His exposed lips press against your throat before he speaks against you. “I’m only doing this for your own good,” he whispers while his fingers work inside your cunt. It’s been years since the last time he touched someone like this or actually had sex with anyone. That’s the main reason he’s been holding back as much as he can all night. His arachnid side wants to swallow his human genes so his animal instincts can take control over his actions. He knows he’s on the edge of breaking if he keeps touching you like this.

He pushes his fingers deeper between your thighs while he listens to your breathing change. You squeeze your cunt tight around his fingers while you look at the top of his head. “So do you want me just to moan spidey all night since I don’t know your real name?” you taunt him as you try to move your hips. He pushes his thumb hard against your clit before he drags his tongue across your neck. “Haaah-! m-mfffh-” you gasp as his mouth leaves your throat before he lifts his head to look at you. He licks his own bottom lip while he thinks about whether he should tell you or keep quiet. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers inside your cunt while he stares at your face through the mask. You look up at his covered face where only his mouth shows below the red fabric. “Don’t you want to hear me moan your actual name?” you ask him before you squeeze your cunt around his fingers again.

You can’t push your hips forward to get his hand deeper because the web holds you in place. He sighs through his nose while his jaw moves under the mask. “Peter- you can call me Peter,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside you. There are thousands of guys named Peter in New York, so you wouldn’t know who he really is anyway. He knows that if he ever takes the mask off to show you his face, then he will just have to keep you by his side so you never tell anyone. You hum when you hear his name while he keeps moving his fingers between your thighs. Your clit starts to throb against his thumb, so you close your eyes and let your mouth fall open. “Mmn- ahhnn-” you breathe out while your head tilts back against the air. He lifts his left hand away from your side and brings it up to your chest. His palm cups your exposed breast while his fingers roll your nipple between them.

He squeezes your breast while his other hand works inside your wetness. “You really know what you’re doing with those hands, Peter,” you tell him while you open your eyes to look down at his mask. He scoffs under his breath because he knows you’re just trying to talk him into fucking you now. Hearing his name from your mouth sends a rush straight down to his cock, so his arachnid side reacts before he can stop it. An embarrassing but small amount of web shoots out from his wrists. “Looks like someone else can’t hold back anymore,” you tease him while you laugh at the white string on his wrist. He pinches your nipple hard before he drops his hand away from your chest. “Ah-! sh-shit-” you gasp while he reaches his hand down to the front of his boxers. He grabs his cock right through the fabric while he stares up at your mouth. “See? I told you that you were just as desperate as me,” you laugh while more slick coats his fingers inside your cunt.

He sighs through his nose before he slips his hand under the waistband of his boxers. He strokes his cock inside his shorts while he watches you try to close your legs. “Stop playing around and take those off,” you complain while you watch his hand move under the fabric. You try to wiggle your hips forward to reach him, but the web keeps you in place. “You want it so bad? Come over here and get it,” he teases you while he keeps his fingers working inside your wetness. You glare up at his masked face because your arms are stretched above your head. “Oh, that’s right... You can’t move because you’re tied up,” he mocks you while he curls his fingers inside your cunt. He watches you try to pull your knees together against the web. “Nngh-! p-please-” you whine out while your hips try to push against his hand. He never stops pumping his fingers between your thighs while his other hand strokes his hard cock inside his shorts.

You shake your head at him because he won’t do anything besides finger you. It frustrates you that you can’t even wiggle your knees away from his touch. “Poor baby... Are you getting impatient?” he laughs while he looks at your pout. He pushes his fingers deeper between your wet folds while he watches your mouth open. “I hate you so much,” you mutter while your cunt squeezes around his fingers. He smiles below his rolled-up mask before he slows down his hand between your legs. “Mhm, you’ve been good enough for me tonight,” he tells you before he pulls his hand out of your cunt. He lifts his wet hand up to his mouth to lick your slick off his fingers. He watches your cunt clench around emptiness while he uses both hands to push his boxers down his hips. He kicks the shorts off his feet away from him across the bedroom floor. You watch him stand naked in front of you with only the red mask covering the top of his head. “Never fucked someone like this before, Peter?” you taunt him while you look down at his cock.

You arch your back against the web while he steps closer to your spread thighs. “Never had someone tied up like a toy without their legs around you?” you ask him while your knees pull against the web. His exposed lips curve into a smirk because he knows you always have to be a smart-ass. He steps closer to your spread legs before he slips his right hand through the web to hold your leg. He uses his free left hand to guide his hard cock right between your thighs. He rubs the head of his cock up and down against your wet folds without pushing inside you yet. “Hah- wait- P-Peter-” you gasp out while he slides his length over your clit. He looks down at your face while you try to push your hips forward against the web. “Shh- quiet down for me,” he whispers before he starts to push his cock slowly between your lips. His left hand guides him inside until his length is deep enough to fill your cunt before he drops his hand and stops pushing forward.

He brings his hand up to your face while you tilt your head to rub your cheek against his palm. “Mmf-” you whine while you lean into his hand. He watches you through the white lenses of his mask while you close your eyes to bite your bottom lip. He looks at the way your face reacts to him opening you up, and he likes seeing you tied up for him. He pushes his hips forward again to slide the rest of his cock inside you. You breathe through your open mouth once he pushes all the way inside your cunt. You open your eyes to look at his covered face because you want to see what he looks like right now. Your eyebrows knit together while tears start to gather in the corners of your eyes. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan while you feel him push your cunt wide open. He squeezes your thigh before he leans forward to rest his forehead against your neck. He starts thrusting his hips back and forth while the web holds your body up.

“You take me so well,” he grunts against your throat while he picks up his pace. He brings his hips back so only the tip of his cock is inside you before he slams himself forward to bury himself deep again. You try to move your knees, but the web forces your legs wide open. “P-peter… please, let me see you-” you beg him while he thrusts fast and hard inside your cunt. He ignores what you asked before his teeth bite down onto the side of your neck. “I told you no- jesus-” he mutters against your throat while his hand squeezes your thigh tighter. He moves his other hand from your cheek to the back of your head so he can tangle his fingers in your hair. He forces your head back while he keeps pumping his cock in and out of your cunt. You cry out against his shoulder while his hips slap against your thighs with every thrust. His lips trail up from your throat to your jaw before he presses his mouth against yours. You close your eyes while he kisses you hard enough to force your teeth apart with his tongue.

He bites down on your bottom lip before he sucks it into his mouth and lets it go to spit right onto your lips. “Mmmph- you’re so-” you moan after he does that, and his tongue licks your lips. He pulls his face back to look at you before his right hand reaches down to snap the web around your right thigh. He pulls your freed leg up against his side so your knee rests beside his hip. The new position lets him push his cock deeper inside your cunt while he holds you close against his body. He watches your face through his white lenses while he keeps moving his hips forward. His left hand rests tangled in your hair behind your head to keep you in place. Your cunt clenches tight around his cock, and his fingers pull back on your hair hard enough to make your scalp burn. His shaft throbs inside your wetness while he watches your mouth fall open. “Do you want your other leg wrapped around me too?” he asks you while his hips slam into your thighs.

You nod at him while you try to move your left knee against the web. He keeps holding your right thigh with his right hand while he raises his left wrist to shoot two fresh bands of web over your arms. It gives your arms more support in the air before his left hand snaps the web around your left calf. He guides your left leg over his waist so both of your thighs wrap around his hips. He grabs both of your hips with his hands while you float in the middle of the room. “You know how good you look right now?” he asks you before he thrusts deeper inside your cunt. His fingers dig so hard into your hip that it hurts your flesh like he wants to devour you. “Nngh-! o-ow- Peter that hurts-” you complain while your hips rock against his cock. He looks down at your face while he slows down for a second. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he tells you while his thumbs push harder into your waist. He leans in closer to your ear to bite it, but it’s just an excuse to be closer to you.

“You’re going to take it like a good girl,” he whispers before he lifts your legs off his waist and puts your ankles up onto his shoulders. He looks down between your bodies to watch his cock slide in and out of your wet cunt. His enhanced hearing picks up every single noise in the bedroom while he speeds up his thrusts. He listens to the wet squelching of your cunt and the loud slap of his hips against your thighs. Your ragged breaths are loud in his ears while he pushes his cock all the way to his pelvis. He holds your ankles on his shoulders while his hips work faster inside your wetness. His fingers caress up and down your calves while he thrusts deep inside you. You get closer to the edge every time he pushes all the way in. You don’t tell him you’re about to cum, but he feels the way you pulse around him. The wetness drips down his shaft while you squeeze him tight. You need to hold onto him while the pleasure builds, so you tug hard against the web around your arms.

“I need you- p-please let me hold you,” you whine while your toes curl against his shoulders. He turns his head to the side to bite down hard onto your calf. He pulls his cock back until only the tip is left inside you before he slams all the way deep again. He fucks you so hard that the web around your body starts to break. The broken pieces weigh you down, but the rest of the web holds you up in the air. He moves his hands away from your legs to tear right through the bands around your waist. His arms wrap tight around your body while he brings you against his chest. “I need you right here with me,” he grunts before he buries his face into your neck. He thrusts deep enough to reach that spot inside your cunt, and it makes you cum instantly. “Nngh-! o-oh god-” you moan while your wetness coats his cock. He feels you cumming around him and his arachnid instincts take over his head. His enhanced strength makes it effortless for him to walk forward and break right through the remaining webs to carry you.

You wrap your arms around his neck before he walks both of you toward the bed without ever pulling his cock out of you. He gets onto the bed so he can lay you down on the mattress and hover over you. Shredded web clings to your arms and your thighs. “You came around me so fast,” he mutters while he looks down at your face. You nod at him before he slowly starts to thrust inside your cunt again. Your hands leave his shoulders to grab the bottom edge of his mask. You push the fabric all the way up over his head to see his face finally. It scares you because his eyes are pitch black instead of human. You open your mouth to react, but he grabs both of your wrists with his hands. He pins your arms down hard onto the mattress beside your head. “Come on- you wanted to see me so bad,” he smirks while he stares down at you. You try to pull your hands out from under his palms, but he keeps smirking at you.

“You’re not even human- you’re a d-demon,” you gasp while you stare up into his black eyes. He ignores what you called him before he thrusts his cock deep into your cunt. “Ahhhnn- f-fuck-” you moan out loud even though you just tried to insult him. He watches your mouth fall open while he keeps his body pressed over you. “Shh- it’s just me,” he mocks you with fake sympathy while he holds your arms down on the bed. He raises his wrists to shoot web right over your forearms to bind them to the bed so your arms are spread wide open again. “You have such playful hands,” he tells you before he lets go of your wrists. He gets up onto his knees between your spread legs before his left hand grabs your waist and his right hand reaches up to grope your breast. “Are you scared of me now?” he asks you while his fingers squeeze your nipple. You shake your head quickly on the pillow, but he smirks down at you from his knees. “You really should be,” he tells you while his right hand squeezes your breast. He pushes his cock deep into your cunt, and his fingers play with your nipple.

His left hand slides down your side to reach between your legs. You try to twist your bound wrists against the mattress before his right hand leaves your chest. He raises his right wrist to shoot an extra layer of web right over your hands. “Stop fighting me, or I’ll shut your mouth for you,” he warns you while his left hand finds your wet clit. He pinches your clit hard enough to make you whine. “Ah-! nn- please-” you beg him while you shake your head on the pillow. You don’t want to piss him off because he keeps staring at you with those black eyes. You spread your thighs wider for him in response, and he takes a deep breath. “That’s a good girl,” he tells you while a smirk forms on his face. He slams his hips forward with more force, and his left thumb rubs back and forth over your clit. He doesn’t care that you just had an orgasm minutes ago because he keeps rubbing exactly where you are most sensitive.

“Mmf- hahh- it’s too much-” you cry out while your cunt clenches around his cock. His right hand goes right back up to your chest to grab your other breast. He squeezes the soft flesh while his hips slap against your thighs. “You look so fucking perfect like this,” he grunts while his thumb flicks over your tight nipple. You want to touch his body badly, but the webs keep your hands pinned to the bed. “Nngh- let me hold you- p-please, Peter,” you beg him while you twist against the web. He looks down at your wrists, and he keeps thrusting into your wetness. “If you want to touch me, then just break free,” he challenges you while he keeps his hands on your body. You stop struggling because you know exactly what he will do if you manage to escape. “Nn- you’d just tie me down again,” you complain while your hips rock up to meet his thrusts. He chuckles above you before he leans all the way down over your body.

He pushes his mouth right against yours for a quick kiss, and he trails his lips down your neck. He moves over to the breast that he neglected earlier to drag his tongue right across the tip. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan out loud while his wet tongue licks your nipple. He moves his face back a few inches to look at you again. “You can try to break free all you want because I don’t bite,” he whispers before he drops his head back down. He wraps his mouth all the way around your nipple, and he bites down hard on the sensitive peak. “F-fuck- ahhhnn-!” you scream out while your back arches off the mattress. The bite makes your cunt squeeze tight around his cock. You thrust your hips up against him while he sucks on your breast. He grunts out loud before he shoves his hips forward to push you deeper into the mattress. He thrusts his cock as deep as he can go while he keeps his teeth pressed into your nipple. His mouth works over your bud while his left hand rubs your wet clit.

His right hand squeezes your other breast before his cock slams deep into your cunt. Having all his attention on your sensitive body pushes you over the edge again. You tear your wrists right through the webs to free your hands from the mattress. You throw your arms around his shoulders so you can tangle your fingers into his hair. You drag your nails down his back while your hips thrust up to welcome every deep pound inside your cunt. “Fuck- yes- mmn- right there,” you moan out loud while you arch your back off the bed. He sucks hard on your breast to take whatever he can get from you. He slams his hips forward faster to match your needy movements. The thought of breeding you takes over his head. He wants to pump all of his cum as deep as he can reach inside your cunt. He feels his balls tighten because he gets closer to cumming with every hit. “I’m going to fill you up so much,” he grunts against your chest before he bites your nipple one more time.

He lifts his mouth from your breast to leave wet kisses up your neck until he reaches your shoulder. He sinks his teeth right into the curve of your shoulder before he pulls away to look at your face. He watches your eyes roll back while his left hand pinches your clit and his right hand pinches your nipple. He rubs his thumb faster over your wetness while he shoves his cock all the way to the base. “You feel so fucking good around me, don’t you?” he praises you before he leans all the way down. He pushes his mouth against yours to force his tongue past your lips. You open your mouth for him so he can taste you while his hips slap against your thighs. “Mmmph- ahhh-” you whine right against his mouth while you kiss him back. The urge to cum gets too close for him to think straight. He doesn’t even notice that his fingers slow down on your clit or how his thrusts become sloppy.

He can feel his cock throb deep inside your wetness. He knows he won’t last another minute before he cums inside you. He bites down hard on your bottom lip until he tastes blood on his tongue. He keeps his teeth there the exact moment his cum starts shooting deep inside your cunt. “Mmf- f-fuck-” he groans against your lips while he empties himself inside you. He leans his forehead against yours while his hips keep moving. He feels how close you are to another orgasm, so he slows his movements down to be gentler. You push his face away to tug on his hair until he opens his eyes. You look up at his face to see that his eyes are normal again. He realizes he is finally back to normal. He moves his hand away from your clit to rest his palm on the mattress beside your neck. He continues to roll his hips between your legs before he leans his forehead against yours again. “I- I’m sorry,” he whispers over your mouth.

You close your eyes to caress his back while you listen to his heavy breaths. “Why are you sorry?” you ask him while your hips move with his thrusts. He takes a moment to catch his breath before he answers you. “I was too rough earlier, and I wasn’t myself,” he mumbles right against your lips. Hearing that makes you bite your bottom lip before you grind your hips up against his cock. You breathe hard against his mouth to share his air before you lean up to kiss him. “I can handle you just fine,” you tell him between soft pants. He moves his face away from yours after he hears that. He wonders if someone can actually take that side of him without getting hurt. His left hand squeezes your chest gently while his cock pushes deeper inside your cunt. He closes his eyes as he feels the wetness coating his shaft. He wants to give you a second orgasm, so his hand balls up into a fist to twist the bedsheets beside your head.

He takes his time to slide all the way out before he pushes back in. “Haaah- oh god- yes,” you whine out loud while your cunt squeezes his cock. You cum hard around him, and he throbs inside you the exact second he feels it. He drops all his weight onto your chest to hide his face in your neck. “That was my first time letting that part of me out,” he whispers against your collarbone. You trace your nails over his shoulders to comfort him. “Let’s hope it was worth it,” you tease him while you wrap your arms around his back. He shivers against you, and his cock twitches deep inside you. He drags his teeth over your collarbone before a ragged exhale leaves his mouth. His body melts completely against your chest, and he refuses to pull out. You let your fingers wander down his sweaty spine while he nuzzles your neck. “More than worth it,” he mumbles back.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

“You don’t have to go,” Mae says. Her voice drops into that soft, placating tone that makes your back teeth grind together. The Pity Tone. “Mom and Dad are worried. Being so far away from the family … from the pack. It’s going to be hard for you.”

“I’m eighteen. I’m going to college. People do it every day.”

“But Briar?” Mae crosses her arms, her scent souring slightly with anxiety. “You don’t know anyone there. And you’re … well.”

“A beta,” you finish for her. You turn to face her, grabbing your duffel bag. “You can say the word, Mae. It’s not a dirty word. I’m a beta. I have no scent, I have no fated mate waiting in the wings to bite my neck, and I don’t need a pack to keep me safe. I just want to play intramural sports, get a degree, and not get looked at like a tragic charity case every Sunday at family dinner.”

“We don’t look at you like a charity case.”

“Right. Which is why Mom left a pamphlet for ‘Finding Fulfillment Outside the Bond’ on my pillow last Tuesday.” You sling the strap over your shoulder. “I’m going to Briar. I need a change of scenery. I need to be somewhere where nobody knows my medical history.”

Mae sighs, stepping aside as you move into the hallway. “Just … call us when you get there. Please?”

“I will.”

You walk down the stairs of the only house you’ve ever known, surrounded by the heavy, mingled scents of three generations of alphas and omegas. It’s overwhelming. It’s suffocating. For the past two years, ever since you turned sixteen and didn’t present, the waiting game had been agonizing. When eighteen came and went without a single heat, a single scent drop, the verdict was final. You’re a beta.

You push out the front door, the crisp morning air a welcome relief against your skin. You toss your bags into the trunk of your beat-up sedan. No mate. No destiny. Just you, the highway, and a desperate need to breathe.

***

Two states away, the kitchen of the off-campus hockey house smells like burnt toast, stale beer, and the distinct, woodsy musk of four agitated alphas.

“I’m telling you, the girl is a menace,” Dean complains, leaning back against the kitchen island with a mug of black coffee. He’s wearing nothing but sweatpants, his hair sticking up in every direction. “She texted me six times before 8 AM. Who does that?”

Logan snorts from the kitchen table, not looking up from his phone. “Maybe she actually likes you, Di Laurentis. Terrifying concept, I know.”

“She likes the idea of me,” Dean corrects, taking a sip of his coffee. “She likes the trust fund and the fact that my parents own half of Manhattan. And the jawline. Mostly the jawline.”

“Your humility is truly a gift to us all,” Tucker says mildly. He’s at the stove, patiently scraping Dean’s ruined attempt at breakfast into the trash and starting fresh with a carton of eggs. Tucker is the only one in the house who actually knows how to use a spatula without setting the smoke alarm off. “You could just tell her you’re not interested.”

“And break her heart? Tuck, I’m a lover. I can’t be cruel.”

“You’re a whore,” Logan corrects, finally setting his phone face down.

There’s a tight set to Logan’s jaw that wasn’t there five minutes ago. Dean notices it. Tucker notices it. As alphas in a pack, the shift in pheromones is impossible to miss — a sharp, bitter spike of stress cutting through Logan’s usual easygoing cedar scent.

“Everything good?” Tucker asks, keeping his eyes on the eggs.

“Fine,” Logan clips out. He taps his fingers against the wooden table. “Just … my brother. Texted about the shop. The old man went on a bender last night, didn’t lock up. Some kids spray-painted the garage doors.”

Dean frowns, setting his mug down. “Do you need to go back? I can wire you cash if they need to cover damages-”

“No, Dean. Keep your money,” Logan says, rubbing a hand over his face. The irritation softens into exhaustion. “My brother handled it. That’s the deal. He holds down the fort with Logan & Sons while I’m here. Once I graduate, I take the shop, take the old man, and he gets his life back. I just hate … I hate that he’s dealing with it alone.”

“He’s not alone,” a new voice cuts in.

Garrett steps into the kitchen. He’s already in his workout gear, a towel draped around his neck. The house immediately shifts. The tension in the air doesn’t vanish, but it stabilizes. Garrett is the captain, on and off the ice.

“Your brother knows what he signed up for, and you’re keeping your end of the bargain by staying here and finishing your degree,” Garrett says, walking over to the fridge to grab a bottle of water. He looks at Logan. “If it gets to be too much, the pack steps in. You know that. We’ll drive down there this weekend and paint the damn doors ourselves if we have to.”

Logan looks up, offering a tired but genuine smirk. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, G.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m bagging you on the ice today for being late to the kitchen.” Garrett unscrews the cap of his water. “Where are we on groceries? Because if I have to eat another one of Tucker’s healthy kale things, I’m going to start chewing on the drywall.”

“Hey, my cooking keeps you animals in peak physical condition,” Tucker defends, flipping an omelet. “And we’re out of everything. Someone needs to do a run.”

“Not it,” Dean says immediately.

“Not it,” Logan echoes.

Garrett sighs. “Fine. I’ll go after practice.”

He turns around, gripping the edge of the counter. His knuckles are white. Dean catches Logan’s eye, a silent conversation passing between them. Garrett’s phone had been buzzing all morning. Every time it rang, the caller ID flashing a New York area code, Garrett’s scent turned dark, heavy, and bruised.

His father.

Nobody says a word. The pack doesn’t push when Garrett gets like this. They just close ranks. Tucker slides a plate of eggs toward him.

“Eat,” Tucker says softly. “We’ve got drills in an hour.”

Garrett nods, his grip loosening on the counter. “Yeah. Let’s eat.”

***

The drive up I-95 is a blur of highway signs and bad radio stations. You keep the windows cracked, letting the wind whip your hair around your face. You’ve been driving for hours, alone with your thoughts.

You think about your parents. You know they love you. You know their pity comes from a place of genuine concern. In a world dictated by biology — by alphas protecting and omegas nurturing — being a beta feels like being a ghost. You don’t trigger instincts. You don’t fit the grand, biological design.

Your mom had cried when you packed the car. Your dad had awkwardly patted your shoulder and told you to keep your pepper spray on your keychain. Because you don’t have an alpha to protect you.

“I don’t need one,” you say aloud to the empty car. Your voice sounds small against the rush of the wind.

You grip the steering wheel tighter. Briar University is a fresh start. A massive campus filled with thousands of students. You can just be a face in the crowd. A girl getting a degree in history, or maybe English. You haven’t decided yet. The point is, you get to decide. Not your biology. Not a fated mate. Just you.

You pull into a rest stop somewhere in Connecticut to get gas and stretch your legs. The air here is different. Colder. Sharper. You walk into the convenience store to buy a coffee, stepping aside as a couple walks out. The guy is massive, clearly an alpha, with his arm wrapped protectively around a smaller omega who smells strongly of peaches and contentment.

You feel the familiar pang in your chest — a sharp, stabbing ache that you quickly push down. It’s not jealousy, exactly. It’s grief. Grief for an experience you were told you would have, a promise the universe broke.

You pay for your black coffee, ignore the cashier’s bored expression, and walk back out to your car.

“No more feeling sorry for yourself,” you mutter, climbing into the driver’s seat. “You’re done with that.”

You put the car in drive and merge back onto the highway. Briar is waiting.

***

The ice is where it all makes sense.

For Garrett, the rink is the only place where the noise stops. The ringing in his ears from his father’s screaming voicemails — calling him a disappointment, a failure, telling him he’ll never be half the player his old man was before he wrecked his knee. The memories of his mother, fading away in a hospital bed, the only person who ever looked at him with something other than expectation or rage.

Out here, the cold bites his lungs, and all that matters is the puck.

“Pass it, G!” Logan yells, his skates carving a sharp turn near the boards.

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. He snaps a perfect, blind pass right to Logan’s stick. Logan catches it, dekes past a freshman defenseman who looks like he’s about to pee his pants, and roofs the puck over the goalie’s shoulder.

The net bulges.

“Yeah, baby!” Dean howls, slamming his stick against the ice in approval.

Coach Jensen blows the whistle. “Alright, that’s it! Bring it in!”

The team gathers around the bench, chest-heaving, sweat dripping from their helmets. The alpha pheromones rolling off the squad are intense — a chaotic mix of adrenaline, aggression, and dominance. But Garrett’s scent cuts through it all, a grounding, authoritative winter-pine that forces the younger guys to straighten up and pay attention.

“Good hustle today,” Coach barks. “Graham, you and the seniors keep the rookies in line. First game is in three weeks. We don’t slack off.”

“Yes, Coach,” Garrett says.

As the team filters into the locker room, the banter starts up immediately. Towels are snapped, chirps are thrown. Dean is already talking about a party off-campus tonight.

“Delta house on frat row,” Dean says, unlacing his skates. “I hear it’s an open invite. We should make an appearance.”

“I have a paper due,” Tucker says, pulling his jersey over his head.

“Tuck, it’s the first week of classes. You don’t have a paper due.”

“I like to get ahead of the syllabus.”

Logan laughs, tossing a roll of tape at Dean’s head. “He’s not going, man. And I’m exhausted. Count me out.”

Dean looks at Garrett, a desperate plea in his eyes. “G. Come on. Captain. Leader. Wingman. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Garrett pulls his skates off, staring at the concrete floor. His phone is in his locker. He knows if he checks it, there will be another message. Another reminder of the man waiting for him back in New York, the man who owns him until Garrett signs an NHL contract and can finally cut him off for good.

“Fine,” Garrett says, standing up. “We’ll go. For an hour. But if you start making out with someone in the kitchen again and leave me standing around holding a red solo cup, I’m walking home.”

Dean grins, a triumphant, blinding smile. “You’re the best, G. Truly a man of the people.”

Logan shakes his head, leaning over to bump his shoulder against Garrett’s. “You don’t have to babysit him, you know.”

“If I don’t, he’ll end up accidentally pledging a sorority,” Garrett deadpans.

Logan laughs, the tight stress from this morning fully melted away. They walk toward the showers, a unified front. The four of them against the world. They don’t need anyone else.

***

You drag your second suitcase up three flights of stairs because the elevator in the freshman dorm is broken. Of course it is.

By the time you find Room 382, you’re sweating, out of breath, and seriously questioning your life choices. You unlock the door and push it open.

The room is tiny. Two twin beds, two desks, one microscopic window looking out over the quad. It smells like industrial cleaner and old dust. But it’s yours.

Your roommate hasn’t arrived yet. The bed on the left is bare. You claim the one by the window, dropping your suitcase onto the mattress with a heavy thud.

You sit down next to it, resting your head against the cool drywall. You can hear the sounds of campus outside — shouting, laughter, the rolling wheels of luggage. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath.

There’s no scent of vanilla. No scent of pine. No pack.

For the first time in your life, you are completely, totally alone.

You smile.

“Okay,” you whisper to the empty room. “Let’s do this.”

You open your suitcase and start unpacking your sweaters. You hang them up one by one in the tiny closet, organizing them by color. You set your books on the desk. You make the bed with the plain grey sheets you bought at Target.

You don’t put up any photos of your family. Not yet. It hurts too much to look at them — to see your parents holding hands, the bond mark on your mother’s neck clearly visible. To see Mae and her mate. To see what you can’t have.

Someone knocks on the open door.

You turn around. A girl with chunky highlights and a nose ring is standing there, holding a massive cardboard box. She smells faintly of cinnamon. An omega.

“Hey,” she says, blowing a bubble with her gum. “You’re Y/N, right? I’m Brooke. Your roommate.”

“Hi,” you say, standing up. “Need help with that?”

“God, yes. This box weighs more than my will to live.”

You walk over and grab the other end of the box, helping her haul it onto the bare bed.

“Thanks,” Brooke pants, wiping her forehead. She looks at you, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tilts her head. She takes a subtle breath in. You stiffen, bracing yourself for the inevitable question. The confusion.

“You’re a beta?” Brooke asks, her tone completely casual.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice tight. “I am.”

Brooke just shrugs, digging into the box. “Cool. Means I don’t have to worry about you going into a rut and destroying our room. My last roommate was an alpha, and she punched a hole in the door over a bad grade. So. Big win for me.”

You blink. “That’s … it? You don’t care?”

Brooke pauses, looking back at you with an amused expression. “Should I? Are you going to steal my clothes?”

“No.”

“Then we’re good.” She pulls out a stack of posters. “Hey, there’s a huge party off-campus tonight. Some guys on the hockey team are hosting, or showing up, I don’t know. You want to go? I hate walking into these things alone.”

A party. Loud music. Sweaty bodies. Alphas and omegas pairing off. Everything you came here to escape.

But you look at Brooke, who isn’t looking at you with pity. She’s just looking at you like you’re a normal eighteen-year-old girl.

“Yeah,” you say, a genuine smile breaking across your face. “Yeah, I’d love to go.”

***

The party is exactly what you expected, and somehow ten times worse.

The Delta house is a massive, sprawling colonial packed wall-to-wall with sweating, dancing, drinking college students. The bass from the speakers rattles your teeth in your skull. Brooke disappeared into the crowd roughly five minutes after you walked through the front door, leaving you standing awkwardly near a sticky kitchen counter.

You grip your red Solo cup like a lifeline. You haven’t actually taken a sip yet. You’re just using it as a prop so you don’t look like a total loser.

“First time?”

You blink, turning to your right. A guy is leaning against the fridge. He’s tall, wearing a backward baseball cap, and he smells like cheap beer and an overwhelming wave of alpha musk. It’s cloying, too sweet and too aggressive all at once.

“Is it that obvious?” You ask, shifting your weight.

“A little.” He flashes a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He steps closer, invading your personal space. “I’m Brad. I haven’t seen you around before.”

“I’m a freshman. I just moved in today.”

“Ah. Fresh meat.” He chuckles at his own joke. You don’t laugh. “Look, you look a little stiff. Here. Let me top that off for you. It’s jungle juice. Best on campus.”

Before you can protest, he takes your cup, dips it into a massive orange cooler on the island, and hands it back.

“Drink up,” Brad says. “It’ll help you loosen up.”

You take a small sip, mostly just to get him to stop staring at your mouth. It tastes like Hawaiian Punch and rubbing alcohol.

“Thanks,” you mutter. “I’m going to go find my roommate.”

You turn your back on him, slipping into the throng of bodies in the living room. You take another sip of the drink as you navigate the crowd, trying to scan the sea of faces for Brooke’s bright pink hair.

Five minutes pass. Then ten.

And then, the floor drops out from under you.

It starts as a bizarre lightness in your head, a dizzying spin that makes the room tilt sideways. You stumble, your shoulder slamming into a girl dancing next to you.

“Hey, watch it!” She snaps.

You try to apologize, but your tongue feels thick. Heavy. You look down at your hand. You’ve dropped your cup. It’s rolling across the floor, splashing red liquid on the scuffed hardwood.

Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

A cold sweat breaks out across your forehead. Your legs feel like lead, and your vision is tunneling, the edges blurring into a fuzzy grey. The noise of the party suddenly sounds like it’s underwater.

I need to get out of here. I need to sit down. You push past a group of guys, ignoring their annoyed grunts. You need a bathroom. A quiet place. You stumble down a hallway, dragging your hand along the wall to keep yourself upright.

You find a door at the end of the hall, twist the knob, and fall inside. You kick the door shut and lock it, collapsing onto the cold tile floor.

The moment your knees hit the ground, the cold numbness in your limbs vanishes, replaced by an agonizing, explosive heat.

A scream tears from your throat, but it sounds weak, mangled. It feels like someone struck a match inside your veins. Your chest tightens, a violent, crushing pressure seizing your lungs.

This isn’t just whatever was in that drink. This is something else.

You clutch your stomach, curling into a tight ball on the floor. Your skin is on fire. Your bones feel like they are melting, restructuring, breaking apart from the inside.

I’m dying, you think, terror clawing at your fading consciousness. The drug. It’s killing me.

But beneath the terrifying, paralyzing lethargy of the roofie, there is a frantic, biological desperate push. Your body is fighting the sedative. Your biology, dormant for years, is violently ripping itself awake to purge the poison.

You’re presenting.

You’re presenting right now, pumped full of a predatory drug, your body tearing itself apart to force the transition. You sob, but your muscles are too weak from the drug to even thrash. You just lie there, trapped in a paralyzed, burning hell.

***

Two rooms over, Dean is holding court.

He’s currently charming three omegas by the fireplace, flashing his trademark dimples and expertly dodging their subtle attempts to scent him.

Garrett is leaning against the wall beside him, nursing a beer he hasn’t drank from in twenty minutes. His jaw is tight. He hates these parties. The mingled scents of desperate alphas and eager omegas give him a headache.

“So, Dean,” one of the omegas purrs, stepping closer. “Are you guys sticking around for the after-party?”

“Depends,” Dean says smoothly. “Are you going to be-”

Dean stops.

He freezes mid-sentence. His posture completely shifts, the casual, relaxed slouch vanishing, replaced by something rigid and terrifyingly still.

Garrett feels it a split second later.

It hits them like a physical blow to the chest. A scent cuts through the stale beer, the sweat, the cheap perfume. It’s the most intoxicating thing Garrett has ever breathed in. It smells like rain on hot asphalt. Like crushed vanilla beans and something dark, sweet, and entirely consuming.

It’s the scent of an omega.

But not just an omega.

Mate. The word echoes in Garrett’s skull, primal and undeniable. His alpha roars to the surface, violent and possessive. He drops his beer bottle. It shatters on the floor.

He looks at Dean. Dean’s eyes are blown wide, his pupils dilated until almost the entire iris is black.

“Garrett,” Dean chokes out, his voice a ragged whisper.

“I know,” Garrett growls.

But the euphoria of the bond is instantly obliterated by what’s laced underneath the scent.

Terror. Pain. Sickening, chemical distress.

Their mate is in agony.

“Move!” Garrett roars, shoving past the omegas.

He and Dean tear through the living room. They aren’t humans anymore; they are predators tracking a wounded center. People scream and dive out of the way as the two massive hockey players barrel through the crowd, completely feral.

“Where?” Dean snarls, his head snapping back and forth.

“Hallway,” Garrett barks. “End of the hall.”

They hit the hallway at a sprint. The scent is overpowering here, thick and suffocating with distress. Garrett grabs the handle of the locked bathroom door. He doesn’t bother asking who is inside. He doesn’t bother knocking.

He takes one step back, raises his boot, and kicks the door right off its hinges.

Wood splinters. The door crashes inward.

Garrett and Dean freeze in the doorway.

You are curled on the floor, trembling violently. Your skin is flushed a feverish red, covered in a sheen of sweat. You’re making a weak, whimpering sound, your eyes rolling back in your head.

“No,” Dean breathes out, dropping to his knees instantly.

Garrett is right beside him. He reaches out, his large hands hovering over you for a fraction of a second before he gently, carefully rolls you onto your back.

The moment his skin touches yours, a jolt of electricity violently shocks through both of you. You gasp, your eyes snapping open for a second. They are hazy, unfocused, but you stare right up at him.

“Hurts,” you manage to slur, your voice barely a rasp. “Burning.”

“I know, baby, I know. I’ve got you,” Garrett says, his voice thick with an emotion he’s never felt before.

He pulls you into his lap, ignoring the way you flinch. He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. He releases a heavy, concentrated wave of soothing alpha pheromones, trying to blanket your pain.

Dean grabs your hand, his thumb desperately rubbing circles into your palm. “Garrett. G. Her scent. It’s … it’s mine. She’s my mate.”

Garrett looks up, his eyes flashing a dangerous, possessive. “She’s mine, Dean.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. The two alphas stare at each other over your trembling body, the air between them turning volatile, lethal. A fight over a mate is a bloodbath.

But then Dean takes a sharp breath, his eyes widening. He looks from Garrett to you, and back to Garrett.

“You feel it too,” Dean whispers. “The pull. It’s … it’s anchoring to both of us.”

Garrett swallows hard, the aggressive spike in his chest leveling out into something infinitely more complex. He looks down at you. You belong to him. He knows that down to his marrow. But the bond isn’t fighting Dean’s presence. It’s welcoming it.

They share her.

“We’ll figure that out later,” Garrett says harshly, forcing his focus back to the immediate crisis. He presses two fingers to the pulse point on your neck. It’s erratic, fluttering dangerously fast. “Something is wrong with her, Dean. This isn’t just a bad presentation.”

Dean leans closer, sniffing your hair, your mouth. His face twists into a snarl of pure, unfiltered rage.

“Chemicals,” Dean spits out. “Sedative. Somebody roofied her, G. She’s been drugged.”

Garrett’s blood runs entirely cold. “A late presentation triggered by a roofie? The drug is telling her nervous system to shut down, and the presentation is trying to jumpstart it. Her body is tearing itself apart.”

“We need to get her to a hospital.”

“No,” Garrett says immediately. “You take an unbonded omega in the middle of a traumatic presentation into a crowded ER full of strange alphas, she’ll go into shock and her heart will give out. We need to get her to the house. It’s safe. We can scent her, ground her.”

“She needs a doctor, Garrett!”

“Tucker’s mom is an ER nurse, he knows exactly what to do,” Garrett barks. “And we are not leaving her alone with strangers right now. Call Logan. Tell him to bring the truck to the back door. Now!”

Dean doesn’t argue. The feral edge in Garrett’s voice leaves no room for debate. Dean rips his phone out of his pocket, his hands shaking so badly he almost drops it. He hits Logan’s speed dial.

It rings twice.

“What?” Logan answers, sounding half-asleep.

“Logan, get the truck. Back alley of the Delta house on 4th. Now.”

“Dean? What the hell is going on? You sound-”

“Our mate,” Dean chokes out, tears of sheer panic pricking the corners of his eyes as he watches you seize slightly in Garrett’s arms. “We found our mate. And she’s dying. Get Tucker. Get here now.”

The line goes dead.

Dean drops the phone. He crowds in closer, wrapping his arms around your legs, needing to touch you, needing to flood your system with as much comfort as he can.

“Keep breathing, sweetheart,” Dean begs, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Just keep breathing for me. We’re getting you out of here.”

You can barely hear him. The roaring in your ears is deafening. But through the agonizing fire burning in your veins, through the heavy, suffocating fog of the drug, you feel them.

Pine and cedar. Mint and leather.

The scents are wrapping around you, anchoring you to the floor, fighting the darkness trying to pull you under. You lean your head against Garrett’s chest, completely helpless.

***

Logan breaks every single traffic law in the state of Massachusetts getting to the frat row.

He slams on the brakes, the truck fishtailing into the dark, trash-strewn alley behind the omega house. Tucker is in the passenger seat, already unbuckling his seatbelt before the truck even comes to a complete stop.

“Grab the blankets from the back,” Tucker orders, his voice eerily calm, though his jaw is locked so tight a muscle ticks furiously in his cheek.

Logan throws the truck into park and leaps out. They don’t even have to go inside.

The back door of the house bursts open. Garrett stalks down the stairs, carrying a small, limp figure in his arms. Dean is right on his heels, flanking him, his eyes scanning the alley like a predator looking for a threat.

Logan freezes.

The scent hits him from ten yards away.

Rain on hot asphalt. Vanilla.

Logan’s knees actually buckle for a fraction of a second. A raw, guttural sound rips from his throat. Mine. The instinct is absolute. It wipes away every rational thought in his head, replacing it with a singular, violent need to possess and protect.

He looks at Tucker. Tucker has stopped dead in his tracks, dropping the blankets onto the asphalt. Tucker, the calmest, most rational alpha in the pack, looks like he’s about to tear someone’s throat out with his teeth.

“Tucker?” Logan breathes.

“She’s ours,” Tucker says, his voice a dark, lethal rumble. “All of ours.”

There’s no time to process the impossibility of a four-alpha mate bond. Garrett reaches the truck, his face pale and terrifyingly desperate.

“Open the damn door, Logan!” Garrett roars.

Logan snaps out of his shock. He rips the backseat door open. Garrett carefully slides into the back, keeping you cradled in his lap. Dean shoves in right next to him, pressing his body along your side.

Tucker grabs the blankets from the ground, shakes off the dirt, and climbs into the front passenger seat. Logan jumps behind the wheel.

“Drive,” Garrett commands. “Fast.”

Logan hits the gas. The truck peels out of the alley, tires screaming against the pavement.

“What happened?” Tucker asks, twisting around in his seat to look into the back.

The moment Tucker’s eyes land on you, his breath hitches. You look incredibly small. Your face is ashen, save for the unnatural, feverish flush high on your cheeks. You’re barely conscious, your chest rising and falling in shallow, jagged gasps.

“Someone slipped something in her drink,” Dean says, his voice thick with rage. “A roofie. And it forced her to present.”

Logan grips the steering wheel so hard the leather groans. A low, vibrating growl fills the cab of the truck. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “But when I find out, I’m going to kill him. I’m going to actually kill him.”

“We’ll find him later,” Tucker says sharply, forcing his own murderous rage down. He needs to be the medic right now. “G, how hot is she?”

“She’s burning up, Tuck. Her pulse is everywhere,” Garrett says, running a trembling hand through your sweat-soaked hair.

“The drug is a depressant. It’s fighting her adrenaline and presentation hormones. If her fever gets too high, she’ll start seizing,” Tucker explains rapidly. “We need to get her in an ice bath the second we get home to regulate her temperature, and we need to flush her system.”

“Water?” Dean asks.

“Yes. And our scents. She needs all four of us. The bond is the only thing that’s going to guide her biology through the transition right now. We have to overpower the panic.”

Logan runs a red light, swerving around a slow-moving sedan. “Five minutes out.”

In the backseat, you let out a choked, wet sob.

The pain is shifting. The burning is spreading from your veins into your nerve endings. It feels like your skin is being peeled back. You don’t know these men. You don’t know whose truck you are in. But the scents surrounding you are the only things keeping you from completely shattering.

“Please,” you whimper, blindly grabbing a fistful of Garrett’s shirt. “Make it stop. Please.”

“Shh, I know, baby. I’m so sorry,” Garrett murmurs, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. “We’ve got you. We’re right here. Just hold on for us.”

“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling the truck violently into the driveway of their off-campus house.

Before Logan even turns the engine off, Garrett is opening the door. He carries you out of the truck, moving with terrifying speed. Tucker has the front door unlocked and thrown open in seconds.

They bypass the living room, heading straight for the massive master bathroom on the first floor.

“Turn the shower on. Cold. All the way,” Tucker orders Dean.

Dean practically rips the shower knob off the wall, turning the water to freezing.

“Garrett, get her in there,” Tucker says. “Don’t bother taking her clothes off, it’ll take too much time.”

Garrett steps right into the massive walk-in shower with you, his sneakers and clothes immediately soaking through. He sits down on the tiled floor, pulling you into his chest as the freezing water rains down on both of you.

The shock of the cold water makes you gasp, your back arching violently.

“Hold her down, G!” Tucker says, dropping to his knees outside the shower stall.

Garrett wraps his arms tightly around you, holding you flush against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

Dean sits on the floor right outside the shower, reaching in to grip your ankle, desperately needing to maintain contact. Logan paces the bathroom like a caged tiger, the space filling with the overwhelming, frantic scents of four terrified alphas.

“Tuck, she’s shivering!” Garrett says, panic bleeding into his voice.

“She has to. It brings the fever down,” Tucker says, grabbing a towel and soaking it in the cold water. He reaches in and presses the wet towel to

the back of your neck. “Talk to her. All of you. Let her know her pack is here.”

You are thrashing now, the drug losing ground to the sheer, overwhelming force of the omega presentation. You are terrified, confused, and drowning in pain.

“Sweetheart,” Dean says loudly, his voice shaking. “Look at me. Can you open your eyes for me?”

You force your heavy eyelids open. You see Dean’s face, pale and streaked with water.

“That’s it,” Dean praises softly. “I’m Dean. This is Garrett holding you. That’s Tucker and Logan. You’re safe. We brought you home.”

“Don’t know you,” you slur, your teeth chattering violently.

“You do,” Logan says, kneeling down next to Dean. His voice is a deep, resonant rumble that vibrates right into your chest. “You just don’t realize it yet. You’re ours.”

“My pack,” you whisper, the word slipping out of you entirely on instinct.

“Yeah, baby,” Garrett breathes, tightening his hold on you. “Your pack.”

The presentation finally hits its peak. A massive, suffocating wave of heat surges out of your body, radiating outward, hitting the four men like a physical wall. Your scent — pure, sweet, unbridled omega — floods the bathroom, drowning out the sour notes of distress and the sharp tang of the chemicals.

It is the most beautiful thing any of them have ever experienced.

And then, just as quickly as it peaked, the energy leaves you. The drug’s last remnants are burned away by the biological shift, and your exhausted body finally gives out.

Your eyes roll back, and you go completely limp in Garrett’s arms.

“Y/N!” Dean shouts.

“She’s okay,” Tucker says quickly, reaching in to check your pulse. He lets out a massive, shaky breath, slumping back on his heels. “She’s okay. Her pulse is stabilizing. The fever broke. She passed out from exhaustion.”

Garrett rests his forehead against your wet hair, closing his eyes. His massive chest heaves as he tries to rein in his feral alpha instincts.

Logan slowly sinks to the floor, leaning back against the sink cabinet, burying his face in his hands.

For a long moment, the only sound in the bathroom is the rush of the freezing shower water and the ragged breathing of four men who just had their entire world permanently altered.

Garrett looks up, his eyes locking onto Dean, then Logan, then Tucker. The pack dynamic has irrevocably shifted. There is no jealousy. There is no competition.

There is only the pack, and the center they must now protect with their lives.

“Tomorrow,” Garrett says, his voice cold and terrifyingly calm over the noise of the water. “We find the guy who gave her that drink.”

Dean looks at your sleeping face, his jaw setting into a brutal line. “And we break every single bone in his hands.”

Logan lowers his hands from his face. “No. We break him entirely.”

***

You wake up to the sensation of being completely, entirely safe.

It’s a foreign feeling. For the past two years, your underlying state of being has been a low-grade, buzzing anxiety. But right now, as you slowly drag yourself out of a deep, dreamless sleep, your muscles are loose. The mattress beneath you is ridiculously soft, and the heavy duvet draped over your body feels like a weighted shield against the world.

You keep your eyes closed for another minute, just breathing.

That’s when you notice the smell.

Your childhood home smelled like vanilla, baking spices, and a chaotic, overwhelming mix of your parents and siblings. It always felt a little suffocating. But the scent wrapped around you right now — soaked into the pillows, the sheets, the very air in the room — is different.

It’s pine needles and crisp winter air. It’s warm cedar wood. It’s fresh mint, and dark, worn leather.

The combination shouldn’t work, but it does. It weaves together into a flawless, intoxicating tapestry that makes a low, rumbling purr start in the back of your throat.

Wait. A purr?

Your eyes snap open.

The panic hits you like a bucket of ice water. You sit up so fast your head spins. This isn’t your tiny dorm room. This is a massive bedroom with dark grey walls, a huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, and hockey gear piled in the corner.

You look down at yourself. You aren’t wearing the jeans and t-shirt you wore to the party. You’re drowning in a black Briar University Hockey t-shirt that falls mid-thigh, and a pair of grey sweatpants with the drawstrings pulled as tight as they can go, the waist rolled down three times just to keep them on your hips.

The clothes swallow you whole, and they smell intensely of the four scents blanketing the room.

The memories hit you in broken, terrifying shards. The party. The red Solo cup. The sudden, agonizing heat tearing through your veins. The locked bathroom door crashing inward. Freezing water. The desperate voices.

I’m Dean. This is Garrett holding you. That’s Tucker and Logan.

My pack, you had whispered.

You press your hands to your face, your breathing hitching. You presented. The roofie forced your body into an aggressive, violent presentation. You’re an omega.

You drop your hands and look at your wrists, taking a deep, experimental breath. Beneath the heavy musk of the four alphas, you can smell it. Vanilla, rain, and hot asphalt. It’s yours. You have a scent. You have a dynamic.

And apparently, you have mates. Four of them.

“Okay. Okay, don’t freak out,” you whisper to the empty room. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your body feels slightly bruised, a lingering ache in your joints from the brutal biological shift, but your mind is strangely clear. Sharper, even.

You stand up. The sweatpants pool around your bare feet. You roll the cuffs up a few times so you don’t trip, take a deep breath, and open the bedroom door.

The hallway is quiet, lined with three other closed doors. You pad softly down the hardwood stairs, gripping the banister. You can hear low voices coming from the first floor, the clinking of silverware against ceramic.

You reach the bottom of the stairs and peek around the corner into a massive, open-concept kitchen and living room.

They are all there.

One of them — tall, blond, with a jawline that looks carved out of marble — is sitting on a barstool, nursing a mug of coffee. Another, with a mess of dark curls, is leaning against the fridge, scrolling through his phone. A third guy, built like a brick wall with soft, observant eyes, is at the stove flipping pancakes. And the last one, the one who had held you in the freezing shower, is wiping down the island counter, his broad shoulders shifting under a tight grey t-shirt.

You take a step forward, the floorboard creaking beneath your foot.

Every single one of them stops moving.

It’s instantaneous. The guy at the stove freezes with the spatula in mid-air. The blond guy lowers his mug. The curly guy’s head snaps up. The guy wiping the counter drops the rag.

Four sets of eyes lock onto you.

The silence in the kitchen is deafening. You stand near the edge of the living room, nervously twisting the hem of the massive hockey shirt. By all logical accounts, this should be the most awkward, terrifying moment of your life. You are in a strange house with four massive alphas you barely know, and you were completely incapacitated the last time you saw them. You should be running for the front door.

But your biology is singing.

The moment their eyes meet yours, a heavy, settling warmth floods your chest. The lingering anxiety from waking up vanishes entirely. Your inner omega doesn’t see strangers; she sees safety. She sees pack.

“You’re awake,” the one with the grey shirt says. His voice is a deep, gravelly baritone that sends a shiver straight down your spine. Garrett. You remember his name.

“I’m awake,” you confirm, your voice a little raspy.

Garrett takes a slow step toward you, as if approaching a wild animal that might bolt. His eyes are sweeping over you, taking in the oversized clothes, the messy hair, the way you’re shifting on your feet.

“How do you feel?” He asks, his voice softening into a protective rumble. “The fever broke around 3 AM, but the transition … it was rough. Are you in pain?”

“A little achy,” you admit. “But … I’m okay. Mostly just confused.”

The blond guy practically vaults off his barstool. “I’m Dean. By the way. We sort of introduced ourselves last night while you were seizing, which wasn’t exactly ideal.”

“Dean,” you repeat. You look at the curly-haired guy. “And you’re Logan.”

Logan offers a small, tight smile, his dark eyes never leaving your face. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“And Tucker,” you say, looking at the guy with the spatula.

“Breakfast is almost ready,” Tucker says gently. “You must be starving. The presentation burns a massive amount of calories, and your body was fighting off a sedative at the same time. Come sit.”

They are trying so hard to give you space. You can see the rigid tension in their shoulders, the way they are forcing themselves to stay in their spots, fighting every single alpha instinct in their DNA that is screaming at them to rush forward, close the distance, and touch their newly presented mate.

The restraint is admirable. It lasts exactly thirty seconds.

You take three steps into the kitchen toward the island. That’s all it takes.

The invisible thread snaps.

Garrett is the first one to move. He crosses the kitchen in two massive strides, stopping right in front of you. Up close, he is a giant. He towers over you, his presence entirely consuming. He doesn’t ask. He just reaches out, his large, calloused hands gently cupping your face.

You gasp quietly, but you don’t pull away. You lean into his palms.

Garrett’s eyes darken, a raw, possessive sound vibrating in his chest. He tilts your head slightly, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw. “You’re perfect,” he breathes, his scent — pine and winter air — flaring with pride and relief. “You scared the absolute hell out of us, sweetheart. But you’re perfect.”

“Hey, don’t hog her, G,” Dean says, his voice entirely lacking its usual confident swagger. It sounds almost desperate.

Dean steps up right beside Garrett. He reaches out and wraps a hand around your waist, pulling you gently but firmly against his side. The contact is electric. You let out a soft sigh, your body naturally molding against his side. Dean buries his face in your hair, taking a massive, deep inhale of your scent.

“God, you smell so good,” Dean mutters against your temple. “Vanilla and rain. It’s making me crazy.”

Logan is there a second later, standing close enough to your back that you can feel the heat radiating off his chest. His hand settles heavily, warmly, on the back of your neck. It’s a purely dominant gesture, laying claim, offering protection.

You should be telling them to back off. You are an independent, rational college student who wanted to play intramural sports and get a history degree without a pack.

But your rational brain has been utterly, entirely hijacked.

You let your eyes flutter shut, a soft, involuntary purr starting up in your chest again. You are surrounded by them. Surrounded by a wall of muscle, heat, and devotion. It feels so right it actually aches. You don’t want them to step back. You want them closer.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Logan murmurs, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin right at your hairline.

“And my sweats,” Dean adds smugly.

“I slept in Garrett’s bed, though,” you point out, opening your eyes to look up at Garrett’s smug smirk.

Tucker sets a massive plate of chocolate chip pancakes on the island counter, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. He walks over, completing the circle. He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch is softer than the others, but his eyes are just as intense.

“Sit, sweetheart,” Tucker says. “You need to eat.”

They practically escort you to a stool, boxing you in. Logan stands leaning against the counter to your left, Dean takes the stool to your right, Garrett stands directly in front of you, and Tucker places the plate down along with a massive glass of water and a cup of tea.

You pick up the fork, suddenly realizing you are ravenous. You cut a massive bite of the pancakes and shove it into your mouth.

“So,” you say after swallowing, looking around at the four men watching your every move like you’re the most fascinating thing on earth. “Four mates. Is that … normal?”

“It’s rare,” Tucker says, leaning his forearms on the counter. “Extremely rare. Usually, a pack forms around an omega naturally over time, or an omega bonds with a pre-existing pack. But a fated bond tying one omega to four alphas simultaneously? It happens maybe once in a generation.”

“Lucky us,” Dean grins, stealing a piece of bacon off a side plate. “We hit the biological jackpot.”

“I was a beta,” you say, staring down at your plate. “For two years, everyone thought I was a beta. My family, the doctors. I didn’t present when I was sixteen. I came to Briar to get away from the pity.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. He reaches out, covering your hand with his. “You were never a beta, baby. Your biology was just waiting. Sometimes, an omega needs a massive shock to the system to jumpstart a delayed presentation. The bond snapping into place when we smelled you … and the drug.”

Logan shifts, the easygoing cedar scent suddenly spiking with dark, violent aggression. “The drug.”

The atmosphere in the kitchen shifts violently. The warm, domestic bubble pops, replaced by a suffocating, lethal tension.

“Who gave you the drink?” Logan asks. His voice is dangerously quiet.

You swallow hard, putting your fork down. “Some guy by the kitchen. He said his name was Brad. Tall, wore a backward baseball cap. He handed me a cup of jungle juice. I only took two sips before I started feeling … weird.”

Dean’s hands curl into fists on the countertop. “Brad. I know him. He’s a junior, plays lacrosse.”

“Not anymore he doesn’t,” Garrett says coldly. “Not with broken kneecaps.”

“Guys,” you say softly, a little alarmed by the casual murder in Garrett’s eyes.

“We’re not going to kill him,” Tucker says, though his expression is just as grim as the others. “But we are going to make sure he is permanently expelled, arrested, and incapable of ever looking at an omega again.”

“Logan and I will handle it today,” Garrett says, looking at Logan. Logan nods, a dark promise in his eyes.

“What about me?” You ask, picking up your water glass. “I need to get back to my dorm. Brooke, my roommate, she probably noticed I never came back to the room. I don’t even have my phone, it must have fallen out of my pocket at the party. And I have orientation events tomorrow.”

Silence falls over the kitchen again.

Garrett and Dean exchange a look. Tucker crosses his arms over his chest. Logan picks up a butter knife, spinning it slowly on the granite counter.

“What?” You ask, looking between them.

“You’re not going back to the dorm,” Garrett says. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a statement of absolute fact.

You blink. “Excuse me? Yes, I am. All my stuff is there. My laptop, my clothes-”

“We’ll go get your stuff,” Dean interrupts, his tone soothing but firm. “We can pack up your room this afternoon and move it into the guest room here. Or my room. Or G’s room. Wherever you want.”

“I can’t just move in with you!” You protest, your rational brain finally trying to put up a fight. “I met you twelve hours ago! I have a roommate. I have a life I literally just started building yesterday.”

“You’re an unbonded, newly presented omega who was just targeted at a frat party,” Logan says bluntly, his dark eyes pinning you to your seat. “You have no control over your scent yet. You don’t have a bite mark to signal you’re taken. If you walk onto campus right now, every alpha within a two-mile radius is going to swarm you.”

“I can handle myself,” you say stubbornly, though even as you say it, a small part of you shrinks at the thought of leaving the safety of this kitchen.

Garrett steps closer, invading your space until you have to tilt your head back to look at him. He places both hands on the counter on either side of your hips, effectively caging you in.

“No, you can’t,” Garrett says, his voice dropping an octave into that terrifying, authoritative alpha command. “You are our mate. You belong to this pack. And my instincts are screaming at me to lock the front door and throw away the key just from the thought of you being out of my sight. You are staying here.”

You open your mouth to argue. You want to tell him he’s being ridiculous. You want to tell him he can’t order you around.

But you look up into Garrett’s eyes. You feel the heat of his body, the absolute, unshakable certainty in his voice. He wants to protect you. He wants to keep you safe from a world that literally just tried to poison you.

Your omega completely and utterly folds.

Yes, your inner voice purrs. Keep me.

“I … I have classes on Monday,” you say, your voice much weaker than you intended. It sounds more like a plea for compromise than a demand.

Tucker smiles, a slow, incredibly satisfied smile. He reaches out and gently strokes the back of your hair again. “We’ll figure classes out. The university has protocols for sudden presentations. We’ll get you a medical exemption for the first few weeks if we have to.”

“First few weeks?” Your eyes widen. “How long am I supposed to stay here?”

“Until your first heat hits,” Logan says smoothly. He leans forward, his face inches from yours. His gaze drops to your neck, his eyes darkening. “Until we can officially claim you. Until we can mark you. Once you’re wearing our bites, once your scent is permanently mixed with ours … then you can go back to campus. Because everyone will know you’re ours.”

A shiver wrecks through your entire body. The thought of their teeth sinking into your skin, laying a permanent claim, sends a jolt of heat straight to your core.

You look at Dean. He’s watching you with a hungry, predatory intensity that makes your breath catch. You look at Garrett, who is still caging you in, waiting for your absolute submission to the plan. You look at Tucker, the steady, grounding force, and Logan, the intense, silent protector.

You are entirely trapped.

And you have never felt happier in your entire life.

“Okay,” you whisper, the fight draining out of you entirely. You slump slightly against the counter. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

Garrett lets out a massive breath, his rigid posture relaxing. He leans down and presses a hard, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Good girl.”

The praise makes your toes curl.

“Great,” Dean claps his hands together, the charming, easy-going grin returning to his face. “Now that that’s settled, Tucker, make the girl some more bacon. She needs her strength. Logan and Garrett have a lacrosse player to ruin, and I have to go to a dorm and pack up an obscene amount of sweaters.”

“How do you know I have an obscene amount of sweaters?” You ask, taking another bite of your pancakes.

“Sweetheart,” Dean winks. “You’re from New York, you moved to Massachusetts, and you’re an omega. It’s practically a biological requirement.”

You roll your eyes, but a genuine smile breaks across your face. You take a sip of the tea Tucker placed in front of you. It’s perfectly sweetened, warm, and soothing.

You sit in the kitchen, surrounded by the towering, dominant presence of four fated mates who have completely hijacked your life in less than twenty-four hours. You have no dorm. You have no independence. You are essentially on lockdown until you go into heat.

Your mother’s pamphlet flashes through your mind.

You realize you left it on the bedside table back in New York.

Good. You definitely aren’t going to need it.

***

The lacrosse locker room is empty on a Saturday afternoon, save for one player trying to find his lost practice jersey.

Brad is digging through his duffel bag, nursing a massive hangover, when the heavy metal door of the locker room slams shut. The sound echoes sharply against the tile.

He turns around, annoyance flashing across his face. “Hey, man, watch the-”

The words die in his throat.

Garrett and Logan are blocking the only exit. Neither of them is wearing their usual easygoing campus smiles. They are dressed in dark hoodies, their expressions carved out of absolute, predatory ice.

The air in the room instantly drops ten degrees. The alpha pheromones rolling off the two hockey players are suffocating, heavy with dark, violent aggression.

Brad takes a step back, his instincts screaming at him. “Graham? Logan? What are you guys doing here?”

Garrett doesn’t say a word. He just starts walking forward, his strides slow and measured. Logan falls into step right beside him, pulling a roll of athletic tape out of his pocket and casually tossing it from hand to hand.

“Look, if this is about the ice time dispute between our teams-” Brad starts, holding his hands up defensively.

Garrett closes the distance in a blur of motion. He grabs Brad by the throat, hoisting the taller lacrosse player entirely off the ground, and slams him brutally into the metal lockers.

The metal caves inward with a deafening crash.

Brad chokes, his hands flying up to claw desperately at Garrett’s massive forearm. His feet kick uselessly at the air.

“You were at the frat house last night,” Garrett says. His voice isn’t a yell. It’s a low, terrifying rumble that vibrates through the locker room. “You poured a cup of jungle juice for a freshman. A beta.”

Brad’s eyes widen in sheer terror, his face already turning a splotchy purple. “I—I didn’t-”

Garrett squeezes harder. “Don’t lie to me. If you lie to me, I’ll crush your windpipe right now and tell the cops it was a weightlifting accident.”

“Okay! Okay!” Brad gasps out as Garrett slightly loosens his grip. “Yeah, I talked to her! She was hot. I just gave her a drink to loosen her up!”

Logan steps forward, his dark eyes dead and cold. He stops inches from Brad’s face. “What was in it, Brad?”

“Nothing! Just booze! I swear!”

Logan sighs, shaking his head. He looks at Garrett. “He’s lying.”

“I know,” Garrett says.

Garrett drops Brad. The lacrosse player hits the floor, hacking and gasping for air. Before Brad can even get to his hands and knees, Logan drives his boot directly into Brad’s ribs.

There’s a sickening crack.

Brad screams, curling into a tight ball on the floor.

Logan crouches down next to him, resting his elbows on his knees. “Here’s the thing, Brad. That girl wasn’t a beta. She was a delayed omega. And whatever garbage you put in that cup forced her to present. She almost died in our bathroom last night. Her heart almost gave out.”

Brad whimpers, clutching his side. “I didn’t know! I didn’t know she was an omega!”

“That doesn’t make it better, you piece of shit,” Garrett snarls, grabbing Brad by the collar of his shirt and hauling him halfway up. “And it gets worse for you. Because she isn’t just any omega. She’s our mate.”

All the blood drains from Brad’s face. To drug a girl is a crime. To drug an unbonded omega is a felony. But to drug an alpha’s fated mate? It’s a death sentence.

“Please,” Brad begs, tears spilling down his cheeks. The overwhelming scent of his fear fills the room. “Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t touch her. I just gave her the drink and she walked away. I swear on my life.”

“Your life isn’t worth a dime to me,” Garrett whispers, pulling Brad closer until they are nose to nose. “But you play lacrosse, right? You need your hands for that.”

Garrett shifts his grip, grabbing Brad’s right hand.

“No! Wait, please, God, no-”

Garrett doesn’t blink. He twists, hard and violently.

The snap of breaking fingers echoes through the empty locker room. Brad unleashes a bloodcurdling scream, collapsing onto the tile.

Logan stands up, looking down at the sobbing, broken mess on the floor with absolute disgust. “You’re going to the registrar’s office on Monday morning. You’re going to withdraw from Briar University. You’re going to pack your bags, and you’re going to go back to whatever miserable town you came from.”

Garrett wipes his hands on his jeans, his expression impassive. “If I ever see your face on this campus again, if I ever hear your name, or if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone … breaking your fingers will look like a warm-up. Do you understand me?”

Brad nods frantically, cradling his mangled hand to his chest, sobbing uncontrollably. “Yes. Yes. I’m leaving. I’m gone.”

“Good,” Garrett says.

He and Logan turn their backs on the lacrosse player, walking out of the locker room without a backward glance. The protective, violent rage inside their alphas finally begins to settle.

Their mate is safe. And the threat is gone.

***

Across campus, Dean is using his legendary charm on a very confused college freshman.

“So, let me get this straight,” Brooke says, leaning against her desk, blowing a massive bubble with her pink gum. The bubble pops. “You’re Dean Di Laurentis. Hockey player. Trust fund baby. Campus legend.”

Dean flashes a blinding, dimpled smile, currently folding a stack of your jeans. “Don’t forget incredibly handsome. It’s an important part of the brand.”

“Right. And my roommate, who arrived exactly twenty-four hours ago and explicitly told me she was a beta, is actually an omega.”

“A very late bloomer, yes.”

“And she is fated to you.”

“Yup.” Dean places the folded jeans neatly into a cardboard box.

“And Garrett Graham. And John Logan. And John Tucker.”

“We are a package deal.”

Brooke stares at him for a long, quiet moment. She looks from Dean, to the empty bed, and back to Dean.

“That is the wildest shit I have ever heard in my entire life,” Brooke declares, shaking her head. “I thought this year was going to be boring. Good for her, honestly. Four hot hockey players? She won the lottery.”

Dean chuckles, walking over to your tiny closet. “We’re the lucky ones, Brooke. Trust me.”

He reaches into the closet and pulls out one of your oversized knit sweaters. The moment the fabric gets close to his face, Dean completely freezes.

The sweater is saturated in your scent. Vanilla and rain. It hits Dean’s senses so hard his eyes flutter shut. His alpha purrs violently in his chest, a deep, possessive rumble that he doesn’t even try to suppress. Without thinking, Dean buries his face in the soft wool, taking a massive, deep inhale.

It smells like safety. It smells like home. It smells like you.

Brooke raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to make out with her laundry, or are you going to pack it?”

Dean snaps his eyes open, clearing his throat, though he doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. He carefully, almost reverently, folds the sweater. “I’m packing it. I just … the bond is new. Her scent is pretty overwhelming.”

“Clearly,” Brooke snorts. “Do you guys need any help carrying this stuff down? The elevator is still broken.”

“I’ve got it,” Dean says, taping the first box shut. “But do me a favor? Don’t mention the mate thing to anyone yet. The university doesn’t know she presented, and we want to keep her under the radar until her heat hits and we can claim her properly.”

Brooke taps her nose. “My lips are sealed. Just tell her she owes me a coffee when she eventually re-enters society.”

“I’ll buy you a whole Starbucks franchise,” Dean winks, lifting two massive boxes as if they weigh nothing at all. “See you around, Brooke.”

Dean carries the boxes down the three flights of stairs, his mind entirely focused on getting back to the house. The protective urge to guard you is a constant, low-level thrum in his veins. He loads your belongings into the back of his Range Rover, slams the trunk shut, and gets into the driver’s seat.

He takes one last look at the freshman dorms. You are never stepping foot in that building again. You are theirs now.

***

“Do you like spicy food?”

You blink, pulling your gaze away from the massive window looking out into the backyard. Tucker is sitting across from you at the kitchen island, a yellow legal pad and a pen in front of him.

“Um. Yeah. A little bit,” you say.

“Noted,” Tucker murmurs, his neat handwriting flowing across the page. “What about allergies? Any aversions? Anything you absolutely hate?”

You rest your chin on your hand, watching him. For the past hour, while Garrett and Logan were out doing God-knows-what, and Dean was packing your room, Tucker had sat you down and started a full-blown interrogation about your dietary preferences.

“I hate mushrooms,” you say. “And I’m not a big fan of seafood. Unless it’s fried.”

“A girl after my own heart,” Tucker smiles softly. “No mushrooms. No baked fish. Got it. Do you like pasta?”

“Tucker, you don’t have to cook every meal for me,” you say gently. “I know how to make a sandwich. I don’t want to be a burden.”

Tucker stops writing. He sets the pen down and looks up at you. His dark eyes are serious, stripping away the casual, domestic banter.

“You are our mate,” Tucker says, his voice slow and deliberate, making sure you hear every single word. “You are the center of our pack. Feeding you, providing for you, taking care of you … that isn’t a burden, sweetheart. It’s literally what we were biologically designed to do. My alpha wants to build a fortress around you and spend the rest of my life making sure you never lift a finger.”

A blush crawls up your neck, heating your cheeks. You look down at your hands, twisting your fingers together. “I’m just not used to it. My family … when I didn’t present, they sort of just stopped treating me like I needed anything. Because betas are independent. They stopped fussing over me.”

Tucker stands up, walking around the island. He pulls the stool out next to yours and sits down, invading your personal space in the best possible way. He smells like fresh mint and warmth.

He reaches out, his large hands gently covering yours, stopping your nervous fidgeting.

“Your family made a mistake,” Tucker says softly. “They looked at you and saw a biology textbook instead of a person. We see you. Beta, omega, it wouldn’t have mattered. If we had met you yesterday before you presented, the bond still would have snapped. We still would have kept you.”

You look up at him, your eyes a little glossy. “Really?”

“Really,” Tucker promises, bringing your hands up to his mouth and pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles. “Now. Back to pasta. Carbonara or marinara?”

You let out a wet, genuine laugh. “Carbonara.”

The front door suddenly unlocks, swinging open with a heavy thud. The scent of pine and cedar instantly floods the house, but it’s sharp. Bitter. Spiked with aggression and a metallic tang.

You stiffen slightly on the stool.

Garrett and Logan walk into the kitchen. They look entirely unbothered, but Garrett’s knuckles are bruised and slightly split, and Logan is rubbing a dark smudge of dirt off his jaw.

Tucker takes one breath of the air, his eyes narrowing. “You handle it?”

“Handled,” Garrett says flatly, his eyes immediately locking onto you. The cold, violent edge in his gaze vanishes the second he looks at your face. His shoulders drop. He walks straight toward you.

“Are you okay?” You ask, looking at his bruised hand.

“I’m perfect,” Garrett rumbles. He stops right in front of you, bracketing your knees with his thighs. He leans down and presses his face directly into the crook of your neck, taking a massive breath.

His body shudders against yours. The grounding effect of your vanilla scent works instantly, smoothing out the jagged edges of his feral alpha.

Logan walks over a second later, wrapping his arm around your shoulders from behind and kissing the top of your head. “Missed you,” he mumbles into your hair.

“You were gone for an hour,” you point out, though you lean back against Logan’s chest, your omega practically purring at the physical contact.

“An hour too long,” Logan corrects.

The front door opens again, and Dean strolls in, looking like he just stepped off a GQ magazine cover. “The prodigal son returns! And I brought sweaters! So many sweaters!”

You laugh, the sound bright and clear in the kitchen.

Dean dumps the boxes in the living room and immediately jogs into the kitchen, inserting himself into the cuddle pile. He grabs your face in both hands and squishes your cheeks together. “Did you miss me the most? Be honest.”

“I was too distracted by Tucker to miss you,” you tease, your voice muffled by his hands. “He’s making me carbonara.”

“Betrayal,” Dean gasps, pressing a quick, messy kiss to your forehead before letting you go. “Absolute betrayal in my own home.”

Garrett pulls back from your neck, his eyes warm and golden. “Alright, you animals, go shower. You smell like a locker room. I’m calling a pack meeting in the living room in twenty minutes.”

“Ooh, a pack meeting,” Dean wiggles his eyebrows. “Are we organizing a chore chart? Because I’m not cleaning the bathrooms.”

“We’re watching a movie,” Garrett says. He looks down at you, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. “It’s time for the girl’s education to begin.”

***

An hour later, you are entirely trapped.

The massive, U-shaped sectional in the living room is designed to fit a half-dozen massive hockey players, but currently, it is holding exactly five people, and they are all piled into one corner.

You are sitting in the middle. Garrett is sitting to your left, his arm securely wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. Logan is on your right, his long legs stretched out over the coffee table, one of his large hands resting possessively on your thigh. Dean is sprawled out across the chaise part of the couch, his head quite literally resting in your lap. And Tucker is sitting on the floor directly in front of you, leaning his back against the couch between your knees.

The lights are off. The TV is playing the opening credits to Miracle.

“I’m just saying,” you argue softly, running your fingers through Dean’s soft blonde hair, entirely on instinct. Dean lets out a soft, pleased sigh, pressing his face closer to your stomach. “I don’t even like hockey.”

Four gasps echo in the dark room.

“Blasphemy,” Logan says, lightly squeezing your thigh. “Absolute blasphemy.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Garrett mutters, pulling you tighter against him until you are practically sitting in his lap. “You are mated to four hockey players. You are going to learn to love the game, sweetheart.”

“Or at least pretend to love it when we score,” Dean mumbles from your lap.

“Pay attention,” Tucker says, pointing at the screen. “Herb Brooks is about to speak.”

You try to pay attention. You really do. Kurt Russell is on the screen, giving a dramatic speech about the Soviet Union. It seems intense.

But you are incredibly distracted.

The physical affection is relentless. It isn’t sexual; it’s purely instinctual. It’s the grounding, tactile reassurance of a pack claiming their center.

Garrett’s thumb is rubbing slow, methodical circles into your hip bone through the fabric of the oversized sweatpants. His chin is resting on your shoulder, his nose occasionally brushing against your scent gland, taking deep, steadying breaths of your vanilla scent.

Logan hasn’t moved his hand from your thigh, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your skin. Every few minutes, he shifts closer, pressing his shoulder against yours, ensuring there isn’t a millimeter of space between you.

Dean is practically asleep in your lap, his entire body relaxed, completely trusting. Every time you stop playing with his hair, he makes a soft, pathetic whining sound until you start again.

And Tucker, sitting on the floor, has one hand resting casually on your ankle, his thumb stroking the bone.

You are drowning in a sea of alphas. The mingled scents of pine, cedar, mint, and leather are so thick in the air it feels like a heavy, warm blanket.

Your omega is in absolute, euphoric heaven. The stabbing pain in your chest that you had carried for two years — the agonizing belief that you were broken, destined to be alone — is completely gone. It has been erased, rewritten by the four men currently treating you like you are the most precious thing in the universe.

On the screen, the hockey players are doing some grueling drill. “Again!” The coach yells.

“Man, Jensen is going to run us like that on Monday,” Logan groans quietly.

“Let him,” Garrett says, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “We’re going to win the frozen four this year.”

“Cocky,” you whisper, tilting your head back slightly to look at him.

Garrett smirks, his eyes catching the light from the TV. “It’s not cocky if it’s true, baby.”

He leans in and catches your lips in a soft, devastatingly gentle kiss. It’s the first time any of them have kissed you on the mouth. It isn’t demanding or rushed. It’s a slow, sweet promise.

Your breath hitches, your eyes fluttering shut as you melt into his mouth. The kiss tastes like mint toothpaste and intense, unfiltered devotion.

“Hey,” Dean complains softly from your lap, cracking one eye open. “No fair. Share.”

Garrett breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours with a soft chuckle. “Patience, Di Laurentis.”

Logan leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, while Tucker squeezes your ankle.

You look at the TV screen. You have absolutely no idea what the plot of this movie is. You couldn’t name a single character.

And you genuinely do not care.

You settle deeper into the couch, surrounded by the crushing, beautiful weight of your pack, and for the first time in your life, you are exactly where you belong.

***

It starts as a persistent, maddening itch beneath your skin.

By Wednesday afternoon, the low-grade ache in your joints from your presentation has faded, replaced by an entirely new, entirely terrifying sensation. Your skin feels too tight. The ambient temperature of the house feels like a sauna, yet you are shivering. Every time the fabric of Logan’s oversized hoodie brushes against your chest, a sharp jolt of electricity shoots straight down to your core.

You are sitting on the edge of the kitchen island, swinging your legs, trying very hard to act normal.

It isn’t working.

“You’re flushed,” Tucker says. He doesn’t look up from the stove, where he is currently searing two massive ribeye steaks, but you know he’s hyper-aware of your every movement. “Drink your water, sweetheart.”

You pick up the glass of ice water and press the condensation against your cheek before taking a sip. “I’m fine. Just a little warm.”

“You smell different,” Logan points out. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. His dark eyes track the way you shift uncomfortably on the stool. “The vanilla … it’s getting sweeter. Heavier.”

“Like sugar glaze,” Dean chimes in, walking into the kitchen. He drops a duffel bag on the floor and instantly closes the distance between you two. He steps between your swinging legs, planting his hands on your thighs. “You smell absolutely edible, baby.”

You let out a soft, involuntary whine as Dean’s large, cool hands squeeze your bare thighs. The friction of his callouses against your skin sends a spike of wet heat directly between your legs. You clamp your thighs together, trapping Dean’s hands, your breath hitching.

“Dean,” you gasp, your voice trembling.

Dean’s eyes darken instantly. His pupils blow wide, swallowing the blue of his irises until they are entirely black. He leans in, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhales so deeply his chest expands against yours.

“Pre-heat,” Dean groans, his voice vibrating against your collarbone. “It’s starting.”

Garrett walks down the stairs, catching the tail end of the conversation. The easygoing, relaxed captain from five minutes ago vanishes. His posture goes rigid, his broad shoulders tensing as the heavy, overripe scent of your changing hormones hits his nose.

“Tucker,” Garrett barks, his voice dropping into that terrifying alpha command. “Food. Now. She needs every calorie she can get before the fever actually breaks.”

“Plating it up, G,” Tucker says smoothly, though his own scent of fresh mint is spiking with sharp, protective arousal.

Tucker sets a plate in front of you. It’s a massive portion of sliced steak, roasted potatoes, and a thick slice of buttered bread.

“I’m not hungry,” you protest, your stomach doing nervous flips. You squirm on the stool again. The core of your body feels hollow, empty, and aching in a way that food is absolutely not going to fix.

“You’re eating it anyway,” Garrett says, stepping up right beside Dean. He reaches out and grips the back of your neck. The sheer dominance in his touch makes your spine melt. “Your body is about to run a marathon, baby. You need the energy. Open up.”

Tucker actually holds a piece of steak on a fork to your lips.

You whine, a pathetic, high-pitched sound that makes all four alphas practically vibrate out of their skin, but you open your mouth. The moment the rich, salty meat hits your tongue, your body’s biological need takes over. You chew and swallow, leaning forward for the next bite.

“Good girl,” Logan praises, his voice a dark, rough rumble. He walks over and presses his hand flat against your lower back, his thumb tracing the curve of your spine. “Eat for us.”

They spend the next ten minutes treating you like a delicate, highly combustible bomb. Tucker feeds you every single bite. Dean refuses to move from between your legs, his hands constantly stroking your thighs, mapping the soft skin. Garrett keeps his heavy hand anchored to your neck, his thumb rhythmically pressing against your pulse point. Logan guards your back, a solid wall of heat.

By the time the plate is empty, your internal temperature has skyrocketed. A slick, heavy dampness is pooling in your underwear, completely unbidden. You squeeze your thighs tighter against Dean’s waist, desperate for friction.

“Okay,” Garrett says, his breathing a little ragged. He steps back, physically tearing himself away from you. “Dean, Logan, let her breathe. We need to go chop wood or run drills or something before I lose my mind and take her right here on this kitchen island.”

“She’s not in full heat yet,” Tucker reminds them, his voice tight. “If we seal the bond before her biology is ready, it’ll hurt her. We wait.”

“I know the damn rules, Tuck,” Garrett growls, running a hand through his hair. He looks at you, his chest heaving. “We’re going to the backyard. Ten minutes. Just to cool off. Tucker, get her settled in the living room.”

Garrett, Dean, and Logan practically flee the kitchen, the sliding glass door slamming shut behind them.

You let out a shaky breath, your body slumping forward. Without their hands on you, the hollow ache inside you amplifies tenfold.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Tucker says softly. He hooks his arms under your knees and back, lifting you off the stool effortlessly. He carries you into the living room and gently deposits you onto the massive sectional couch. “I’ll be right back with some Gatorade. Just rest.”

Tucker disappears into the kitchen.

You are alone in the living room. The TV is off. The house is quiet.

Your skin is on fire.

You twist on the couch, pulling your knees to your chest. The throw pillows beneath you feel rough. The blanket draped over the back of the couch smells like detergent. It’s wrong. Everything is wrong.

A primal, overwhelming instinct violently hijacks your brain.

You scramble off the couch, your legs a little wobbly. You stumble into the downstairs hallway, pulling open the door to the laundry room. A massive pile of clean, folded clothes sits on the dryer, but you ignore it. You dive for the woven hamper on the floor.

It’s full of their workout gear. Sweaty, unwashed, intensely scented clothes.

You let out a low, rumbling purr, dropping to your knees. You grab Dean’s grey sweatpants, Logan’s worn-in flannel shirt, Garrett’s heavy practice jersey, and Tucker’s thermal henley. You bundle them into your arms, pressing your face into the fabric. The overwhelming hit of pine, cedar, mint, and leather makes your eyes roll back in your head.

You carry the pile into the living room and dump it onto the sectional.

But it isn’t enough.

You run up the stairs, practically panting. You go into Garrett’s room and strip his massive, heavy duvet right off his bed. You drag it down the stairs, adding it to the pile. You go back up for Dean’s incredibly soft cashmere throw. You take Logan’s favorite heavily-weighted blanket. You grab Tucker’s pillows.

For twenty minutes, you are a woman possessed. You arrange the blankets in a massive, circular crater on the corner of the sectional. You line the edges with the pillows. You weave their unwashed clothing into the center, creating a soft, overwhelmingly scented dip.

When it is finally perfect, you crawl into the very center. You curl into a tight ball, pulling Garrett’s jersey over your head, burying your nose in the collar. The scents wrap around you, suffocating and perfect.

You let out a long, shuddering sigh, your body finally relaxing as a heavy, continuous purr vibrates in your chest. The slickness between your legs intensifies, soaking the crotch of your sweatpants, but you don’t care. You are in your nest. You are safe.

***

The sliding glass door opens.

“I’m just saying, I could definitely take a bear in a fight,” Dean’s voice rings out, followed by the sound of heavy boots on the hardwood.

“You cry when you get a papercut, Di Laurentis,” Logan snorts.

“That’s different, papercuts are an unnatural evil-”

Dean stops walking.

Garrett bumps into his back, letting out a grunt of annoyance. “Keep moving, idiot.”

“Garrett,” Dean whispers, his voice entirely stripped of humor.

Garrett steps around Dean, looking into the living room. Logan comes up behind them. Tucker walks out of the kitchen, holding two blue sports drinks.

All four men freeze.

The living room looks like a tornado hit a bedding store. But right in the center of the massive, meticulously constructed pile of blankets and clothes, you are curled up, wearing Garrett’s practice jersey.

The scent in the room is blinding. The heavy, intoxicating smell of overripe vanilla, petrichor, and a sharp, musky sweetness that screams omega in pre-heat. It is the most beautiful, devastating thing any of them have ever seen.

“She nested,” Logan breathes, the words barely making it past his lips.

Tucker sets the Gatorade bottles on the coffee table. His hands are shaking. “She took our dirty laundry. She specifically sought out our scents.”

Garrett’s jaw is locked so tight a muscle ticks violently in his cheek. The sight of you, buried in his jersey, purring softly in a nest built of their belongings, utterly shatters the last remaining threads of his civilized restraint.

He stalks forward.

You crack an eye open as he approaches. Your inner omega recognizes the alpha instantly. You don’t shrink back. Instead, you stretch out like a cat, your spine arching, exposing your neck.

“Garrett,” you whine, a desperate, needy sound. “Come here. Please.”

Garrett groans, a harsh, guttural sound that tears from his throat. He drops to his knees right at the edge of the nest. He doesn’t cross the boundary. He knows the rules of the instinct.

“Can I come in, baby?” Garrett asks, his voice raw, pleading. “Let me in.”

You reach out, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and tug him forward. “Yes. Pack. Need you.”

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. He crawls over the barrier of blankets and settles right into the center of the nest with you. He hauls you into his lap, crushing you against his chest.

“God, you smell so good,” Garrett mutters, burying his face in your neck. His teeth scrape lightly against your scent gland, not breaking the skin, but mimicking the claiming bite. The sensation sends a violent shiver through your entire body.

Dean, Logan, and Tucker are right behind him.

They pile into the nest, careful not to disturb the structure, entirely surrounding you.

“My turn,” Dean demands softly, sliding up right behind you. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. He immediately slots one of his thick, muscular thighs directly between your legs.

You gasp out loud as the hard ridge of his quad presses directly against your aching, sensitive core through your sweatpants. You instinctively grind down against him.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, his hips jerking forward. “You’re so wet, sweetheart. I can feel it through your pants.”

“Dean,” you sob, throwing your head back against his shoulder.

Logan is at your side, pulling your legs across his lap. He doesn’t bother with sweet talk. His hands slide directly under the hem of Garrett’s jersey, his large, rough palms skimming up your bare stomach. Your skin is searing hot to the touch.

Logan’s hands find your breasts, covered only by a thin bralette. He squeezes them with a firm, dominant pressure.

“Logan!” You cry out, your hands flying up to grip his forearms.

“I’ve got you,” Logan rumbles, his thumbs expertly flicking over your peaking nipples through the fabric. “You’re doing so good, baby. Just let it burn.”

You are thrashing in their grip, a tangled mess of limbs, blankets, and pure, unfiltered need. The friction is driving you absolutely insane. You grind harder against Dean’s thigh, chasing an elusive release that your body refuses to grant until the full heat hits.

Tucker appears in your line of sight. He is kneeling over you, his beautiful, calm face flushed with deep red desire. He holds an uncapped bottle of Gatorade.

“Drink,” Tucker orders, his voice entirely stripping away its usual softness. It is a pure, dominant command.

He presses the rim of the bottle to your lips. You part your lips obediently, taking frantic gulps of the cool, sweet liquid. Some of it spills, running down your chin and onto your neck.

Tucker sets the bottle down. He leans in and licks the spilled liquid right off your skin, his tongue dragging a hot, wet path up your throat.

“So sweet,” Tucker murmurs, his lips hovering over yours. “You are being so good for us, Y/N. Such a good omega.”

The praise breaks you.

“Please,” you sob, your hips rolling frantically against Dean. You are begging, though you don’t even know what you’re asking for. “Make it stop. Make it ache less. Please.”

Garrett grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are glowing in the dim light of the living room, completely feral.

“We can’t, baby,” Garrett says, his thumb stroking your lower lip. “If we take you now, we can’t knot you. We can’t mark you. Your body isn’t ready. You have to ride out the fever.”

“I can’t!” You cry, tears of frustration spilling down your cheeks. “It burns!”

“Let me help,” Dean whispers in your ear.

Dean’s hand slides around to the front of your sweatpants. He doesn’t pull them down. He just presses his palm flat over the soaked fabric covering your core, applying a heavy, agonizingly perfect pressure.

You let out a loud, keening scream into Garrett’s chest.

Dean begins to move his hand, rubbing the heel of his palm in slow, agonizing circles over your clit through the heavy cotton.

“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice a filthy, decadent purr. “Grind into my hand, sweetheart. Take what you need.”

You completely lose your mind. You buck your hips up into his palm, chasing the pressure, sobbing openly.

Logan abandons your breasts, moving his hands to grip your hips, holding you perfectly steady so Dean can find maximum leverage. Logan’s grip is bruising, possessive, keeping you anchored in the storm of your own hormones.

Garrett kisses you, a bruising, open-mouthed invasion that swallows your moans. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting like mint and aggressive alpha perfection. You kiss him back with desperate fervor, your hands tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer.

The sensory overload is absolute. The scent of the nest, the heavy heat of four massive bodies pinning you down, the agonizing friction from Dean’s hand, Logan’s bruising grip, Garrett’s dominating kiss.

Tucker watches the entire thing, his eyes dark, his breathing ragged. He reaches out and gently strokes your hair, a grounding touch amidst the chaos.

“Almost there,” Tucker whispers, checking the flush of your skin, tracking the biological markers of the approaching heat. “Your temperature is peaking, baby. Just hold on a little longer.”

“Dean,” you gasp against Garrett’s lips. “Faster. Please. Please.”

“Needy little thing,” Dean chuckles darkly, his hand speeding up, the friction turning slick and hot. “You’re going to take all four of us so well. We’re going to absolutely ruin you for anyone else.”

“Ours,” Logan growls, his face buried in your stomach, biting lightly at the soft skin there. “You’re ours.”

The pressure building between your legs reaches a screaming crescendo. It feels like a rubber band pulling tighter and tighter, ready to snap. Your vision whites out. Every muscle in your body locks rigid.

You scream, a pure, wordless sound of absolute surrender, as a violent, full-body orgasm rips through you.

You convulse against them, sobbing, your hips bucking helplessly against Dean’s hand as wave after wave of agonizing pleasure floods your system. Garrett holds you tight against his chest, absorbing the tremors, whispering absolute filth and praise into your ear while you fall apart.

It takes a full two minutes for the spasms to subside.

You go completely boneless, slumping back against Dean’s chest, gasping for air. Your skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. You feel thoroughly wrecked, exhausted, and utterly sated.

But as you lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, you realize something terrifying.

The hollow ache inside your core didn’t go away.

In fact, the orgasm only seemed to clear away the fog of the pre-heat, leaving the true, biological imperative bare and raw.

A sudden, aggressive spike of heat flares from your center, radiating outward like a shockwave. It hits the alphas instantly.

Garrett’s head snaps up. Dean’s breathing stops. Logan’s hands freeze on your hips. Tucker’s eyes go completely black.

The sweet, sugary scent of your pre-heat vanishes.

It is replaced by something darker. Heavier. A scent so potent, so violently intoxicating, it demands absolute, feral submission from any alpha in the vicinity.

Your true heat has dropped.

Garrett looks down at you, his eyes completely gone, replaced by the pure, unadulterated instinct of a dominant alpha whose mate is finally ready to be claimed.

“The fever broke,” Garrett rumbles, a sound that vibrates through the floorboards.

He grabs the hem of the practice jersey you are wearing.

“Time’s up, sweetheart.” 

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

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

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

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

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

"Ned!"

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

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

She's mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Goodnight, Ned!"

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

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

He knows what he has to do.

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

But not tonight.

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

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

But for now, he waits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, thanks. That's perfect."

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

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

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

"Here you go," she says softly.

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

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

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

Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.

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

Their interactions are casual. Limited.

"Morning Peter." She learns his name.

"The usual?" She asks.

"You know it."

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

It's not enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Really, I can—"

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

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

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

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

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

"I prefer determined."

"A determined mess-maker."

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

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

"You come here a lot," she says.

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

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

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

"Ah. A returning native."

"Something like that."

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

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

Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows he has her attention now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have not—"

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

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

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

"He's just a customer, Injun."

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

She bites her lip.

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

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

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

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

Peter does.

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

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

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

---

She's restless.

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

She gives in.

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

Her mind drifts to him.

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

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

And then she comes.

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

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

"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

He heard it all.

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

You're not satisfied, are you, baby?

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

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

Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.

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

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

———

It starts slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"

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

And then she wakes up.

---

Gasping.

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

She blinks at the ceiling, panting.

What the fuck was that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn't know what that is.

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

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

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

Why does this feel like grief?

---

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

He knows.

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

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

He lets out a slow, shaky breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.

Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.

The little bell above the door jingled.

She looked up.

And there he was.

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

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

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

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

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

Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.

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

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

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

Do you remember that you gave this to me?

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

Of course she didn't remember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.

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

She was two blocks away when the screaming started.

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

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

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

Oh god. That's the lobby.

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

"HEY!"

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

Spider-Man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sharp thwip sliced through the air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her breath caught.

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

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

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

What the fuck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he straightened. "Bye."

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

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

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

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

And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

YouTube.

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

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

She watched it twice. Then a third time.

The comments section was a battlefield.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N's breath hitched.

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

"I'm all ears."

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

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

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

She kept scrolling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleep came heavy and reluctant.

---

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

The clock read 2:47 AM.

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

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

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

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

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

Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.

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

Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A club," she said flatly.

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

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

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

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

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

"Someone has to be."

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

---

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

Peter's hands curled into fists.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Someone new.

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

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

No. Absolutely fucking not.

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

Even if she didn't remember it.

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

The hunt was on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

None of them made her stomach flip.

But then the door opened.

And he walked in.

Peter had planned this.

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

Her favorite outfit.

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

And she had. For hours.

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

There she was.

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

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

Then Ned spotted him.

"Hey! Peter!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right into Peter's arms.

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

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

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

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

If only you knew.

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

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

"You smell... familiar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes met his.

The air between them thickened.

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

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

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

But not yet.

Not yet.

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

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

The lock turned.

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

"She say something?" Ned asked from behind.

"Just saying goodnight."

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

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

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

"Yeah. See you."

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

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

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

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

That was enough.

For now.

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

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

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

And he was out here. Alone. Again.

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

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

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

"Fuck."

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

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

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

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

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

His hand curled into a fist.

Then his spider-sense flared.

Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.

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

---

The city was cruel tonight.

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

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

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

A break-in at a convenience store.

A fire on the Lower East Side.

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

But it didn't.

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

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

Now she didn't even know to wait.

---

He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.

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

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

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

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

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

Soon.

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

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

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

For her. Always for her.

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

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

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

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

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

"Someone regrets everything."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She needed to get this over with.

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

"Cute."

She stopped. "What?"

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

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

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

He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

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

Fuck.

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

She shook her head, turning back to the register.

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

Maybe I have a crush on him.

She bit her lip.

Or maybe I'm just that desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She followed without hesitation.

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

And then he was gone.

No. Not gone. Pinned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And something clicked.

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

She looked up.

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

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

I know you. I've felt you before.

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

He stepped back.

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

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

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

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

Why does he feel so familiar?

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

And yet, he's a stranger.

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

Who are you?

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

——————————

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

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

"Morning, Y/N."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay. Now's my chance."

Y/N frowned. "What chance?"

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

"Ned, what the hell—"

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

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

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

"Ned, I swear to God—"

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

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

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

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

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

But Y/N wasn't listening.

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

The same texture.

Her blood ran cold.

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

This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—

She looked up. Ned was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

She was holding Spider-Man's mask.

Peter's mask.

Peter is Spider-Man.

The realization hit her like a freight train, knocking the air from her lungs. She stood there, frozen, the fabric clutched in her hands, the truth burning through her.

He's the one who saved me. He's the one who webs me to walls. He's the one who watches me from the shadows.

He's the one I've been dreaming about.

She thought of the dreams—the vivid, explicit dreams where Spider-Man's voice had whispered filthy things in her ear, where his hands had pinned her down, where his body had moved inside hers like he knew every inch of her. The dreams where she had arched into him, moaning, pleading, coming undone.

Her face flushed, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.

Oh God.

She had been dreaming about him. About the man who had been coming into her café, smiling at her, teasing her, touching her—and she hadn't known.

But her body had.

Her body had remembered.

"Y/N?" Ned's voice was sharper now. "Put it back. He'll be out any second."

She forced her hands to move, folding the mask roughly and shoving it back into the bag. She zipped it closed just as the bathroom door creaked open.

Peter emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans. He glanced at them—Ned standing awkwardly by the table, Y/N frozen behind the counter—and his brow furrowed.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine!" Ned said, too quickly. "Great. Just—telling Y/N about a thing. A thing I saw. Bye."

He scurried back to the stockroom, leaving Y/N alone with Peter.

He walked to the counter, picking up his coffee, his eyes studying her. "You sure you're okay? You seem... off today."

She couldn't look at him. She stared at the counter, at the espresso machine, at anything but his face.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just tired."

He didn't push. He just nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Alright. I'll see you later, then."

He turned and walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

Y/N stood there, her heart pounding, her mind racing.

Peter is Spider-Man.

And she had been dreaming of him fucking her senseless.

She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and something else—something hot and hungry—coiled in her stomach.

She had questions. So many questions.

But more than that, she had a need.

A need to find out if the dreams were somehow real.

----------

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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 was already sitting at the table when you entered, cuffs clamped around his wrists and linked to a bolted chain that allowed him just enough movement to rest his forearms on the scarred wood. His hair fell in uneven strands that framed his face, his jaw dark with stubble. He didn’t look up when the orderly shut the door behind you and left, but you felt his awareness all the same—like the air itself had shifted to acknowledge your presence.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you began, your voice steady but quieter than you intended. The metal chair scraped as you sat down across from him. His head lifted at last, and blue eyes fixed on yours. They didn’t blink often.

He smiled faintly, the kind of expression that wasn’t warm but deliberate. “Doctor.” The word stretched out, like he was tasting it.

You nodded, keeping your hands folded neatly on the folder so he couldn’t see the slight tremor in your fingers. “I’ll be meeting with you regularly. Our goal is to understand what you’ve been experiencing, and to see what steps might help.”

“Steps,” he repeated, his voice low, threaded with an accent buried under decades. “Steps where? Out of here?”

“Steps toward treatment,” you clarified. Neutral, professional.

That was when he leaned forward, the chains clinking softly. He didn’t break eye contact. “You smell like lilacs.”

The clinical script in your head faltered. It was an odd observation, inappropriate, but his tone wasn’t mocking—it was almost contemplative. “That’s not relevant,” you said, sharper than you meant.

He smirked, leaning back just enough to make the chair creak. “It’s relevant to me.”

You took a slow breath and flipped open the file. “Your previous psychiatrist noted that you refused to engage in structured conversation. You spoke in fragments, and at times refused to answer questions. I’d like to try again, if you’ll allow it.”

His eyes flicked to the open folder, then back to you. “She wore red lipstick. Thought it made her look older. More serious. She stopped wearing it after I told her it made her look like she was trying too hard.”

Your chest tightened. There was no note about that in the file. “How do you know that would be important to her?”

His smile widened just slightly, but it wasn’t pleasant. “People tell you who they are when they think you aren’t listening. I listen.” His gaze dropped to your hands, still folded neatly. “You bite your nails. Not lately. You’ve been trying to stop. Two weeks now?”

You curled your fingers in against the folder without thinking. The urge to defend yourself warred with the instinct to redirect the session, keep the upper hand. He hadn’t seen you outside of this room—he couldn’t have. Was he guessing, or was it some uncanny perception? “You notice small things,” you said, trying to bring control back into your tone. “That can be a strength.”

“Or a weapon,” he countered, his voice quiet again. He tilted his head slightly, like a predator measuring the reach of its prey. “I know more about you already than you know about me. That makes you nervous.”

Your pen tapped once against the paper before you forced it still. “What makes me nervous is when a patient avoids direct questions.” You looked up at him firmly. “Would you like to tell me why you’re here?”

He chuckled, the sound low and humorless. “You tell me. You’ve got the file. The doctors who came before you decided what I am.” He leaned forward again, closer than before. The chain pulled taut. “What do you think I am?”

For a moment, the room felt too small, the walls too close. You remembered the orderly’s warning glance before the door closed. Dangerous. Manipulative. He was trying to unsettle you. Still, you met his stare. “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

His smile thinned, sharp as glass. “Then I look forward to our sessions, Doctor. I think you’ll enjoy them more than you expect.”

The clock on the wall ticked loud in the silence that followed. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. His eyes never left you, not even as you stood, signaled for the guard, and the lock turned again. And even as you left, you felt it—the sense of being studied, catalogued, remembered.

The second time you saw him, the asylum felt heavier. It wasn’t just the damp chill of stone walls or the flickering bulbs in the hallways—it was the knowledge of him waiting, somewhere behind a door, replaying the way he’d looked at you the first time.

You’d told yourself not to think about it afterward. You’d gone home, poured a glass of wine you barely touched, sat on your sofa with a book that you never opened. But even then, it had felt like his eyes were still on you, cataloguing every flick of your fingers against the page, every sigh, every unfinished swallow. The thought had burrowed under your skin: He shouldn’t know. He couldn’t know. So how did he?

Your colleagues had noticed something. You caught the sideways glances in the break room, the muttered “brave” and “reckless” when your name was paired with his on the assignment list. One older psychiatrist had cornered you, his hand heavy on your arm. “Barnes isn’t like the others. He gets under your skin. That’s his game. Don’t play it.” You’d nodded, thanked him, and promised you knew the boundaries. But even then, part of you had bristled at the warning, as if he was questioning your competence instead of his danger.

Now, walking the long corridor toward the interview room, the sound of your heels echoed louder than usual. Two orderlies flanked the door, and when you nodded, they opened it with a glance that said everything they didn’t say aloud: good luck.

Bucky was waiting. He always seemed to be waiting. His posture was deceptively casual, chair angled back slightly, chains pooled loose around his wrists. He raised his head the moment you entered. No smile this time. Just that relentless stare. “Doctor,” he greeted, voice low.

You shut the door behind you, nodded at the guard who lingered just a moment longer than necessary, then took your seat. “Sergeant Barnes.”

“You didn’t sleep well,” he said, almost immediately.

You froze with your pen halfway out of your pocket. “Excuse me?”

His lips curved, faint, deliberate. “Your eyes. Tired. Coffee before you came here—two sugars, no cream. You only do that when you need the caffeine more than the taste. Means you didn’t sleep.”

It was nothing he could have witnessed. You felt a prickle race up the back of your neck. “You can’t know that.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “I notice things. It’s what kept me alive. Noticing. You’d be surprised what people give away.” His gaze lowered to your hands again. “Even you.”

Your fingers curled around the pen too tightly. “This session is about you,” you said firmly.

“Everything is about me now,” he countered, quiet but assured. He leaned forward, the chain taut. “You’ve been thinking about me.” The denial rose on your tongue, sharp, professional. But he kept talking, his words a blade sliding between your ribs. “You went home after last time. Poured yourself a drink, tried to read something, couldn’t focus. You replayed what I said about the lilacs, didn’t you? Wondered how I knew. Wondered if I’d been near you without you noticing.” His eyes gleamed, satisfaction curving his mouth. “You wondered if I could be right outside your door.”

The pen snapped against the paper as you slammed it down, voice tight. “That’s enough.”

His laugh was soft, humorless, echoing in the small room. “Touched a nerve.”

You forced yourself to breathe, to sit straighter, to let the silence linger long enough for control to return. “Tell me about the night terrors,” you said finally, forcing the conversation back to the file in front of you. “Your previous doctor noted you reported vivid dreams.”

He didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch until you looked up, and then he said, “Dreams aren’t the problem. Waking up is.”

“Explain.”

“You wake, and for a moment you don’t know where you are. You reach for something—someone—that isn’t there. Your chest feels like it’s being crushed, your lungs burn, your body begs you to believe it’s all real. Then you realize it’s not. And you’re alone.” His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “You know what that feels like, don’t you?”

The words slid under your skin like ice water. “This isn’t about me,” you said, more brittle than you intended.

He smiled again, slow, certain. “But it could be.”

The orderly outside coughed, the faint sound of movement reminding you there were other people within shouting distance. That reminder steadied you. “That’s all for today,” you said, closing the file with finality.

He didn’t protest. Didn’t move. Just watched you stand, watched the guard unlock the door, watched you leave. But just before it shut, his voice followed, curling after you like smoke, “sweet dreams, Doctor.”

You kept walking, even though your pulse hammered in your ears. And all through the rest of the day, no matter how many files you reviewed, how many colleagues you nodded to in the hall, the words stayed with you.

Sweet dreams.

---

The rain had been relentless all morning. The kind of storm that rattled the barred windows of the asylum and left the halls reeking faintly of damp stone. You sat at your desk with his file open, the pages already softening at the edges from the number of times you’d turned them. There was a note from administration at the top in neat, block handwriting, consider termination of sessions if patient continues to escalate.

You traced your thumb along the margin where you’d written observations after your last meeting. He knew too much. Not just about his environment, but about you. That wasn’t in the manuals, wasn’t covered in your training. The textbooks didn’t explain how to handle a patient who seemed to look through you like glass.

Still, you signed your name on the attendance sheet, and when the orderly opened the door, you walked in. Bucky was already there. He always was. He sat with his chair angled slightly away from the table this time, his cuffed wrists loose in his lap. The posture was a show—you could tell. It was carefully chosen to look unguarded, almost lazy, but the line of his shoulders was taut. He turned his head toward you when you entered, eyes catching the weak fluorescent light. “Doctor,” he said softly.

You set the file down. “Good morning.”

He chuckled under his breath, leaning forward until the chain rattled against the table. “Is it?”

“Do you want to tell me why it isn’t?”

For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then his voice dropped into something almost conversational, intimate, as though you were two people speaking in confidence instead of psychiatrist and patient. “I dream about blood,” he said. “The weight of it. Not nightmares, not really. More like… memories with teeth.” He looked down at his hands, flexing the one still covered in faint scars. “I remember their faces. Not all of them. Just enough. Screaming, choking, going limp. And I liked it.”

The air left the room. You were careful not to move, not to flinch. “You liked it.”

He lifted his gaze back to yours, unblinking. “You’re supposed to say I didn’t. You’re supposed to tell me it was conditioning, that I wasn’t in control. But I was. At least part of me. You can’t take that away from me.”

You inhaled slowly. The words were deliberate, crafted to provoke. “Why do you want me to take it away from you?”

A sharp laugh burst from him, humorless and low. “Because if you say I wasn’t in control, then I get to walk around thinking I’m not a monster. And if you don’t…” His smile spread, thin and sharp. “Then I know exactly what I am.”

“Which do you want to be?” you asked, steadying your voice.

His eyes narrowed, the smile lingering. “Which would you rather I be?”

The question caught you like barbed wire. It was manipulative, designed to entangle, but some part of you felt the trap tighten around your ribs anyway. You forced your gaze down to the notes in the file. “This isn’t about me.”

“It’s always about you.” His voice softened, coaxing. “You come here, sit across from me, ask your questions with that careful tone. But you’re listening. Really listening. The others—they just want to put me in a box, shove me full of pills until I drool. You want to understand.”

“That’s my job,” you said.

He leaned forward, closer, the chain pulling taut. “No. It’s more than that. You need to understand me. You want to know how deep the rot goes. You want to know if you can fix me.”

The silence stretched. The rain battered harder against the windows. Finally, you asked, “and can I?”

His mouth curved, slow, deliberate, like a knife sliding free from its sheath. “No one fixes me, Doctor. But you… you might be the one I let try.”

Your pen dug into the paper, the ink pooling in a sharp dot before you forced yourself to keep writing. “Tell me about Hydra,” you said, redirecting before the weight of his words could sink too far. “Tell me about what they made you do.”

His smile didn’t fade, but his eyes changed. Darkened. “They stripped me down. Took away my name, my memories, my choices. Left the shell. You want to know what it feels like to stop being a man and start being a weapon?”

“Yes,” you said.

His stare burned into you, unflinching. “It feels like being fucked by ghosts. Every time you blink, there’s another one inside you, another command, another hand on the trigger. You don’t even know where you end and they begin. And then they’re gone, and it’s just you. With blood under your nails and no excuses.” The words made your throat tighten, the pen nearly slipping in your hand. And then, softer, more insidious, “sometimes I wonder what command I’d follow if it came from you.”

Your pulse jumped hard enough that you prayed it didn’t show in your face. “That’s not appropriate,” you managed.

He smiled, wolfish now, tilting his head. “That’s not a denial.”

The orderly’s knock on the door broke the moment, sharp and sudden. You blinked, tearing your gaze away, closing the file too quickly. “That’s all for today.”

But as the guards came in to unchain him, he didn’t move his eyes from yours. His voice followed you out, low and almost gentle, “you could tell me to do anything. Anything at all. And I would.”

The door shut behind you, and for a long time, you just stood in the hall, the storm hammering against the building as though it wanted in.

---

The lights buzzed overhead with their usual sickly hum, the pale fluorescence tinting everything in the asylum to the same washed-out shade of grey. You’d grown used to it, but sitting across from him it was suddenly oppressive, like the bulbs themselves bent lower, dimming the air between you.

He was quiet when you entered this time. No greeting, no smirk. Just a steady gaze as you set the folder on the table and sat down. His posture was too still, his hands folded neatly in his lap—an imitation of calm, you realized, rather than the thing itself.

You clicked your pen and began, “I’d like to continue where we left off. You said Hydra took away your choices. That you felt like a weapon.”

His eyes flicked down to your hands, then back up. “That bother you? Hearing me say that?”

“Why would it bother me?”

“Because you want to believe you can talk me into being human again. You want to believe your voice is enough to overwrite years of programming.” His mouth twitched in a humorless smile. “Like a magic spell.”

You let the silence hang, writing a note you didn’t need to. He leaned forward. The chains rattled, but the sound was soft, almost intimate. “You ever think about control?” he asked.

Your pen stilled. “Control?”

“Yeah.” His voice was low now, coaxing. “How much of it you really have. Over yourself. Over the people in this place. Over me.” He tilted his head, and the fluorescent lights caught on his eyes, making them gleam faintly. “Do you think you control this room?”

“Yes,” you said carefully.

He smirked, leaning back, the chair creaking under him. “Then tell me to do something.”

Your chest tightened. “This isn’t—”

“Tell me.” His voice was firm now, almost a command. “Tell me to do something simple. Anything. Say it.”

You hesitated, pulse spiking against your throat. Every professional instinct screamed that you should redirect, shut the suggestion down. But your mouth betrayed you before you could stop it. “Sit up straighter.”

For a moment, his expression didn’t change. Then, deliberately, he slid his shoulders back and straightened, spine rigid, chin lifting. The movement was slow, measured, exaggerated just enough to show that it was no real obedience—it was a performance. “See?” His voice was a near whisper. “You could tell me to do worse than that. You could tell me to get on my knees, to beg. You could tell me to wrap these chains around your wrist and drag you across the table. And I would.”

The room shrank, air pressing tight against your lungs. “That’s not appropriate,” you said, your voice sharper than intended.

He laughed, quiet and dark. “But it’s true. You don’t believe in control, Doctor. You believe in power. Difference is, power doesn’t ask permission.”

You gripped the pen tighter, fingers aching. “You said before you dream about blood. Do you dream about power, too?”

His eyes narrowed, studying you, and then he spoke with a soft kind of certainty that felt worse than shouting. “I dream about you.”

Your heart stopped.

“In the dark,” he went on. “Your face at the edge of the light. The sound of your voice when you try to keep it steady. I see your hands—always your hands. Holding the pen, the folder, the little twitch of your fingers when you’re nervous. And I dream about what else those hands could do.”

Your throat worked, but no words came out. He smiled, sharp and slow.

“You think I don’t notice how you avoid touching this table? Like it’s dirty. Like if you keep your hands on the file you’ll stay safe. But I see it. I see the way you sit straighter when I get close, the way you hold your breath.” He leaned forward again, the chain taut. “I see you, Doctor. Better than you see yourself.”

The silence was unbearable. Your pulse thundered in your ears, the rain from outside pattering against the window like a metronome. Finally, you forced your voice into the space between you. “Do you think these confessions help you?”

His smile dropped into something flat, colder. “They help me remind you who I am. And who you could be.”

The orderly knocked at the door. The sound made you jump. He saw it. Of course he did. “That’s enough for today,” you said quickly, snapping the folder shut.

The guards entered, stepping behind him to unchain his cuffs. He didn’t resist. Didn’t even move his gaze from you. As the door swung shut, his voice followed, quiet enough that it felt meant only for you. “Next time, tell me something you’ve never told anyone. Fair’s fair.”

The door locked, the bolts sliding into place. But you walked the corridor with the weight of him pressing against your back, his words burrowing under your skin where no lock could reach.

---

The storm had passed, leaving the asylum damp and eerily quiet. The hall smelled of bleach and wet concrete, the kind of sterile rot that never quite left the walls. You sat at the table first this time, file open, pen ready, spine held deliberately straight. You told yourself the posture was for control.

When the door opened, he entered with the guards, his cuffs already fastened. He didn’t look at them. He looked only at you, eyes locking the moment the threshold was crossed. A faint curl of a smile touched his mouth as he sat down, the chain scraping against the table. “You came back,” he said softly.

“It’s my job,” you replied.

He tilted his head, studying you. “That’s what you tell yourself.”

You wrote the date at the top of your notes page, ignoring him. The scratch of the pen was loud in the silence. “Did you think about what I asked you?” His voice cut through the quiet. “About telling me something you’ve never told anyone.”

You didn’t look up. “This is not about me.”

“It is now.”

His certainty pressed against your ribs. You inhaled slowly, kept your eyes on the file. “We’re here to talk about your experiences. Your memories. You’ve mentioned dreams, nightmares, memories with blood. Today, I’d like you to tell me what you feel when you wake.”

He leaned back, smirk widening. “Cold. Alone. And hard.”

Your gaze flicked up despite yourself, and the deliberate spark in his eyes told you he’d been waiting for it. “That’s not appropriate,” you said evenly.

“But it’s true.” His voice softened, coaxing. “You want truth, don’t you? Isn’t that why you keep coming back, no matter what the others say? You want me to bleed the truth out for you.”

“Truth is not the same as provocation,” you countered.

“Provocation is just truth with teeth.” He leaned forward, chain rattling. “You want me to bare mine? I’ll do it. But you’ll owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

“A piece of yourself.”

The silence stretched, taut. His stare didn’t waver, didn’t soften. Finally, you said, “what do you want me to tell you?”

He smiled faintly, victorious. “Something small. Something soft. Something human. Not your resume, not your degrees. Something real.”

You shifted in your chair, the file heavy in your lap. “Why?”

“Because it’s the only way you’ll ever understand me. You can’t stand behind that glass forever. You want me to confess? Then you confess too.” His voice dropped lower, intimate. “You show me your pulse, I’ll show you my knife.” Your throat tightened, words caught behind your teeth. He saw it, of course. His smirk deepened. “You’ve never been married,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “That’s not—”

“You don’t wear a ring. No tan line. You don’t talk about anyone waiting for you at home. You go back to an empty apartment, don’t you? One glass of wine, sometimes two, maybe a book you don’t finish. You fall asleep with the TV still on so you don’t have to hear how quiet it is.”

Your chest went tight, your hand gripping the pen too hard. “That’s enough.”

But he leaned closer, the chain taut, his voice low and certain. “You hate being alone. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you keep walking back into this room, even when you should run. Because you’d rather sit across from me than your empty walls.”

The pen tip dug into the page, bleeding ink into a black dot. Your mouth was dry. “And what do you get out of this?”

He smiled, sharp as a blade. “Everything. Every look, every twitch of your hands, every word you won’t say. That’s my confession. I want you, Doctor. Not the way they think, not as some project to fix. I want to get inside your head the way you’re trying to get inside mine.”

Your pulse thudded, loud enough you swore he could hear it. “That’s not therapy,” you said.

He leaned back finally, but his eyes stayed on you, gleaming. “Who said I wanted therapy?” The orderly knocked on the door, the sound like a gunshot in the silence. You closed the file too quickly, stood too fast. The guards entered, unshackling him. As they pulled him to his feet, he bent his head closer, voice pitched just for you. “Bring me something next time. Not a file. Not questions. Something of you.”

The guards led him away, but his words lingered like smoke in your lungs, burning long after he was gone.

---

The room felt warmer than usual when you stepped inside, though the air vents hummed the same dull current overhead. You told yourself it was in your head. You told yourself a lot of things these days.

Bucky sat where he always did, cuffed at the wrists, but he looked different this time—slouched in a posture almost lazy, legs spread, chin tilted slightly as though he’d been waiting not just minutes but hours for you. His mouth curved faintly when he saw you, as though he’d been expecting you to arrive exactly like this. “Doctor,” he drawled.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

“You look tired again.”

You set the file down, deliberately not acknowledging the comment. “We’ll begin with your last statement. You said you wanted to get inside my head. Tell me what that means.”

His gaze slid slowly down your figure, then back up, unhurried, deliberate. “Exactly what it sounds like. You think you’re the only one who gets to dig? You think I don’t notice how you cross your legs when you sit, like you’re making a barrier? Or how you keep your hands folded on the folder, like it’s a shield? You think I don’t see the pulse in your throat when I lean forward?”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t look away. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about?” he murmured. “Because it doesn’t feel like therapy anymore. Feels like foreplay.”

The word hit the air like a slap. You froze, pen halfway between your fingers. “That’s inappropriate.”

He smiled, slow, dangerous. “So you keep saying. But you never walk out.”

You forced the pen to move, scratching a note you didn’t even read. “You said Hydra made you into a weapon. Did they also make you into this?”

His eyes darkened, the smile fading. “No. This is mine. This is the part they couldn’t take. The hunger. The way I look at you and imagine—” He broke off with a low laugh, shaking his head. “No. You don’t want to hear that.”

“Tell me,” you said, though your voice came out lower than intended.

He leaned forward, the chain clinking as it pulled taut. His voice dropped with it, dark and intimate. “I imagine what you’d sound like if you stopped pretending. If you let go of that polished doctor’s voice and just… gasped. Moaned. Begged.”

Your fingers clenched around the pen hard enough to ache. “That’s not—”

“Appropriate?” he finished for you, smirk curving again. “You’re going to keep saying that until you believe it. But you don’t believe it now. Not really. You’re picturing it. You can’t stop.”

You inhaled sharply, tried to redirect. “You said you want me to confess something. What would you want me to confess?”

“That when you leave this place, you don’t think about the other patients. You think about me. About the way I talk, the way I look at you, the things I could do if these chains weren’t here. You go home and you sit in your quiet little apartment, and you wonder if I’m right. If I’d make you scream or if I’d make you whisper.” The pen slipped, clattered against the folder. His eyes flicked down to the movement, then back up, satisfaction sharp in his expression. “Do you know what my nightmares really are?” he asked softly.

“What?” you managed.

“They’re not about Hydra. Not about blood. They’re about you walking away.” He leaned closer still, so close the chain strained. “They’re about you deciding not to come back. That’s worse than anything they ever did to me.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” His voice was velvet and steel, quiet but unyielding. “I know you’re the only one who sees me, not the weapon, not the file. I know you’re the only one who makes me feel alive. And I know that if you told me to get down on my knees right now, I would.”

The silence stretched, your pulse loud in your ears. You swallowed hard, forced the file closed. “That’s all for today.”

He didn’t move, didn’t look at the guards when they entered. His eyes stayed locked on you, his smile faint and chilling. “You’ll think about it tonight,” he said, his voice so soft it barely reached. “And when you do, it won’t feel inappropriate. It’ll feel inevitable.”

The door locked behind you, but the echo of his words followed like breath on the back of your neck.

---

The air in the room felt heavier every time you came back. You noticed it before you even sat down: a thickness in the silence, like someone had turned the oxygen down a notch. You told yourself you were imagining it. That it was just your own heart rate, your own anticipation.

Bucky was already there, as always, hands cuffed, posture deceptively loose. He didn’t smile this time, didn’t even greet you. He just watched you as you closed the door behind you, eyes following the movement of your fingers on the knob, the sweep of your coat as you sat down. “You’re late,” he said quietly.

“By two minutes,” you answered, opening the file.

He tilted his head. “Two minutes is a long time in here.”

You ignored the comment, wrote the date at the top of your notes. “We’ll continue where we left off. You said your nightmares were about me walking away.”

“They still are,” he said. His voice was flat, but underneath it was a tremor of something else—anger, or need, or both. “I wake up and I can’t breathe. Feels like you’ve been ripped out of me. I sit in this cell and I think about what I’d do if you stopped coming.”

“That’s not a healthy attachment,” you said evenly.

His lips curved faintly. “You think this is about health?” He leaned forward, the chain sliding across the table. “Do you think I’d let anyone else see what I tell you? You’re not just a doctor anymore. You’re a confession booth. You’re a church.”

“I’m not your priest,” you said, though your voice came out lower than intended.

“No,” he murmured. “You’re something else.”

The silence stretched, taut. You made yourself ask, “tell me what you dream about besides me walking away.”

His eyes darkened. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that filled the space between you. “I dream about you walking in. Only this time you lock the door behind you. Only this time you put the key on the table and slide it toward me.”

Your fingers tightened on the pen. “That’s not reality.”

“It could be,” he said softly. “You keep telling yourself it couldn’t, but you’re picturing it right now. You’re picturing how it would feel. My hands on you. My mouth at your ear. You’d still be telling yourself you’re in control even when you’re on your knees.”

“Stop,” you said, your voice sharp.

He smiled faintly. “Why? You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” His eyes flicked to your hands, your throat. “You always do when you’re turned on.”

Your heart lurched, heat flooding your face before you could stop it. “This is inappropriate.”

He chuckled, low, dark. “We’re past that word. You don’t come back here for appropriateness. You come back here because you like the edge. You like sitting across from the thing you’re supposed to be controlling and wondering if you could survive it.”

You forced the pen to move, wrote something—anything—on the paper. “Tell me about Hydra,” you said, grasping at the clinical like a life raft.

His expression didn’t change, but his voice softened. “They taught me a lot about pain. About power. About taking what you want. They taught me how to read people, how to find the cracks. You’ve got cracks, Doctor. Beautiful little cracks all over you. I think about sliding my fingers into them.”

Your breath caught. “Enough.”

“You keep saying that,” he murmured. “But you never leave.”

He leaned closer, so close the chain went tight with a metallic snap. His voice was a whisper against the hum of the lights. “Do you know what I think about when I’m in my cell at night? I think about your voice. The sound it would make if I pressed you against a wall. The way you’d gasp if I put my hand around your throat. I think about how long it would take before you stopped telling me to stop.”

The air felt thin, your lungs too small. “You don’t get to fantasize about hurting me,” you said, but your voice wasn’t steady.

He smiled, wolfish now. “It’s not about hurting. It’s about showing you what you want. You want someone who sees you. Someone who doesn’t flinch. You want someone who can take all the darkness you hide and swallow it whole. That’s why you’re here.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you?” You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He sat back slowly, the chain relaxing, his gaze still locked on you. “Tell me something true,” he said. “Tell me something no one else knows. You don’t have to say it out loud. Just think it. I’ll see it in your face.”

You swallowed hard, gripped the pen until your knuckles whitened. “This session is over,” you said.

He didn’t resist when the guards came in, but his eyes stayed on yours. His voice followed, soft and sure, “you’ll think about me tonight. You’ll touch yourself, and you’ll hate yourself for it. And then you’ll come back.” The door closed behind you, but you still felt him, like a shadow pressed against your back.

---

The room felt different today, and not just because you’d decided it would. You had prepared for this session differently—grounding exercises before entering, controlled breathing, and a plan to shift the power dynamic. You’d even changed your seating; instead of sitting directly opposite him, you’d placed your chair at a slight angle, an old tactic meant to reduce confrontational energy and reclaim some control. When the door opened, Bucky’s eyes went first to the new position of the chair. He smiled without teeth. “Clever.”

You kept your tone even. “Take your seat.”

He obeyed, though the way he did it made it feel like he was humoring you. He sat with his legs slightly apart, the cuffs slack but still present, metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. His gaze stayed on you as you opened the file.

“Today we’re going to use a new approach,” you said. “You’ll answer questions. Directly. Yes or no.”

He tilted his head, amused. “A game of truth.”

“A structured session,” you corrected.

“Truth,” he repeated softly, as though savoring the word.

You held his gaze. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said, a little too easily.

“Do you want treatment?”

He smiled faintly. “No.”

“Do you want to get better?”

“No.”

“Do you want to hurt me?”

The smile widened, slow and deliberate. “Yes.”

Your pulse thudded once, hard, but you kept your voice even. “Why?”

“Because it would make you look at me the way you should.”

You noted it, pen moving steadily. “Do you want to kill me?”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “No.”

“Do you want to control me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think about sex with me?”

His expression shifted—his head tilted, eyes darkening, the faintest curve of his lips. “All the time.”

“Describe it,” you said flatly.

For a moment he just watched you, the silence thick. Then his voice dropped low. “I think about you on your knees in this room. Not dressed like you are now. Nothing between my hands and your skin. I think about your hair in my fist. Your breath against my thigh. The sound you’d make when I—”

“That’s enough,” you cut in sharply, but your voice wasn’t as sharp as you’d hoped.

He smiled slowly. “You wanted me to say it. You’re writing it down, but you’re picturing it too.”

You inhaled through your nose, forced the pen to keep moving. “Do you understand that this behavior reinforces your confinement?”

He chuckled softly. “Do you understand that you’re blushing?”

“I’m not,” you said automatically.

“You are.” His eyes flicked down, back up. “Your throat, your cheeks. Every time I talk about you in my mouth, you color up like a candle.”

You shifted the angle of the questioning. “When you imagine control over me, what do you actually want? Physical domination? Emotional submission?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“That’s not an answer,” you said.

“It’s the only answer,” he murmured. “I want you bent. Not broken. Bent. I want to see you stop pretending you’re untouchable.”

You straightened your spine, flipped to a clean page. “Do you imagine me consenting?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “Sometimes.”

“Do you imagine me resisting?”

A small pause. “Sometimes.”

“What’s the difference?”

He smiled faintly, leaned forward until the chain went taut. “How you sound.”

Your stomach clenched. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m confessing,” he said, voice velvet and steel. “You wanted confession, Doctor. Here it is.”

You set your pen down deliberately. “I want to try something else. A visualization exercise. Close your eyes.”

He raised an eyebrow but obeyed, lids lowering. “Alright.”

“Imagine yourself in a safe place,” you instructed. “Describe it.”

His lips curved faintly. “You’re there.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s what’s there,” he murmured. “A room. Small. Concrete walls. No cuffs. You standing over me, keys in your hand. You tell me what to do. I obey. And then…” He chuckled low. “Then you stop telling me what to do.”

You clenched your fingers against the folder. “Do you ever imagine hurting yourself?”

“No.”

“Do you ever imagine hurting others?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

His eyes opened again, sharp, unblinking. “Anyone who touches you.”

Your throat worked, but you forced the next question out. “Do you think that’s normal?”

He smiled faintly. “I think it’s inevitable.”

The silence stretched. The pen trembled faintly in your hand. Finally you closed the file. “This session is over.”

He leaned back slowly, the chain relaxing, but his eyes never left yours. His voice followed as the guards came in. “You’re getting good at the games,” he murmured. “But games end. You’ll come back. And one day, you’ll stop asking questions and start answering.” The door shut behind you with a heavy clang, but you walked down the corridor feeling his voice still against your ear, like a promise you hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t shake.

---

The corridor to the interview room was quieter than usual. The storm had cleared overnight, leaving a grey morning behind. The wet smell of the concrete mixed with disinfectant, and every footstep echoed back at you like a countdown.

You’d spent most of the night building a plan. The techniques you’d used so far had kept you above water but hadn’t changed the current. He was always setting the tempo; you were reacting. Today would be different. Today you’d try something new. When you entered the room, the chair was already in place for you. You didn’t sit right away. You stood for a moment, file in hand, looking at him.

Bucky sat at the table in his usual posture—but not slouched. Upright. His wrists cuffed but resting loosely on the table. He didn’t greet you this time. He just watched, like a predator clocking a shift in the wind.

You set the file down, drew the chair out, and sat at an angle again. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he said softly.

You opened the file, but you didn’t look at it. “I want to try something new today.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “New how?”

“Less clinical.” You made your voice steady. “More human. You’ve told me a lot of things. Violent things. Fantasies. But I don’t really know you. Not as a person. I’d like to.”

Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or amusement. “You want to know me?”

“Yes.”

His smile was small, slow. “Finally, a real question.”

You nodded. “Tell me about something before Hydra. Before all this. Something real. Not blood. Not training. Something you miss.”

For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he leaned back, eyes going distant. “Brooklyn,” he said quietly. “Summers on the stoop. Smell of hot asphalt and cheap beer. Steve’s laugh when he still had a voice. The sound of a ball game on a radio from somebody’s window.”

Your pen moved automatically, but your gaze stayed on him. “That’s good. Keep going.”

He looked at you again, eyes sharp now. “You like that? You like me soft?”

“I like you human,” you said simply.

He chuckled low. “You’re good.”

You shifted in your chair, kept your tone calm. “This is how we move forward. This is how treatment works. If you want me to help you, you have to let me see the man, not the weapon.”

That was when his expression changed. The faint smile flattened, his eyes hardening. “Treatment,” he repeated.

“Yes,” you said. “We can discuss options—”

The chair screeched against the floor as he surged forward, the chain clanging taut between his wrists and the table. It happened so fast you barely saw it—one moment you were speaking, the next his body was lunging across the narrow space, the chain snapping like a leash at full stretch.

Your chair tipped back a fraction as you scrambled to move, your file sliding to the floor. His metal fingers slammed down on the table hard enough to leave dents, his face inches from yours. The guards outside banged on the door but hadn’t yet come in. His voice was low, raw. “Don’t say that word to me.”

“Treatment?” you managed.

“Like I’m sick,” he growled. “Like you’re going to fix me. You’re not. You’re mine.”

You forced yourself to stay seated, to breathe evenly, though your heart thundered against your ribs. “Sit back, Sergeant Barnes.”

He didn’t move. The chain rattled as his hands flexed. For a moment you thought he’d pull the whole table toward you. “You think you’re in control,” he said, voice dark. “You sit there with your little notes, your soft voice, like you’re safe. But I’ve been planning every second you’ve been in this room. Every inch between us. Every breath you take.”

The door clanged as the guards burst in, shouting. Bucky’s head turned slightly at the noise, just enough for one of them to grab his shoulder. Another moved for his arms. He didn’t resist, not really—but he didn’t step back either, not until he’d said what he wanted to say. “You’re not going to fix me,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you. “You’re going to break first.”

The guards dragged him back, forcing him upright. He let them, a faint smile curving his mouth again, like the whole outburst had been a rehearsal. As they pulled him toward the door, he looked back at you once more. His eyes had gone cold again, but his mouth moved around words you almost didn’t catch. “You wanted to know me,” he murmured. “Now you do.”

Then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

You sat alone at the table, your pen on the floor, your notes scattered, the dents in the wood glinting under the harsh light. And in the ringing silence, you could still feel the heat of his body leaning over you, the metallic snap of the chain, the whisper of his voice like a bruise under your skin.

The corridors of the asylum felt longer on the walk back from the interview room. The guards didn’t speak; they just watched you from the corners of their eyes. Everyone always did after a breach. It was a ritual here: an incident, a debrief, a whisper network.

You forced yourself to keep your steps even, even though your hands still trembled. The pen was still on the interview table; you’d left it behind without realizing it.

Dr. Milton was waiting at your office door, a heavyset man with thinning hair and the permanent expression of someone who’d seen too many things. He shut the door behind you as soon as you stepped in. “Sit down,” he said. You did, setting the file on your desk with hands that didn’t feel like your own. “You were warned,” Milton said quietly. “Barnes isn’t like the others. He’s not an ordinary sociopath. He’s disciplined. Strategic. And you’ve been feeding him.”

“I haven’t—” you started.

He cut you off with a raised hand. “You have. You’ve given him attention, proximity, stimulation. And now he’s testing the perimeter. You saw what he did today? That wasn’t him losing control. That was him demonstrating it.”

You pressed your palms against your knees, forcing them still. “He’s a patient.”

“He’s a predator,” Milton said, his voice hard now. “You’re not here to rehabilitate him. You’re here to contain him. Don’t forget that.”

He left before you could answer, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a long time you sat at your desk, staring at the empty space where the file sat. Your heartbeat still hadn’t settled. You thought about his eyes inches from yours, the heat of his body across the table, the dents in the wood. Don’t say that word to me. His voice had been low, almost a growl, but there’d been something else under it, too—something almost like hurt.

You didn’t remember walking to your car. You didn’t remember the drive. But when you blinked you were home, key in the door, apartment dark and silent around you. You turned on the lamp by the couch and stood in the living room, still wearing your coat, staring at nothing.

The apartment felt smaller tonight. The walls closer. The hum of the refrigerator too loud. You dropped your bag on the counter and went to the bathroom, gripping the sink. Your reflection in the mirror was pale, eyes rimmed with fatigue.

You thought about what Milton had said. Predator. Containment. You thought about the way Bucky had leaned across the table, how his face had been inches from yours, how he’d said you’re mine like it was a simple fact.

And then, before you could stop yourself, you thought about his other words. His promises. His fantasies. The way his voice had dropped when he described what he’d do if you stopped pretending. You closed your eyes, pressed your palms against the cool porcelain of the sink.

You’re picturing it right now. You’re picturing how it would feel.

The memory of his voice curled through you like smoke. Your stomach flipped. Heat pooled low, shame mixing with something you didn’t want to name. You forced yourself away from the mirror, back into the living room. You poured a glass of wine but didn’t drink it. You sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the clock on the wall. The second hand ticked loud, loud enough that you could imagine it was footsteps in the hall.

In your head, you heard him again.

They’re not about Hydra. Not about blood. They’re about you walking away.

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. A text from an unknown number: Sweet dreams, Doctor.

Your chest tightened. No one outside the asylum had that nickname for you. You stared at the message, waiting for it to disappear, for it to turn out to be a wrong number. It didn’t.

You locked the phone, set it down. Your hands shook. You told yourself it was a coincidence. A prank. But when you looked toward the window, you swore you felt eyes on you from the street below.

Later, when you finally lay down, you left the light on. Sleep came in fragments. Dreams came in flashes: his voice at your ear, his hands at your throat, the snap of the chain going taut. You woke at 3:17 a.m. with your heart racing, the sound of rain against the glass, and the faint smell of metal on your skin that shouldn’t have been there.

You sat up, hugged your knees, stared into the dark. And you thought, not for the first time, that maybe Milton was right—maybe you weren’t containing him. Maybe he was already here.

---

The interview room had changed. The chair you usually used was bolted now, a subtle but unmistakable shift. The guards who escorted you didn’t speak but their eyes said everything: this was containment, not treatment.

You walked in with the file tucked under your arm, the pen already between your fingers like a weapon. Bucky sat at the table with both wrists cuffed and chained lower, the links shorter than before so he couldn’t lean too far forward. He still looked relaxed, but the set of his shoulders told you he hated the new restrictions.

He raised his eyes when you entered. This time, there was no smile. Just that steady, deliberate gaze that felt like fingers on your skin. “Doctor,” he said quietly.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

“They’ve tightened the leash,” he murmured, glancing at the chain. “Does that make you feel safer?”

“It makes everyone safer,” you replied.

“Not you.”

You sat down across from him, your posture deliberately straight, the file opening with a crisp snap. “We’re continuing our sessions. But with new parameters.”

He tilted his head, almost amused. “Parameters.”

“You’ll answer my questions. Directly. No provocation.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then the session ends.”

He smiled faintly, slow and deliberate. “You’re learning to threaten me. I like that.”

You wrote the date at the top of the notes, forced your hand to stay steady. “Let’s start with last week. The outburst. Why did the mention of treatment trigger you?”

He leaned back slightly, the chain rattling softly. “Because you said it like you could fix me.”

“I want to help you.”

His gaze sharpened, his voice dropping low. “You want to understand me. That’s not the same thing.” You tried a new tactic: silence. You let it stretch, pen poised but unmoving, eyes steady on his. People hated silence. They filled it. Bucky didn’t fill it. He stared back, expression unreadable. Then slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward until the chain stopped him, eyes still on yours. “You missed me,” he said softly.

“I’m your psychiatrist,” you said evenly.

He smirked. “You’re my obsession.”

“That’s not healthy,” you countered.

He chuckled low. “Stop talking like a textbook. You don’t sound like that when you’re home.”

Your pen twitched. “And how would you know how I sound at home?”

His eyes glinted. “You hum. You don’t even realize it. Little broken bits of songs. You did it Tuesday night while making tea.” You froze. He smiled faintly. “You left your blinds half-open. I know your kitchen light now. I know the way you tilt your head when you’re reading. I know which window is your bedroom.”

“Stop,” you said sharply.

“Why?” His voice was quiet but relentless. “You like being seen.”

“That’s a violation.”

“That’s a confession,” he said.

Your heart pounded, but you forced the pen to move. “Tell me what you want from me,” you said, trying another new tactic: direct confrontation.

His expression didn’t change, but his voice did—softer now, darker. “I want to watch you unravel.”

“That’s not going to happen,” you said firmly.

He smiled faintly. “It already is.”

You shifted, crossing your legs, pen scratching furiously on the paper. “Do you fantasize about harming me?”

“No.”

“Do you fantasize about controlling me?”

“Yes.”

“Explain.”

His eyes gleamed. “You walk in here wrapped in rules, in coats, in professionalism. I want to take each layer off. Slowly. Until there’s nothing left but you.”

“That’s not reality.”

“That’s inevitability,” he murmured.

You set the pen down, trying a final tactic: empathy. “I think you’re lonely,” you said softly. “I think all of this—the threats, the fantasies—is about connection. You’ve been hurt. You’ve been used. You don’t know how to want someone without trying to own them.”

For a moment, something flickered in his expression. A crack. A shadow of something softer. But then it was gone, replaced by that slow smile. “You’re good,” he said quietly. “But you’re not safe.”

The guards shifted at the door. The tension in the room was palpable.

You stood, closing the file. “That’s all for today.”

He didn’t move. He just watched you, eyes following you to the door. His voice followed, soft, low, like a promise, “soon, you won’t leave until I tell you.”

The door shut, but you walked the corridor with the sense of him pressed against your back, as if his words had weight and hands and were already on your skin.

---

It started quietly that night, the way most bad dreams do—with something ordinary. You were in your apartment, lights dim, rain whispering at the windows. The clock on the wall ticked softly. You were making tea, humming without realizing it.

Except it wasn’t quite right. The air was heavier than it should have been. The light from the lamp flickered. The hum of the refrigerator slowed down, like someone dragging a fingernail across a record.

You turned, mug in hand. The kitchen was empty, but the apartment felt occupied. That sensation—of being watched—pressed against your back like a hand. You set the mug down on the counter and looked toward the hallway. It was dark there. Darker than it should have been. A heavy kind of dark, the kind that eats the edges of things. “Hello?” you said softly.

Nothing.

You stepped toward the hall. The boards under your feet creaked like they were further away than they actually were. When you reached the hall, the apartment was gone. The walls were concrete now, damp and grey, lined with pipes. The hum of the refrigerator had become the hum of fluorescent lights. Somewhere in the distance, a chain rattled.

You looked back over your shoulder. The kitchen was gone too. Just a long corridor, doors on either side, closed and numbered but without handles. A shadow moved at the far end of the hall. You told yourself to wake up. You even tried to move your fingers the way you’d practiced in college when you’d read about lucid dreaming. But your fingers felt heavy, like they weren’t yours.

The shadow moved closer. A man’s silhouette. Broad shoulders, dark hair falling across his forehead. “Where are you going, Doctor?” His voice echoed, low, dark, familiar.

Your stomach lurched. “This is a dream,” you whispered.

He laughed softly. “Is it?”

You started to run, but the hallway stretched as you moved, every step landing in slow motion. The doors on either side began to rattle, as though something inside them wanted out. You reached the end of the hall and found a single door ajar. Dim light spilled through the crack. You pushed it open and stepped inside. It was his cell.

The bed was there, the table bolted to the floor, the single high window. The air smelled like metal and damp concrete. But the cuffs were empty on the table. You turned to leave but the door slammed shut behind you.

You spun back, heart hammering, and found him there. Not the chained version from your sessions. This Bucky was unbound, standing in the center of the room. His hair was damp, clinging to his temples, his blue eyes fixed on you. “You keep coming here,” he murmured. “Even in your sleep.”

“This isn’t real,” you said, though your voice was shaking.

He stepped closer. “You think you can study me, write your notes, go home to your quiet little apartment. But I’m already there.”

You backed up until your spine hit the cold wall. “Wake up,” you whispered to yourself. “Wake up.”

He kept moving, slow and deliberate. “I told you I dream about you. Did you think you wouldn’t dream about me?” When he reached you, he lifted his metal hand and placed it against the wall beside your head. The cold radiated through the concrete. His body was a breath away from yours. “Say my name,” he said softly. You shook your head. His smile was faint, dark. “Say it.”

You forced your mouth open. “Bucky.”

He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “That’s better.” His flesh hand came up, fingers curling around your chin, tilting your head up. “You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmured. “The edge. The danger. Me.”

“No,” you said, but it sounded like a lie.

He chuckled low. “Liar.” You tried to push him away, but your arms wouldn’t move. They felt like they were encased in concrete. His hand slid from your chin to your throat, not squeezing but resting there, his thumb brushing over your pulse. “You feel that?” he asked. “That’s what control sounds like.”

“Stop,” you whispered.

“You don’t want me to,” he said. He bent his head closer, his lips almost touching your ear. “Soon, you won’t wake up.”

Your heart thundered. “Wake up,” you whispered to yourself again.

“Wake up,” he echoed, his mouth curving. “Or don’t.”

He pressed closer, the weight of his body pinning you lightly against the wall. His hand at your throat wasn’t squeezing but you could feel the strength there, the threat of it. His mouth brushed your jaw, not a kiss but a promise.

You jerked awake with a strangled gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. The room was dark, the rain whispering against the window. Your heart was hammering. For a long time you sat in the dark, your palm pressed to your throat where his thumb had been in the dream. The skin there was warm, but you swore you could still feel the cold edge of metal.

On the nightstand, your phone lit up with a new text from the same unknown number. No words this time. Just an image: a concrete wall, grey and damp, with a handprint pressed into it.

---

The asylum was humming with its usual unease when you arrived the next morning. The air smelled faintly of bleach and damp fabric, like it always did after a storm. Staff moved through the halls with their clipped steps, clipboards clutched close, their eyes sliding over you but not quite meeting yours. Word of the incident had traveled. It always did.

You went through security as you always did—bag checked, coat hung, file folder pressed against your ribs like armor. The guards didn’t say anything, but one of them, a younger man with a shaved head, gave you a glance that lasted too long. A warning, or pity.

By the time you reached your office, you were already tightening your shoulders against it. You opened the door, flicked on the light, set the folder down on your desk.

And froze.

There was something on your chair. A folded piece of paper. Crisp, clean, resting directly where you would have sat. Your hand hovered before you picked it up. No one was supposed to have access to your office without keys. Security was strict. Files were checked out and logged. But the paper was there, simple as breath.

You unfolded it with slow, careful fingers. Inside was a single line, written in neat block letters: You hum when you’re scared. I like that one the most.

Your chest tightened. You folded the paper again, shoved it into the desk drawer, locked it. You didn’t tell anyone. You should have. You knew you should have. But the thought of handing it over to Milton or the guards made something inside you coil tighter. If you gave it up, you’d be admitting he’d gotten past the locks. Past the rules. Past you.

When you saw him later that day, he didn’t say a word about it. He sat with his hands folded, cuffs gleaming, eyes calm and steady. But when the silence stretched and you forced yourself to meet his gaze, the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. Like he knew you were carrying his words in your pocket.

The gifts didn’t stop. The next came at home. You walked into your apartment after a long day, dropped your keys on the counter, and there it was: a book lying on the table. You knew you hadn’t left it there. An old copy of Dracula, worn at the edges, the spine cracked. Inside, a bookmark pressed between two pages—a scene where Mina writes about feeling watched. In the margin, a neat, sharp hand had written: She wanted it too.

You slammed the book shut, your stomach flipping. Your locks were intact. No windows broken. No sign of forced entry. But the book was there, solid and undeniable. That night you called maintenance, asked for new locks. The man who came the next day installed them without comment, but you swore you saw the faintest smirk tug at his mouth when you asked if they were “secure.”

By the third gift, you couldn’t keep it to yourself. You came into your office one morning and found a single lily lying on your desk. White, perfect, dew still clinging to the petals as though it had just been cut. No note this time. Just the flower. Your stomach clenched. Lilacs, he’d said once. He’d smelled lilacs on you that first session. Now it was a lily—stark, pure, funereal.

Milton walked past your office just as you were staring at it. He stopped, frowned. “What’s that?”

You swallowed. “A flower. Someone must have—”

“No one should be in here,” Milton said sharply. He stepped inside, looked at the lily, then back at you. “Barnes?”

“I don’t know,” you said quickly.

He studied you for a long moment, then his voice dropped. “He’s gotten into your head.”

You looked down at the lily, at the pure white of it, at the way it seemed almost obscene against the stack of sterile files. “Maybe he always was.”

Milton picked up the flower, snapped the stem, and tossed it in the trash. “You need distance. Or you’re going to drown in him.” When he left, you sat alone, staring at the trash bin. The lily lay bent, crushed, but still beautiful.

That night, you dreamed again. Only this time there was no corridor, no doors, no transition. You were just in your apartment. The lights flickered. And Bucky was there, sitting in your chair like he belonged in it, metal fingers tapping against the armrest. “I told you,” he said softly, “I’ll always bring you something.”

When you woke, there was nothing in the room. But on the nightstand, where you were certain there had been only your lamp and your phone, there was a small piece of folded paper. You opened it with shaking fingers. Soon you won’t have to wake up alone.

---

The asylum corridors had always been sterile, humming with fluorescent light and faint bleach, but lately they felt hostile. You noticed it in the way the guards lingered longer outside your office. In the way staff lowered their voices when you passed. In the way Milton’s eyes followed you like he was waiting for you to collapse.

But it wasn’t them you noticed most. It was him. Every time you entered the interview room now, he was already watching. Sometimes with that faint half-smile, sometimes with nothing at all, but always steady, like he had been waiting for you specifically. “Morning, Doctor,” he said one day, his voice low, conversational, as though the chains didn’t exist. “Blue dress today. You haven’t worn that one in a while.”

You glanced down before you could stop yourself. He was right. You hadn’t worn it in months. You made your voice firm. “We’re not here to discuss my clothing.”

He smirked. “You put it on for me, though. Didn’t you?” You ignored him and wrote the date, your handwriting tighter than usual.

At home, the intrusion became subtler—or maybe you were simply starting to notice what had been there all along. One evening you came back late, coat damp from the rain, and found your apartment exactly as you’d left it. Almost. The lamp by the couch was turned an inch to the left. A book you’d left on the coffee table was open, spine cracked to a random page. You told yourself you might have done it, might have forgotten. But when you closed the book, a note slipped out.

It was short, written in the same neat block letters as before: You should eat more. Skipping breakfast isn’t good for you.

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t eaten that morning. You hadn’t told anyone. You crumpled the paper and shoved it in the trash, then immediately dug it back out, smoothed it flat, and locked it in your desk drawer at home. You told yourself you’d bring it to Milton. But you didn’t.

By the third week, you were jumpy. Every knock on your door, every footstep in the hall, every shadow under the streetlamp outside your apartment window—you flinched at all of it. At the asylum, you tried new tactics: grounding exercises, silence, even simple rapport-building techniques. One day you tried to take control by leaning forward first. “You said you wanted me to know you,” you said. “Tell me something real. Not fantasy. Not control. Something from your childhood.”

Bucky studied you for a long moment. Then his mouth curved. “Your aunt’s maiden name is Carroll. Your father worked in insurance. You moved to the city when you were eight.”

Your pen froze on the page. “That’s not about you,” you said, though your voice wasn’t steady.

“No,” he said softly. “It’s about how much I already know about you. More than you know about me.” He leaned forward until the chain tightened, his voice low. “Tell me something real, Doctor. Or I’ll keep leaving pieces of you on your desk until you admit you’re mine.”

That night, the gift wasn’t in your apartment. It was in your car. You slid into the driver’s seat after leaving the asylum, file clutched tight in your hand, and saw it immediately: a single Polaroid lying on the passenger seat. Your chest tightened as you picked it up. The picture was grainy, dim. It was your building. The window to your bedroom, lit from within. On the back, written in those same block letters: I like the way you look when you read in bed.

Your throat closed. You dropped the Polaroid like it burned.

Sleep stopped coming easy. When it did, the dreams came back. Always the same walls. Always the same corridor. Always him. Sometimes cuffed, sometimes not, but always moving toward you with the kind of certainty that made you feel like running was pointless. One night you dreamed of being back in the interview room. You sat at the table with your pen and file, and when you looked up, the cuffs were gone. He was across from you, leaning forward, his hand sliding the file away from you like it was a toy. “Stop pretending you want to save me,” he murmured. “Say what you want.”

In the dream, you did. You told him you wanted him. And he smiled like he had been waiting for it all along. You woke up sweating, your sheets twisted around you, the echo of his laugh still in your ears. On the nightstand, where there had been nothing when you went to bed, there was another note. You’re almost ready.

By the time you arrived at the asylum the next morning, you were trembling with exhaustion. Milton stopped you in the hall, his face hard. “You need to step back,” he said. “Barnes is escalating. He’s not safe. And you’re compromised.”

You swallowed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Milton’s voice dropped. “He’s in your head. Everyone can see it.”

You tried to protest, but the words tangled. Milton shook his head. “One more incident, and I’ll pull you off his case. Permanently.”

You walked away before he could see the way your hands shook. But in the interview room, when you sat down and opened the file, Bucky looked at you with that slow, knowing smile, and you understood something you hadn’t wanted to admit: You were already his case.

---

The storm came back with a vengeance that night. You could hear it even inside the asylum—rain slashing the walls, wind clawing at the windows, thunder rolling so low it rattled the pipes in the floor. The lights flickered once, twice, and then the entire building went black.

The sudden silence was worse than the storm. The hum of the fluorescents gone. The steady drone of the security fans cut off. For a moment, the only sound was the rain hammering against the concrete and the faint, too-close sound of your own breath.

The emergency lights didn’t come on. They should have. But they didn’t. Staff voices called in the halls, radios sputtered static. You caught one guard saying “generator’s down” before the words blurred into noise. Someone shouted for flashlights, someone else cursed.

You were already moving down the corridor toward the patient wing. Your pulse was hammering, but you told yourself it was procedure—make sure high-risk inmates were secure, check doors, and confirm locks.

Bucky’s cell was halfway down the block. The hall was pitch-dark. You used your own small flashlight, the beam thin, bouncing off concrete, throwing long shadows. Every door looked the same, steel reinforced with narrow viewing slots. When you reached his cell, you lifted the flashlight, shining it inside. Empty. The bed was there. The table. The chains bolted to the wall. But no Bucky.

Your throat went dry. You flicked the light across the room again, heart hammering. Empty. Absolutely empty. “Shit,” you whispered. You spun, hand fumbling for the radio clipped to your belt. Static only. No voices. No signal. “Shit,” you said again, louder this time.

That was when you felt it.

A breath against the back of your neck. You froze. The flashlight trembled in your hand. You didn’t want to turn. Every part of you screamed not to. But you did.

Too late.

An arm snaked around your waist, the other clamping over your mouth, pulling you back into a body that radiated heat and strength. The flashlight clattered to the floor, beam spinning uselessly across the concrete.

“Miss me?” Bucky’s voice was low, right against your ear. Calm. Almost amused.

You thrashed immediately, shoving at his arms, twisting, trying to stomp back at his shin, but his grip only tightened. His flesh arm crushed your torso against him; the metal hand at your face was unyielding, cold against your skin.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Stop fighting.” You shoved again, desperate, nails digging at the band of muscle around your ribs. He grunted but didn’t loosen. “I said stop.” His voice sharpened, the steel underneath flashing through.

You tried to scream into his palm, but it came out muffled, pathetic. He laughed softly, the sound curling hot in your ear. “That’s cute.”

You twisted harder, nearly broke free for a breath, but he caught you by the wrists, spun you, and slammed you against the wall. Not hard enough to knock you out—but hard enough that your breath left you in a gasp.

Your wrists were pinned above your head in his metal grip, his body close enough that you could feel every line of him against your back. “You think you can run?” he murmured, breath rough now, chest rising against you. “You’ve been running since the first day. But you came back. You always come back.”

“Let me go!” you hissed, voice ragged.

He chuckled, low and dark. “No.”

You tried to kick backward, catch his shin, but he only laughed again, dragging you away from the wall. His grip didn’t falter. You fought every inch, heels digging into the floor, but he was relentless.

He pulled you toward his cell. The door was open. The locks that had been shut when you’d looked in were now unlatched, hanging uselessly from the frame.

Your heart thundered. “No—”

“Yes.”

He hauled you inside, the shadows swallowing both of you. You clawed at his hands, your voice breaking as you tried to scream again, but his body dwarfed yours, his strength absolute.

When you saw where he was dragging you, your stomach dropped. The bed. The cuffs bolted into the frame. “No—stop—”

He shoved you down onto the mattress, the metal frame groaning under the weight. His flesh hand pressed your chest down as he snapped one cuff around your wrist with the other. The sound of it closing was deafening in the dark.

You twisted violently, tried to pull free, but the restraint held fast. “Stop fighting,” he said again, firmer now. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

You snarled, kicking up at him, but he caught your ankle easily, pinning it against the mattress. His body loomed over yours, his breath ragged now, matching yours. The second cuff closed around your other wrist. Cold, unyielding, locking you to his bed.

For a moment, he just stood there above you, breathing hard, staring down. The shadows cut across his face, eyes gleaming with something raw and hungry. Then he leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “Now,” he whispered, voice a promise and a threat all at once, “you’re not going anywhere.”

The frame of his bed was cold beneath your back, the thin mattress no buffer at all against the steel. Your chest rose and fell fast, breath shaking, your arms stretched above you and tethered wide.

Bucky was still standing over you, his shoulders rising and falling with his own breath. His hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, a mix of sweat and rain. The storm outside pounded against the barred window, thunder rolling in low and long like a warning drum.

“Stop fighting,” he said again, voice lower now, roughened from exertion. He braced a hand on the bed by your hip, leaning down until his face was a few inches from yours. The smell of him—sweat, metal, the faint tang of something darker—filled your head. “I told you what would happen if you kept running.”

You yanked at the cuffs, twisting your wrists hard enough that the metal bit into your skin. “Let me go!”

He chuckled, soft but dangerous, his eyes flicking down your body and back up to your face. “You still don’t get it. You’re not here because I let you be. You’re here because you came back. Over and over. And now—” he dragged a knuckle slowly down your sternum, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you shudder “—now I’m done waiting.”

You thrashed again, trying to get a knee up, but his hand slid to your thigh, pressing it back down against the mattress. The metal arm shifted, catching your other leg when you tried to kick, pinning you open. “Stop,” he said again, this time a growl against your ear. “Stop fighting.”

“No—”

His metal fingers wrapped gently but unyieldingly around your jaw, tilting your face up to his. The cold of the vibranium contrasted with the heat of his flesh thumb brushing over your pulse. “You think I don’t like it?” he murmured. “You think I don’t like watching you try?” He leaned closer, until his lips were at your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “But we’re past trying now. You know it. I know it.”

He shifted, his body coming over yours, caging you without even needing the cuffs. His weight was held just enough to keep you pinned without crushing. One of his knees slid between your thighs, prying you open by inches.

You bucked against him, wrists straining against the cuffs, but it only made the metal creak and your skin burn. He caught your chin again, made you look at him. His eyes were dark, but not wild—steady, intense, like a tide pulling you out. “Look at me,” he ordered quietly. “Look at me while you fight.” You did, even though your heart was hammering, your breath ragged. “That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s the look. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

His hand left your chin and trailed down, slow, deliberate, fingertips skimming the collar of your blouse, tracing the line of fabric as though mapping it. His metal hand stayed braced above your head, gripping the bedframe, anchoring him.

Outside, thunder cracked. The emergency lights flickered once, then died completely, plunging the cell into a dim blue darkness from the storm beyond the bars. The only illumination came in flashes, lightning strobes that cut across his face and the gleam of his metal arm.

He bent closer, his mouth a breath away from yours, voice a low growl threaded with something like a promise, “now stop running.” His palm flattened against your stomach, sliding upward a fraction, the heat of it stark against your skin. “Or don’t,” he whispered. “It just makes it better.”

You yanked at the cuffs again, wrists aching, chest rising and falling fast. You felt the mattress shift under you as he settled his weight more fully, knees braced on either side of your hips, caging you completely. The sound of the rain on the window and the thunder outside blurred with the sound of your own pulse.

“Say my name,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “Say it while you’re still fighting.” His mouth descended, aiming for yours, but you jerked your head aside, jaw clenching. Your heart hammered. His lips brushed your cheek instead, hot and insistent, stubble scraping your skin as he murmured, “still fighting? Even now?”

You twisted away again, baring your teeth, refusing the kiss. A dark, pleased sound rumbled in his chest. The metal hand slid from the bedframe and caught your chin, steel fingers unyielding as they guided your face back to him, thumb pressing against your lower lip, prying it open. “Look at me,” he ordered again, voice molten and low. “I said look at me.”

You glared up, jaw aching, breath coming fast—but he only grinned, leaning in so close you could taste the heat of him. His mouth crashed onto yours, not gentle or coaxing, but hungry, claiming. You tried to twist free but he held you there, tongue sliding past your lips, swallowing the start of a protest. Your defiance was fuel to him; he devoured it, teeth scraping your lower lip until you gasped, the sound muffled against his mouth.

His flesh hand moved to your throat, palm warm as it circled the column of your neck. He squeezed—not enough to cut off breath, but enough to claim, to hold you steady. “Keep fighting,” he whispered against your mouth, breath hot. “Let me see how much you want to lose.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, the weight of his body shifting, chest pressing yours into the thin mattress. His hips slotted against you, the hard line of his cock a promise through the thin fabric. Your legs kicked uselessly beneath him, but he only rocked his hips, grinding down until you felt the heat of him, thick and aching, through both your clothes.

He dragged his mouth from yours to your jaw, then lower—lips and teeth marking a trail along your neck, finding the place where your pulse pounded wild. He nipped there, sucking until you whimpered, the sound escaping before you could choke it back.

“Mine,” he said, lips brushing the new bruise as his hand slid down, gripping the buttons of your blouse. You tried to buck him off, arching your back in defiance, but he pinned your hips, the metal hand slipping to your jaw again to hold you steady.

One by one, he popped the buttons open, slow and deliberate, baring your chest to the cold air and the heat of his gaze. Lightning flickered again, and you saw his eyes devour you—greedy, wild, possessive.

He bent to your collarbone, kissing, then biting, leaving marks in his wake. His teeth grazed your skin, followed by the slick heat of his tongue, soothing the sting. You writhed, wrists aching, and he just growled softly, his hands everywhere—stroking, gripping, exploring every inch of newly revealed flesh.

His mouth closed around your nipple, tongue circling, sucking until it peaked and you gasped, arching into the touch despite yourself. He lifted his head, breath ragged, lips glossy with spit. “You taste fucking perfect,” he growled, then bit down just hard enough to make you whimper again, pain blooming bright and hot under his mouth.

You turned your head away, panting, refusing to look at him. He grabbed your throat again, turning your face back, eyes burning. “No hiding,” he snarled. “You want to fight? Fight. But I’m not letting you go.”

His metal hand slid lower, cold against your ribs, slipping beneath your skirt, pushing it up inch by inch. His palm cupped your thigh, squeezing hard, thumb pressing bruises into your skin as his mouth claimed your lips again, bruising and relentless.

You tried to twist away, but the cuffs held you wide, the bed unyielding beneath you, his body a cage. He kissed you harder, tongue invading, swallowing every protest, every moan. When he finally broke away, your breath was ragged, lips swollen and tingling from his rough attention.

He stared down at you, his hair shadowing his eyes, chest heaving. “You don’t get to hide from me,” he said softly, a threat and a promise both. His hands moved lower, peeling the rest of your blouse off, exposing you to the dark and to him.

“Keep fighting,” he whispered, voice thick with hunger, “and I’ll just mark you up more.”

His mouth returned to your skin—biting, kissing, licking, each mark a declaration. Your body arched, torn between defiance and a pulse of want that you tried, desperately, to deny. Lightning flashed, painting the room in stark relief, the silver of his arm gleaming where it pressed between your thighs, cold and merciless as he spread you open. “You’re not going anywhere,” he repeated, his lips dragging lower, mouth hot and hungry as he tasted his way down your body. “You’re mine now.”

He pressed your skirt higher, bunching it around your hips, then slid his hands—flesh and metal—down to your knees. His palms urged your legs wider, baring you to the chill air and the heat of his gaze. You bucked in the cuffs, wrists aching, but he only smiled, holding you open, drinking in every involuntary shudder and the flash of anger that lingered behind your eyes.

His mouth descended, tracing a path from your knee up your inner thigh, pausing to nip at the sensitive skin there until you jerked, a choked sound tearing from your throat. “That’s it,” he murmured, lips pressed to the softest part of you. “Let me hear you.” His stubble scraped rough, tongue soothing the sting in a pattern that left your skin tingling and raw.

He mouthed up, his nose nuzzling the edge of your panties, breathing deep, the warmth of his breath making you squirm. You turned your head away, refusing to look, but the hand at your thigh squeezed, metal thumb digging a warning into the soft flesh. “Eyes on me.” You ignored him, breath coming in short, angry bursts, but when you didn’t obey, he hooked his thumb under the thin cotton, dragging the fabric aside with a single, patient motion.

Cool air licked over you. Then his mouth was there, hot and wet, tongue flat against your folds as he licked a broad stripe up the length of your pussy, groaning low and hungry against your skin. “Fuck, you taste—” his words cut off as he buried his face deeper, tongue circling your clit, lips sealing around it as he sucked, slow at first, then with building pressure.

You twisted in the cuffs, a desperate little gasp ripping from your lips. He didn’t let up, the metal hand pinning your thigh, his flesh fingers spreading you wider, holding you perfectly open for him. His tongue was relentless, lapping through your slick, tracing every line and dip until your hips bucked against his mouth, searching for escape or for more, you didn’t even know anymore.

He groaned again, the sound vibrating against your clit, and you felt the deep answering throb all through your body. His mouth was hot and possessive, his teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver, then soothing the spot with soft, slow licks that threatened to undo you completely. Every time you tried to pull away, he followed, locking you down tighter, eating you like a man starving.

“Let me hear you, doc,” he growled, lifting his head just enough that his breath teased across your soaked skin. “Let them all know who you belong to.” Then he dove back in, tongue swirling, two fingers sliding inside you without warning—thick, relentless, curling to hit that spot that made your whole body arch off the mattress, a ragged, involuntary moan bursting from your chest.

“N—ah, f-fuck—!” Your thighs trembled, legs trying to close, but the grip of his hands and the cuffs at your wrists left you nowhere to go, nothing to do but take every hungry, punishing lick he gave you. His tongue flicked and circled, his fingers thrusting slow and deep, drawing out every wet sound from your cunt, every tremor from your core.

He watched you with hooded eyes, lips slick with you, drinking in every shiver, every gasp, every filthy, unguarded noise. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice wrecked and triumphant. “You can fight all you want, but your body already knows who owns you.”

He leaned in, mouth sealing over your clit as he sucked, fingers pressing up, unrelenting, until the tension coiled so tight in your belly it felt like breaking. “Come for me,” he growled into your skin. “Now.”

And when the pleasure finally broke, crashing through you—hot, unstoppable, loud—you screamed, the sound echoing off concrete and steel, your body thrashing under him as he held you pinned and open, feasting on every shudder and sob that ripped free.

He licked you through every aftershock, savoring the taste, then finally lifted his head, lips swollen, eyes wild and greedy. He crawled up your body, pressing a filthy, possessive kiss to your mouth, making you taste yourself on his tongue.

He didn’t bother undressing himself; his clothes stayed on, rough fabric scraping against your bare thighs as he braced over you, knees spread between yours. His cock strained the front of his pants, pressing hot and thick right where you ached for friction. He dragged the head of it through your slick folds, coating himself with you, grunting in pleasure at the way you whimpered and tried to close your legs—even though he had you pinned, nowhere to go.

“Look at you, fuck,” he rasped, grabbing your jaw in one callused hand, forcing your head back so you couldn’t look away. His other hand slid between your bodies, pulling his cock free just enough to push the head against your entrance, stretching you as he thrust in slow and unyielding. “So fucking wet for me. Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”

You writhed beneath him, every inch a live wire, wrists aching in the cuffs. He held you pinned, his cock forcing you open, inch by thick inch. The first thrust burned, made you gasp, but he didn’t pause; he bottomed out, groaning as he filled you to the hilt, hips grinding down, pelvis pressed to yours.

You twisted, fighting against the grip he kept on your face, your voice breaking, “N—let go—!”

He just smirked, rolling his hips, grinding deeper. “Why would I let you go when you sound like that?” His metal hand slid down, bracing your thigh wide open, thumb digging into the soft flesh. He drew back and fucked you hard—slow at first, making you feel every ridge, every stretch, every time your cunt gripped and fluttered helplessly around him.

His mouth dropped to your throat, biting hard, leaving fresh marks beside the others. “You hear that?” he growled, voice muffled by your skin. “That’s you. That’s what you sound like when you’re mine.”

The rhythm picked up—harder now, desperate, each thrust shoving you up the bed, making the cuffs rattle and the mattress squeal under your hips. Your skirt bunched higher, the thin cotton soaking up your slick, panties stretched and useless where he’d pushed them aside. Every time you tried to twist away he just fucked you harder, pinning you down, chest pressed to yours, breath hot at your ear.

You clenched around him, every thrust driving a whimper or gasp from your lips, but he shushed you with a kiss, tongue forcing your mouth open, stealing the sounds right out of your throat. “Keep fighting,” he panted, biting your lower lip, “keep fucking fighting. Feels better when you try—ngh—” His cock slammed deep, grinding, the head rubbing right where you needed it, drawing a sharp, broken moan from your chest.

He shifted, angling his hips, one hand slipping down to rub circles against your clit, merciless and fast. The pleasure punched through your body, white-hot, shattering the last of your control.

You came with a strangled cry—legs shaking, cunt pulsing tight around his cock as he kept fucking you through it, hips snapping, fingers never stopping on your clit. The pleasure was overwhelming, sharp and endless, making you sob and gasp, every nerve lit up.

He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, riding your orgasm out with brutal precision, hips never faltering. When you tried to squirm away, he just pressed you down, fucking you until you were shaking and soaked, the cuffs creaking with every helpless jerk of your arms.

And through it all, he never came—just kept you pinned and open, marking you with every thrust, every bite, every growl of your name in your ear. His cock throbbed deep inside you, thick and hot, but he denied himself the release, focused only on wringing every last cry and tremor from your body.

When you finally collapsed beneath him, raw and trembling, he leaned down, pressing a filthy kiss to your jaw, lips curling in a satisfied smirk.

He didn’t release you. Instead, he leaned over, eyes dark and sharp, hands spreading over your chest and belly, holding you down as he rutted slow against your thigh. “Not done,” he growled, voice low, lips brushing your ear and jaw. “Want your mouth on me.”

Before you could answer, he moved—kneeling over your head, knees braced on either side of your shoulders, his bulk and presence blocking out everything but him. His cock was swollen and leaking, the tip flushed, slick with your arousal. He gripped the base and tapped it against your lips, smearing a line of salty precome. “Open,” he ordered.

You clenched your jaw, turned away, but his metal hand slid under your chin, fingers cold and strong as they forced your face up. “Don’t make me ask twice.” He pressed forward, cock sliding along your lips, and when you tried to bite, he just laughed—a deep, savage sound—and wedged his thumb between your teeth, prying your jaw open. “That’s it. Wide.”

He guided himself into your mouth, thick and insistent, groaning as your lips stretched around him, the taste of him filling you. His hips rocked slowly, pushing deeper, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. “Fuck, that’s good. Take it.” His flesh hand tangled in your hair, holding your head steady, as he fucked your mouth with slow, unhurried thrusts, dragging out the slick wet sounds, the choke and swallow of your throat.

You tried to twist away, but the cuffs held your arms above your head, body pinned under his weight. His metal hand slid down, tracing your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth as he watched himself disappear between your lips. “Such a pretty mouth, doc. Bet you never thought you’d be here.” He pulled back, letting you gasp for breath, spit slicking your chin, then thrust in deeper, making you gag, drool sliding down your neck. “That’s it. Take it. Let me feel you fight.”

While he rocked into your throat, his other hand drifted down between your legs, fingers finding you slick and sensitive. He stroked your folds, teasing your clit, then shoved two fingers inside you, curling and thrusting in rhythm with his cock, forcing you to moan around him, every sound vibrating up his shaft. “Gonna make you come again like this,” he snarled, hips snapping harder. “Wanna feel you choke and shudder, wanna fuck your throat while you come on my hand.”

You squeezed your thighs around his arm, trying to squirm away, but he only fingered you harder, the heel of his hand grinding your clit, his cock filling your mouth, choking you with every thrust. The air was thick with the sounds and the desperate, helpless whimpers that spilled out as you lost the rhythm of your breathing, your body betraying you, hips rolling up into his hand.

“Look at you, fuck,” he grunted, pulling back just long enough for you to gasp, air and spit flooding your lips, then slamming forward again, cock hot and heavy and unforgiving. “Such a mess for me. You like being used, don’t you? Say it—ah, fuck—say you’re mine.”

You tried to speak, but he kept you full, only more muffled sounds escaping. The pleasure built fast, shame and need tangled as his fingers drove you wild, his thumb never leaving your clit, his cock stretching your throat until tears prickled in your eyes.

The orgasm hit hard—tight and sudden—your body shuddering around his hand, pulse racing, cunt gripping his fingers as your mouth and throat fluttered helplessly around his cock. He fucked you through it, not letting up, his own breath ragged, hips slowing only when you finally collapsed, spent and gasping, drool and spit slicking your lips and chin.

He pulled out, cock glistening, one hand stroking your cheek. He pressed his forehead to yours, voice still hungry but gentle now, his thumb tracing your lip. “Not finished with you, doc,” he whispered, “but you take me so fucking well.”

He pulled back from you, your legs sprawled and trembling from the last brutal wave he’d forced from you. He knelt between your thighs, palms pressed possessively to your inner knees, spreading you wider—your skirt bunched around your waist, panties still only dragged to the side, the cuffs at your wrists tight enough you felt their bite in every throb of your pulse.

His cock was still out, hard and flushed, glistening from being buried in your mouth and from the mess he’d made of you. The air was thick with sweat and storm, a low thrumming energy in the dark.

He dragged you a few inches down the bed, grip strong and certain, until your thighs bracketed him perfectly. He held your legs wide, savoring the sight—his jaw flexing, lips parted, eyes locked on your face. “Look at you. All fucked out and still trying to glare at me.” He spat in his hand and stroked himself, slow and deliberate, the thick head of his cock nudging the inside of your trembling thigh.

The rough fabric of his pants scratched your sensitive skin as he settled between your legs, pressing your thighs together around him. “Hold still,” he growled, guiding his cock into the slick heat of your thighs, sliding the shaft along your soaked folds, the head catching on your clit with each drag. “Gonna use you just like this.”

His metal hand slid up, cold and firm, clamping over your knee to keep your thighs squeezed tight around him. The pressure forced every pulse of your cunt against his cock, slicking him up, every thrust making obscene, wet sounds as he fucked the soft flesh between your legs. Your breathing stuttered, your body betraying you with another sharp pulse of pleasure as his cock ground just right, the head nudging your swollen clit again and again.

Bucky grinned down at you, breath hot and ragged. “You feel that? That’s how wet you are for me. You wanted this—you wanted every fucking inch.” He pushed harder, rutting between your thighs, the roughness of his uniform scraping your skin, his cock sliding faster, wetter, hotter every second.

The hand not pinning your leg moved between your bodies, two fingers shoving back inside you, curling mercilessly as he fucked your thighs, stretching you wide while he worked your body in rhythm. The pressure, the friction, the slick grind of his cock against your clit—all of it coiled tight, so tight you couldn’t hold back another desperate moan.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice raw: “Come again. Right now. Squeeze my fingers, let me feel it.”

He worked your cunt, fingers pressing and stroking, the head of his cock gliding up and down, every thrust bumping your clit. You sobbed, shaking, your body spasming as another orgasm ripped through you, thighs clamping hard around him, cunt clenching on his fingers as you cried out, the cuffs rattling above your head.

Bucky didn’t stop—he growled, his own pleasure cresting as he fucked harder between your slick thighs, squeezing your legs around him until with a rough, choked gasp, he came, cock throbbing hot against your skin, spilling messily between your thighs and over your cunt, marking you with every pulse. His breath came heavy and wild as he shuddered through it, grinding until there was nothing left but the slow pulse of the storm and the filthy heat between your bodies.

He pulled his fingers from you slowly, dragging them up to your mouth and smearing your lips with the taste of yourself and him. “Good girl,” he murmured, thumb pressing between your lips, watching your mouth part for him. “Take it all. Every fucking drop.”

Bucky stayed between your legs, his palms dragging up your trembling thighs, slow and lazy, as if he had all night to enjoy you. His gaze flickered up to your face, and a crooked, knowing smile spread across his lips.

You swallowed, pulse rabbiting in your throat. You tried to summon your voice, tried to wrestle your breathing into something that sounded like authority, like you still had a shred of power left. “Bucky. Listen to me. You don’t have to—”

He cut you off with a low laugh, leaning over you until his face was right above yours, his hair hanging in your eyes. “Don’t have to what, doctor?” He dipped down and pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, rough and taunting. “Don’t have to make you beg? Don’t have to keep you cuffed?”

You tried again, shaking, “You’re not thinking straight. This isn’t you—”

His lips crashed down on yours, swallowing the words, tongue pushing past your lips, hot and insistent, filling your mouth before you could protest. His metal hand cupped your jaw, angling your head just the way he wanted, the cold steel forcing your mouth wide. He kissed you hard, tongue fucking into you, devouring every attempt at speech and turning it into ragged moans.

You tried to keep talking, words muffled against his mouth, “you can’t—ah, Bucky, let me—let me go—!” but he just growled, lips dragging along your tongue, claiming you deeper, swallowing every desperate syllable. Every time you tried to speak, he just kissed you harder, relentless, wet and possessive. His tongue traced the roof of your mouth, circled your teeth, played with the soft, shuddering muscle of your own tongue until you couldn’t do anything but gasp into him.

He pulled back just far enough to speak, breath ghosting your lips. “Keep talking,” he taunted, a dark glint in his eyes. “I love feeling you try to fight with your mouth full.”

He kissed you again, tongue plunging in deep, teeth scraping your lower lip until it throbbed, then sucking it into his mouth. The taste of him was everywhere—his cock, your own slick, the sweat and salt of the storm around you. He devoured every word, every whimper, every attempt at reason.

You squirmed, wrists aching, but the cuffs just rattled uselessly. Your thighs clenched as he pressed his hips down, grinding the sticky mess of his spend against your cunt, smearing it all over your skin. “You keep thinking you can talk your way out of this?” he murmured against your lips, a smirk in every word. “Maybe I should fill your mouth with something better than arguments.” He pressed two fingers into your mouth, pushing past your lips, making you suck them clean. “Go on. Show me you can be good for something.”

You glared up at him, spit slicking your chin, but he just pushed his fingers deeper, tongue lapping at your lips before he bit you again, kissing you until your head spun.

“Bucky, you have to let me—” he just cut you off with another filthy, devouring kiss, tongue plunging deep, making you choke on the taste of yourself and him. You kept talking, trying to reason, voice breaking around his tongue. “You don’t have to—please, Bucky—let—let me go, you can’t—”

He grinned against your lips, biting hard at the corner of your mouth, words curling dark and rough in your ear, “why should I ever let you go? You look so fucking pretty like this—open, ruined, mine.”

His cock, still rock-hard, nudged at your thigh, leaking against your skin as he rutted slow between your trembling legs, grinding his mess against your slick, swollen folds. The sensation made you shudder, moaning into his mouth even as you tried to bite back the sounds. “Keep talking,” he taunted, voice dropping to a growl, “I want to feel you try to say no while I’m tasting you.”

He dragged his tongue down your neck, kissing you until you went limp for a second, breathless, only for your body to tense again when he shifted, bracing one knee on the bed, the other hand palming your belly—pressing down, holding you flat. His lips brushed your ear, his teeth grazing the shell, then his words dropped low and dirty, a promise that made your whole body jolt.

“Maybe I should just fuck you full,” he whispered, voice hoarse with want, “breed you so you’re marked as mine for good. Have you dripping for days, walking out of here with my come inside you, everyone knowing who fucked you open like this. Would you fight me then? Or would you beg for more?”

You shook your head, but the denial came out ragged, helpless—caught between defiance and the pulsing ache of want. He ground his cock against you, teasing your entrance with the thick, slick head, letting it slip up and catch on your clit, rolling his hips until you gasped again. “Say you want it,” he taunted, lips catching yours, his tongue fucking deep, filthy, until your protest was nothing but a muffled moan. “Say you want me to breed you. Make you mine for real.”

His words lit something molten in your belly, shame and need twisting tighter. You shook again, half sobbing, half cursing, but he just kissed you deeper, tongue pushing between your lips, swallowing everything, not letting you look away.

“You’re not going anywhere, doc,” he groaned, fucking his cock through your folds again, threatening to push inside, “not until you give me everything. I want you dripping. I want you ruined. I want everyone to see you and know I did this—marked you from the inside out.” He sucked a bruise high on your throat, lips dragging down to your chest, hands never softening their grip. “You’ll take it,” he growled, tongue flicking over your nipple, teeth scraping. “Every drop. You’ll take it all, and then you’ll still beg for more.”

He devoured your mouth again, hips grinding, his cock poised at your entrance, his words a low, dangerous promise between filthy, breathless kisses: “You’re mine. And by the time I’m done, you’ll never forget it.”

You shook your head, tears prickling at your eyes, every breath trembling. “No, Bucky, don’t—”

He caught your jaw, turning your face to his, eyes burning into you. “No more running,” he breathed, voice rough as gravel. “You want me to stop? Say it. Mean it. Or else I’m going to keep you like this all night.”

His mouth crashed down on yours, devouring, tongue forcing your lips wide as he kissed you breathless, swallowing every protest, every moan. When you tried to speak, he fucked his tongue deeper, sucking on your tongue until you were gasping, voice ruined, heat pulsing between your legs.

He broke away, breath hot on your cheek, his words curling filthy and low in your ear. “You’d look so good bred full of me, doc. My come dripping down your thighs, so everyone knows you’re mine. Maybe I should just keep fucking you until you take it all—until it’s inside you, leaking out, marking you where nobody else can touch.”

He pressed his cock against you, the head sliding inside, slow, stretching you until you couldn’t do anything but moan and jerk in the cuffs, the sounds spilling raw and desperate as he filled you, every inch driving his claim deeper.

Bucky fucked you steady and deep, each thrust grinding into your core, pelvis slapping your ass as he set a rhythm meant to push you over, again and again. His mouth stayed at your ear, voice all threats and promises: “That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Take all of me—let me breed you. Let me make you mine forever.”

Your legs tried to close, but he forced them wide, his metal hand gripping your knee, holding you open as his cock pistoned in and out, thick and relentless. You felt him everywhere—filling you, stretching you, every stroke sending sparks up your spine and down to where his fingers pressed bruises into your flesh.

He reached down, thumb working your clit in tight, brutal circles, his hips pounding faster as you broke apart, body clenching tight around him, crying out as your orgasm tore through you, wet and shattering. He never stopped, rutting through your climax, cock dragging every tremor from your wrung-out body.

With a guttural groan, he slammed deep, cock throbbing as he finally let himself go, pulsing hot inside you, filling you so full you felt the slick drip down your thighs with every last grind of his hips. His breath stuttered out as he collapsed over you, mouth biting your throat, grinding the claim in with one last roll of his hips.

He stayed there, pressed tight to your body, his come leaking out, the cuffs biting your wrists, your body so used you felt you’d never be empty again.

His voice was low, dangerous, as he nuzzled the shell of your ear: “You’re mine, doc. Now, tomorrow, forever. No one else will ever have you.”

He didn’t move for a while. His breath stuttered against your skin, forehead pressed to the hollow of your throat, hands gripping you tight as if the world might drag him away. You could feel the shape of him inside you still, the warmth of his come pooling between your thighs, marking you just as thoroughly as his bruises.

When he finally lifted his head, his face hovered above yours—hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and hungry both. The storm had left the cell almost black, but every flash of lightning painted his expression in sharp, unforgettable lines. He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, gentle for a heartbeat as he looked at you like he’d never get enough.

“You did so good,” he murmured, kissing your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, his lips softer now, dragging tenderness through the rough aftermath. “So fucking good for me. Didn’t think you could take it, did you?”

Your voice was little more than a hoarse, ruined whisper. “You… you didn’t have to—”

He shushed you, gentle. His thumb pressed your lips until you stopped talking, until all you could do was shiver as he laid kisses down your cheek, the corners of your mouth, your jaw. His fingers stroked soothing patterns down your ribs, thumb catching on the raw lines where your wrists had pulled hard against the cuffs.

Then his touch changed, shifting from gentle to possessive. His metal hand traced the curve of your thigh, squeezing hard, pressing into the bruises he’d left behind, the cold a jarring shock to the warmth of your flesh. He dipped his fingers between your legs, swirling through the mess he’d left, then dragging his hand up, smearing it over your belly, marking you all over again.

“Look at you. Look at what I’ve done,” he said, voice low, somewhere between wonder and cruelty. He made you meet his eyes, the look in them making you want to flinch and melt all at once. “So fucking pretty with my come dripping out of you. With my marks all over you. No one’s ever going to touch you again without knowing I was here first.”

You tried to look away but his grip on your chin tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to make clear you weren’t going anywhere. His mouth slanted over yours, kissing you slow, deep, stealing every breath you had left. He gentled again—fingers carding through your hair, his body curling around you, heavy and sheltering and immovable.

“You’re safe here,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours, voice thick with something like devotion. “As long as you stay mine.”

But the cuffs stayed locked. His arms curled tighter around you, the heat of him sinking into your bones, and when you tried to shift, tried to test your freedom, his hand moved to your throat—light but warning, a reminder of every edge you’d just been pressed over.

His words were soft, almost loving, “go on. Rest. You’re not leaving until I say so.”

Outside, the storm rolled on, the world reduced to darkness, to heat, to his body and his claim and the ache of being owned so completely.

And you knew, as you drifted on the edge of exhaustion, that this was both the promise and the threat: he could be so gentle, so soft, until the next time he wanted to break you open all over again.

You’ve known Clark Kent all your life. 

That happens when he’s the only kid in a three-mile radius near the house you were raised in — and that also happens when your mothers have been best friends for more than twenty years. There are pictures of him, barely one year old, sitting on the couch of your parent’s living room while cooing at the pink bundle in your mother’s arms — you. From then on, it’s unusual to see a photo of the two of you not together. 

He’s there when you start crawling, clapping his hands in encouragement, a picture showing him smushing his cheek against yours in triumph as you smile with the only two teeth you have. He holds you steady as you take your first steps, a bit wobbly himself, and you both fall into a fit of uncontrollable laughter as you crumble down to the floor. He teaches you his name as soon as you start talking, and when he’s over to your farm you end up following him like a lost puppy, chanting ClarkClarkClarkClark! loud enough for your father to take a peek out of the living room to make sure you’re okay. 

You’re four when you participate to your first dance recital, grinning wildly while wearing the pinkiest tutu your father could find at the only costume shop Smallville has, and when you get off stage after a choreography only the parents of the kids doing it could enjoy, you find a red-cheeked Clark holding a bouquet of flowers almost bigger than him. Your parents watch with knowing smiles as you squeal and topple him to the ground, smooshing your cheek against his. 

“You shouldn’t have, Jon,” your mother whispers to Pa Kent, “I know flowers are getting expensive these days.”

He barely brushes her comment aside, “Oh, shut it, woman, he wanted to. ‘Sides, Eleonor from the flower shop already owed us a favour.” he chuckles quietly, “Why, you tellin’ me it bothers you to see her so happy with her itty-bitty pink tutu and her bouquet?”

By this point, both you and Clark are back on your feet, and you’re jumping around — showing off your flowers to the friends you’ve made in the dance class while dragging Clark along by the hand. The kid is as red as a tomato, shuffling his feet awkwardly as you hold the bouquet like it’s an infant. 

Safe to say, you and Clark are thick as thieves growing up: it’s rare to see him around without you and vice versa, aside from school hours — and even then, you’re always together during breaks and such, and given that you take the same school bus and even get down at the same spot there’s never a day where the seat next to you or next to him is empty. 

Since the Kent farm and yours aren’t that far away you’re both often found wandering in the fields between your houses, sometimes even bringing your lunch lovingly wrapped in an embroidered cloth by your mum, who — same as Ma Kent — always packs not one but two meals; one for you, one for Clark. Of course, you both take advantage of the situation and always end up eating the whole feast without leaving a single crumb, only to then pass out for usually two or three hours after the ordeal on your little beaten up blanket. 

When everybody starts picking on him when he gets glasses — horrendous, thick-lenses ones — you just hold his hand while laying together on the hammock that hangs on two of the trees outside his farm, probably older than Pa Kent himself. “Who cares?” you mumble over his muffled sobs, hugging his side tight. “They all suck anyway. Besides, if they think the glasses look bad on you, maybe it’s their eyes that need fixing.” 

You’re nine when you first see him fly. It’s an accident — he thought you were in town with your parents, but opted to stay home instead and went to the Kent farm for a surprise visit — and he doesn’t talk to you for a week, too scared of confrontation. Things slide back in place as soon as Martha understands what happened and gives him a stern talk about friends and secrets; not even an hour later you’re aware of all his history — the meteor shower of ten years ago actually being his space pod entering the atmosphere, him coming from another planet and having freaking superpowers. 

You’ve always known Clark was special — always thought that he was one of a kind, a boy too gentle to be like everyone. You just didn’t know that special would have meant from another galaxy. 

Not a lot changes by the time you start going to middle and then high school — Clark’s one of the few boys in town that growing up didn’t have a phase or permanently turned into a dickhead. The Kents raised him well, making sure he never disrespected anyone without a good reason to, and even then he’s often too nice to act on it — unless it involves someone other than him. If there’s someone who’s being given trouble at school, he always finds a way to help — even if he himself isn’t really one of the popular kids either. 

That’s what you like about Clark. The ability to look bigger than he is if needed to and a heart of gold that would make the nicest man on Earth look pale in comparison. 

Of course, it’s not a surprise to anyone when you two start dating — it was just a matter of time, clearly. The only visible change is the hand-holding and kissing; when you tell the Kents, as Martha squeals and jumps up to hug you, Jon just sits there with a confused look on his face while scratching his chin. “You tellin’ me you two weren’t together this whole time?” 

Those are definitely the best years of your life, you think one summer evening as you lay on the same battered blanket of ten years ago in the same tulip field with the same boy. It’s just that this time he’s double the size and officially your boyfriend, who holds you tight against his chest while basking in the blazing sun. 

“Will you ever take me flying?” you ask, eyes barely open — just what you need to look at him, golden and smiling. He chuckles, “You’d like me to?”

You nod enthusiastically. You’ve rarely ever gotten out of Smallville, aside from school trips and a couple of vacations with your parents, so it’s safe to say that you’ve never even gotten on a plane in your entire life, with the closest airport being in Metropolis. Clark, you guess, is the next best thing you have to a plane. 

“Dunno, sweetheart,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your hair, “If Pa saw me fly with you, he’d yell at me to get down and start a long lecture about being seen and the dangers of it. Maybe when they’re out of town, mh?” 

You hum, almost half asleep, lulled by his hand gently caressing your back under your shirt and the warmth of the sun. “I’ll hold you to that one.” 

But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end — and just two years after that conversation in the field you find yourself in Clark’s room, holding back your tears as you help him pack his things for college. You should be happy for him — he’s been accepted into the Journalism course, which has been his dream for years — but you just can’t shake the thought of him being so far away in the big city while you’re still stuck here for another year. 

You like Smallville — you love the farm, the animals and the constant fresh air — but there’s basically nothing there aside from fields and the school. You and Clark have never been so far away from each other for so long — you honestly don’t know how you’ll manage without him around. Sure, you have other friends, but nobody could ever make up for his absence. 

And that’s why you’ve been spending the last two weeks tied to his side — helping him get ready for his move and packing old shirts and jeans. You almost burst out in tears when you see him sneaking an old picture of you in a tutu and a bouquet in one of the boxes. 

He notices you staring  — of course he notices. He’s already noticed how on edge you’ve seemed in these last few months, and if he’s right the dam is about to break in a million pieces right in front of him. 

Clark gets up from his place on the floor, wiping his hands on his jeans, “Everything alright?”

You look at him– really look at him. Your lips tremble, tears begin to form in your waterline and judging by the rapid beats of your heartbeat you’re about to have a complete breakdown. Finally, you whimper, “I don’t want you to go,” 

The dam breaks. You start ugly crying, full-on sobbing as Clark hugs you and holds you tight against his chest, “No– I mean– I want you to go, it’s– it’s a great opportunity– but I don’t want you to leave me here all alone–” your sobs rattle against his chest and your words are barely understandable, but for someone with super empathy — you’re sure that’s a real thing and an actual true power of his — and super hearing it’s pretty understandable. 

His eyes soften. “I wouldn’t leave you here if it was my choice,” he murmurs, “I’d take you with me in a heartbeat, but we’ll have to start somewhere if we want to eventually move out of here together. In a year you’ll finish high school, and until then I’ll still visit constantly.” he smiles sweetly, “You could come to visit me too. Did you know that they just finished building the railway connecting Midvale to Metropolis? How convenient is that?” 

His heart breaks even more when you don’t stop crying. His shirt is damp by now, and you are starting to hyperventilate — sobs becoming more drawn and hoarse. “Hey, hey,” he takes your face in his hands, wiping away your tears with his thumbs, “we’ll be okay, alright? Nothing will change. We haven’t been friends for seventeen years only for things to change because of– what, a hundred miles of distance?” he starts peppering your damp cheeks with kisses, managing to get a strained laugh out of you. “I didn’t come all the way here from another galaxy just to forget about you the second I move out of town.”

You’re back in the Kent’s farm two days later to say goodbye to Clark along with some close friends of his, and you cry more than you’d like to admit — but for now it doesn’t matter, because he’s still here and still able to wipe your tears with a gentle hand and dry the dampness on your cheeks with kisses. The real problems will arise when he won’t be able to do that anymore — and it happens soon after: he and Jon get on his truck and start driving towards Metropolis.

You stay seated on the Kent’s porch until Clark’s truck isn’t visible anymore, and Martha gently puts a hand on your shoulder. “Want a slice of pie? Lemon blueberry tart, your favorite. I made it… well, I kind of knew this sadness was coming.” she gives you a tight-lipped smile, teary herself. “I’ll miss him too. But it’s not the end of the world, is it? It’s just a new beginning. Besides, a couple of months and it’ll be Christmas. And you know we always spend Christmas together, hun.” 

The next few months are spent between your studies for the admission tests for University and hours-long calls with Clark, who’s enthusiastically adapting to life in the big city as you try not to give away too much that you’re rightfully sulking back at home. Christmas is a nice break from your longing, and you barely spend any time apart from each other, but after that it’s back to square one. 

Much to your displeasure, the calls start to become less and less long — and you really don’t want to be the type of girlfriend that stalks her boyfriend’s every step, but you really miss him, and it’s hard staying in Smallville without him when you’ve only known the town with him in it. He’s just starting to make new friends and getting to know the city, and you know that, but you wish you could be there with him instead of being stuck in the middle of nowhere. 

Spring break comes, and with it your train ticket from Midvale to Metropolis and your hunk of a boyfriend waiting for you at the arrival station. You nearly tackle him to the ground — and that says something, because he played football in high school — and kiss him fervently right here and there, not really caring about being in public. He takes your luggage like the real gentleman he is and tries not to laugh when you take his hand and start skipping like Heidi as he leads the way to his apartment. 

It’s definitely the shortest week of your existence — you get to have a preview of the life you’ll have with Clark in Metropolis, but not really the whole thing. You try to forget about how soon you’ll have to be back home as he shows you around and introduces you to his friends, and try to ignore the fact that while you’ve been wallowing in your own pity and having breakdowns weekly he seems to be just fine — peachy, even. As you barely manage to adapt in an environment without him, he’s thriving without you — and you know it’s not specifically because of your absence, but still. It drives you crazy, the way you seem to cling on him for everything as he manages to handle even the most complicated things alone. 

The week ends, and you go back home — maybe it’s for the best, you try to reason with yourself. You’re not sure of how much you could go on without going crazy while seeing him being perfectly fine without you as you’re spending every day missing him, and you’re starting to doubt yourself. Maybe he just doesn’t need you as much as you need him, and that hurts, because you’ve spent all your life by his side and don’t really know how to change that.

You still try to put up a brave face when talking to him on the phone, even though you’ve been counting the days that remain until your graduation — and thus Clark’s next visit — and try to hide your anxiety about your college applications. Veterinary Science, you’ve chosen — pretty predictable for a farm girl who was raised around animals, really. Metropolis is your first choice, of course, but what you haven’t really told Clark are the other options — Gotham University, Central City College, and countless others that you don’t really want to mention to him. 

Truth is, you’re not sure you’ll be accepted into Met U, and even if you did — you’re still not sure it would be the best option. Clark seems to be holding up the fort just perfectly without you — and since you’ve visited him in Metropolis, you’ve had this horrendous itch that you just aren’t able to actually scratch. Would you be able to create the life he’s having, alone? Are you melancholic just because you’re in Smallville, and to you Smallville has always meant Clark Kent? Would it be the same if you weren’t here but somewhere else, like Gotham? 

Graduation day comes and goes, and not even Clark’s presence is able to bring you out of the existential crisis you feel you’re living in — because the thing is, you don’t really know how you would manage in a new city alone. You’ve never explored the idea because you’ve always taken for granted that Clark would’ve been there for you, but seeing the acceptance rate at Met U really gave you a reality check. 

You spend the day throwing mostly fake smiles at everyone that congratulates you and going back to frowning at your shoes once they notice Clark at your side, not able to ignore the pit that’s formed in your stomach at the thought of not being accepted at Metropolis University anymore. But why do you really want to go there, anyways? Because there’s Clark? As much as you love him, you don’t want to live your life tied to his side only to then discover you can’t actually function without him. 

And when, inevitably, the admission letters come back in, you try to act like you can keep it together — like you’re not nearly combusting at the mere idea of opening them. Clark comes over in the evening and you open them together, hearts thumping and feet tapping nervously against the ground. The first one you open, of course, is from Met U. 

Dear miss, this is in regard to your application to the Veterinary Science program at Metropolis University, Delaware; we regret to inform you that… 

You don’t even want to read the rest of the letter, immediately dropping it on the table and getting up from your seat to go take a breath of fresh air on the porch — trying to avoid the inevitable nervous breakdown waiting for you if you dare to look into Clark’s eyes. You don’t want to see the disappointment in them — you know he’d never really blame you, but you’ve been waiting for this moment for a whole year, and despite all your doubts you still wanted to be admitted. It’s, honestly, so humbling. 

Clark is smart enough to give you a couple of minutes to yourself, coming to sit beside you on the porch when he’s sure you won’t burst out crying as soon as he mentions the subject, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “It’s not the end of the world,” he hushers, pressing a kiss to your temple, “you’ve been accepted to GCU, which is still closer to Metropolis than Smallville. Or– or Star City, too, even if that’s a bit far– whatever makes you happy, I’ll support that.” 

You sniffle, rubbing the palm of your hand on your face. “You opened the other letters?” 

He chuckles quietly, “Wouldn’t rob you of the experience. X-ray vision, remember?” 

A small, broken laugh escapes you. “Oh, you and your outer-world powers.” he shares the laugh with you, the air lightening for just a moment before it goes back to heavy. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”

He flinches. “You– oh, sweetheart, no,” you can tell that he’s, for maybe the first time in his life, at a loss for words. “It’s… it’s just a mishap. They happen. It’s not your fault.” 

You hide your face in your knees and hug them tight against your chest. “I was already imagining us two happily living together in Metropolis.” you're now imagining yourself not able to live alone without him and ending up all alone in the new city, whatever one it’ll be. 

“And it will happen,” he assures you, “just, in… a couple of years. As soon as they let you transfer to Metropolis University.” 

Life goes on. You choose to pursue Gotham University, even if your parents are a little worried about the percentage of violent crimes there, and find a little apartment near campus in a complex that’s owned by the School Department and offered to the students for a modest price in one of the relatively safest areas in town. Clark helps you pack and even drives you all the way to Gotham when it’s time for the semester to start, unloading all your things in his truck and carrying them up the stairs to your unit. 

That being said, your roommate’s already there when you enter. “Jenna,” she introduces herself, enthusiastically shaking your hand as you let Clark do all the work in the background. She’s got a shirt with the drawing of a bat on and looks already settled in. “Heard you weren’t from around here, so I got you a little welcome present!” she passes you a glittery pink box with a bow on it, smiling excitedly. 

You blush, hesitantly accepting the gift, “Oh, there was no need–” 

She brushes you off with an easy smile, “Nonsense! Now, open it and tell me if you like it,” she’s buzzing with joy, and Clark curiously joins your side while wiping inexistent sweat from his forehead. You cautiously untie the ribbon, then open the box to reveal the gift, “It’s a…” you’re trying your best not to seem rude, but you’re really confused. “...A weirdly shaped bat?” Clark tries, not unkindly. 

Your roommate doesn’t seem too disheartened by the inexistent recognition of her gift. “It’s a Bat-taser!” she says it like there could be no doubt ever about it. “They’re really popular these days. Trust me, you’ll need it.” a fucking taser. Shaped like a bat–

Clark perks up, “Oh, yeah– is it from the guy that goes around dressed like a bat?”

Jenna claps like he’s won the lottery. “Batman, yeah!” 

You frown, “I’ve heard of him. Guys playing dress-up are getting really popular these days, aren’t they? Heard about a guy floating around in a horrendous green suit in Star City.” you lower your voice, making sure only Clark can hear you, “You sure he isn’t from your planet?” 

“I sure hope not,” he whispers back, “would really taint the whole mysterious thing about being from an unknown planet, you know?” 

Bat-taser aside, you find out pretty soon that Jenna’s actually really cool. She was born and raised in Gotham, apparently, and lunged at the idea of moving into a safer area of the city when given the opportunity. “Things are actually crazy around here,” she tells you as soon as Clark leaves — thank God, because the last thing you want is a far-away worried boyfriend that shriekes in fear every time you have to go out. “Got even crazier when Batman started going around. We’ve got so many insane criminals that a whole island’s basically dedicated to them.” 

“You mean Arkham,” you recall, slouched on the couch beside her, “so the stories about the asylum are true?” 

“Probably even watered down,” she muses, “the city’s had more lockdowns than sunny days these last few years.” 

Well, isn’t that exciting. Something tells you that soon, you’ll learn exactly why Bat-tasers are so popular these days.

You adjust to life in Gotham pretty well — to be back home before the sun sets, to use all the locks on the door even if it’s still just noon and never ever leave a single window open. You and Jenna have the disadvantage of the balcony — a tiny little crane that looks onto the street below —, disadvantage, you learn confusedly, because apparently Batman and his friends (aka the lunatics that he follows around in the city) often swing by those and either break the rails (in Batman’s case) or straight up break-in (in the lunatics' case). 

Adapting to Gotham is hard — but still easier, you must say, than adapting to a Smallville without Clark. It’s a new city, after all, void of any memories and full of new things, and soon enough you’re too immersed into your studies and the new city to constantly miss your boyfriend's presence. 

It’s not that you don’t miss him — you do — it’s just different than in Smallville. It doesn’t feel like something — someone — is constantly missing, and you have enough things on your mind to keep Clark’s absence out of your mind until mid to late evening, when usually one of you calls the other to talk about how things are going. 

Jenna helps, too — you find yourself being more close to her than you could ever imagine. It’s more like having a sister rather than a roommate, really. She manages somehow to get you a job at the same animal clinic she works at, and you've discovered more things that people can do in the last few months in Gotham than in your eighteen years of life, and that’s probably where farm life has stunted you. 

She offers you your first cigarette — not really a cigarette, she specifies, it’s made out of natural herbs that should taste like strawberry or something like that — and soon enough you purchase two ten-dollar fold-in chairs from Target just for the thrill of sitting in your little hazardy balcony while gossiping about the other students or one of her fifty family members. 

“And you?” she asks during a Saturday night in October, spent happily freezing outside while bundled up in a blanket each, “I bet at least one interesting thing happened in your eighteen years spent in your little farm town.”

You think about Clark flying and holding up cows and tractors like they’re berries, “The most interesting thing that can happen in Smallville is a particularly nice harvest. Even though I do recall that the milkman’s wife cheated on him with the mailman a couple of years ago.” 

For Christmas, obviously, you go back home. Jenna tells you that she’ll take care of the plants and make sure that nobody dares to break in, even if she’s back to her parents in Chinatown. Clark picks you up at the Metropolis' train station, greeting you with a tight hug and a loving kiss, and you make the two-hour drive to Smallville together, chatting quietly about how the last few months have been. Not surprisingly, even with the distance between you two shortening to eighty-seven miles rather than the hundred from Smallville, you haven’t really had the time to see each other. 

Something’s going on with Clark. You’re not really sure what it is, but the look in his eyes troubles you. He looks dazed, almost dull, and he isn’t anything like your usual loverboy Kent is. 

“Hey,” you whisper to him on Christmas Eve night, as everyone chatters happily while waiting for midnight to open the presents, “everything alright?”

“Mh?” he looks taken aback. “Oh, yeah, I’m just…” he sighs, slumping his head against your shoulder, “lost in my own thoughts, I think.” 

“Well, what about them?”

His brows furrow. “Not sure yet.” he looks up at you, pretty blue eyes shining under the dim light of the living room, “Do you ever think that my powers should be used for good?”

You stay silent for a moment. “I think you’re too kind to use them in any way but for good. Why?”

“I don’t mean ‘helping my parents in the farm’ good,” he nuzzles his nose on your shoulder, leaving a faint kiss there. “I mean, like, ‘helping citizens during a crisis’ good.” 

You blink. “You’ve got a heart of gold, Clark Kent,” you hush lovingly, pressing a kiss into his curls, “but as much as I love that about you, I don’t think you should put that burden on your shoulders. If you could, you’d help everyone, but that can’t really be possible. There’ll always be an old lady you couldn’t help walking the street, or a girl you couldn’t save from a mugger.”

His eyes are so soft that they might melt you too. “Why are you telling me this?”

You frown in the most gentle way possible. “Because I’m worried that if you start being like Green Lantern or– or Batman, you’ll never be able to come to terms with the people you weren’t able to help.”

“I still could try to help,” he argues without any spite. 

You study his face — oh, your sweet, sweet boy… “Jenna told me stories,” you murmur, “about Batman having to crawl back to his car, bloodied and barely alive, and sometimes even fainting in some God-forgotten alley — saved only because of some good samaritans that helped him get back up on his feet. I… I know that you might feel like you have a mission, Clark, but you have to consider the downsides of it.” you shake your head gently, “I don’t want you to be the man lying half-dead in a dark alley while I wonder why you’re so late to dinner.” 

Of course, none of you knows the true extent of Clark’s powers — that happens when someone has to hide them for all of his life. When the winter break comes to an end, you go back to Gotham with Clark like always, but this time the car ride is silent. He drops you off at your apartment, carries your luggage up the stairs and kisses you goodbye like nothing’s wrong — like the air isn’t heavy with something. 

Your days go on like always — you listen to your lessons, study, have a half-decent lunch with Jenna, listen to some more lessons, do your shift at the animal clinic and get back home before the sun goes down. The calls with Clark have slightly lessened, and you’d like to think that the blame can be put on the shoulders of the exam season, which — you are sure of it — is kicking both of your asses. Everything continues just fine until April comes. 

Clark calls, which by now it’s unusual because it’s always you that calls him. “Hello?” Your reply comes after a few rings, because it’s 10 a.m. on a Sunday and you sure as hell weren’t thinking about getting out of bed before it was time for lunch. Silence meets you on the other end. “I said, hello?”

“Hi,” Clark’s voice is the tiniest squeal, a very unusual thing for him — he’s never insecure about something, and when he is, you talk it out like the responsible people you’d like to think you are. 

You sigh softly on the phone, already fighting back sleep, “Hi, baby,” you yawn loudly, “what’s up?” 

“I, um…” he stutters for a bit, maybe unsure of where to start. “I’m in town for a couple of commissions. Are you up for a coffee?” 

Well, if that doesn’t wake you up, you don’t know what would. “You’re here? In Gotham?” 

“Yeah.” you do hear the ever persistent GCPD sirens screech on his end of the line. 

“Not that I’m mad about it, but why?” 

Another weird silence. “I told you, had a couple of commissions to run.”

It confuses you — what kind of job would Clark have to do in Gotham, and why didn’t he even tell you about it before coming here? — but you just shrug it off, taking for granted that he’ll explain everything about it when you see him. You get ready to meet him downtown quite happily, thinking about maybe a surprise, but nothing could really prepare you for what’s about to come. 

“I think we should break up.” 

The words ring in your ears. You’ve never pondered about the option of Clark and you breaking up — honestly, you’ve known him for so long that it just wasn’t even a thought in your head. Ever since you were little, you’d dreamed of the day you’d finally be able to marry Clark Kent and have the life you’d always fantasized about with him. 

The café he told you to meet him in is nice. Not one of the fancy ones in uptown Gotham, but not even one of the worst ones down in Crime Alley. You’re pretty sure you’d actually be able to enjoy it if it wasn’t for the fact that your boyfriend of four years is dumping you in it and you have no idea why. You can’t even form an actual thought, let alone an intelligent one, so the only thing that escapes your mouth is, “Uh?” 

He doesn’t look so comfortable either. It’s your first time getting dumped, but it’s also his first time dumping someone, you guess. “I just think it’s not working anymore between us. That we may need some time to figure things out on our own.” the shock must be written on your face, because he almost flinches. “Don’t look at me like that, please.”

“A cappuccino, an espresso and a croissant,” the waitress pretends not to listen as she brings you guys your order, but you saw her staring earlier. You shake your head in disbelief as soon as she leaves, pinching the bridge of your nose to try to make sense of anything that’s happening right now. “So you mean to tell me that the commission you had to do in Gotham… was to break up with me?” 

He grimaces. “Don’t say it like that,” 

“How else should I put it?” you hiss, “Clark, we’ve been together for four years — friends for all my existence even before that. You’ve been in my life since I can remember and you want to break up with me with the whole ‘I don’t think it’s working anymore’ bullshit? No, my guy, you’ll have to tell me a lot more than that. What is up with you?”

He presses his lips together for a brief moment, “I managed to get my degree earlier than I expected,” he almost stumbles over his words, “I… it was always my intention, but I didn’t think I’d actually manage to do so in such a brief period of time.” 

You blink. “You never told me that.” 

“I– I never told anyone, actually.” now he’s actively avoiding your eyes while nervously playing with his fingers, “Clark, it’s not a thing you just casually avoid to mention. You turned a three to four year program into a year and a half course. That’s a big thing. You should’ve told me– I would’ve done my best to support you.” 

His eyes are shiny, and it’s not just because of the light hitting them in just the right way. “I’m leaving.” 

You blink. “What?” 

He gives you a sad smile — and that makes you shudder, because in your entire life you’ve never ever seen Clark Kent smile like that. It’s honestly scary; he’s made for happy smiles, not for sad half-crapped ones. “I’m leaving,” he repeats gently, “I want to find out more about my biological parents — about my home planet. I think I’ve just found a way to do that, and I don’t know exactly for how long I’ll be gone.” he blinks away the tears, “And I can’t leave if I know that I’ve left you behind waiting for me.” 

“How long will you be gone?” you almost don’t hear yourself asking — it’s like that’s not even your voice. You have no idea how you still haven’t started crying. 

His voice is almost as little as yours. “I don’t know. I’d like to think it could be just a few months, but… something tells me it’ll be years.” 

You’re not sure how you get back home, but you somehow do. Jenna is on the couch, eating ice cream for breakfast, and chirps happily when she sees you. “Hey, I was getting worried! How did it go with Prince Charming?" you make it to your room before you throw yourself on the bed and start ugly crying uncontrollably. 

You don’t know life without Clark Kent. You’ve been inseparable since forever, and you always thought he’d be one of the only constants in your life — turns out, he had other plans. Yes, it’s true that you wanted to experience life in the big city without him, but that doesn’t mean you wanted him completely out of your life — you just wanted to see how well you’d do. (Ditched for unknown and dead parents, by the way? That has to be a new low.) 

Jenna tries her best to boost your morale — even buys you that one Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream that she hates with passion but that you love— but in the end, everything proves to be useless, and you end up going on with your life while trying to pretend that you have it all together. 

Class. Study. Lunch. Class. Work. Back at home. Repeat. 

Of course, you barely manage to keep it together. Every hour not spent doing the things you have to do is spent in bed contemplating your life and the exact moment where it got real shitty. Somewhere along the first week Ma Kent calls, probably alerted by your mother about the break up, but you really don’t have the heart nor the strength needed to respond to her call. You’re relieved when she avoids calling a second time — probably knowing that you need some space and that she’s not the first person you’d want to hear after something like this — because you don’t really know how you could’ve avoided to reply for a second time while watching her name grace the screen. 

Week two passes and things get even worse for you, so much so that you have to call in sick to work thanks to the sore throat that you find yourself with after crying uncontrollably for almost all night every night. You can tell Jenna’s fed up, because even with all her strength, it seems as if she can’t help you at all. 

“You know, I once broke up with an italian guy over distance,” she tries to reason, sprawled on your bed as you lie face down as if dead — you have yet to actually explain to her why you and Clark broke up, so she’s still thinking that it was because of all the miles separating you. “He has yet to tell his mother– and it’s been two years. She still sends me a whole box of Italian cheeses for every holiday.” she suddenly perks up, “Maybe I’ll be graced with some of the famous Ma Kent pie one day. I hope she sends a piece for your birthday.”

Your hiccup is muffled by the pillow. “Right, yeah, sorry. Not the best thing to say right now. You don’t need to mourn Ma Kent’s pie too. You’ll do that once you’re ready.” 

“I’ll never be ready to mourn Martha’s pie,” you groan. You could get over Clark Kent, but not his mother's pies. Your ma's still friends with her, so you doubt that you’ll never eat it again, but you’ll have no reason to come over to the Kent’s farm as much as you did before. 

Two days later, entering the third week post break up, Jenna has had enough — and she barges into your room with a plan. “We’re going out.”

As always, your reply comes out muffled, “Ion wan’ to.” 

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to,” she tears off the duvet from your body and takes a hold of your ankles, literally dragging you out of bed as you shriek, “I just said that we are going out!”

She makes sure you dress up decently before dragging you out of the house and into her car, making sure the child lock is on — wouldn’t want you to jump out of the vehicle as she’s driving — before starting the engine. “I signed you up for an audition.”

You look at her, frowning, pretty sure your ears have betrayed you and made you hear wrong. “I’m sorry, what?”

Her smile is so genuine that it would be hard to find the will to smack her. “I signed you up for an audition,” she repeats without any sign of remorse, “you know Flowers n’ Kisses? The shop uptown? They’re looking for new models to renew the brand, make it younger. And you, my dear, with your little sad eyes and red cheeks from all the crying, will be perfect.”

You stare at her, bewildered. “Are you well?”

“What? It’s true that you look your best right after crying!” 

“Are you saying I should be sad more often?”

“Of course not! I’m just saying that at least one good thing should come out of this situation — besides, don’t look at me like that, you know you’re already sad all the time. I just think that we should take advantage of your puffy, irritated, cute face. Besides, it’s just to try something new! Who knows, maybe you’ll like the lights of the camera and having to pose and all the pretty dresses they’ll put you in.” you highly doubt that, but you let it go in favour of your remaining sanity.

There’s at least twenty other people at the audition when you arrive to the location — and this is only the three PM slot, Jenna whispers to you conspiratorially — and you raise an eyebrow when you see the other girls there, because they’re gorgeous and you’re starting to wonder if there were any demands for this interview. “Jenna, are you sure there aren’t any requirements for this kind of thing?” 

“Oh, there were,” she assures you, “I had to put a couple of your pictures in the form before they gave me a time for your audition. I tried to apply too, but they rejected me.” she sighs dramatically, clinging to your arm, “But if I can’t chase my dream of marrying a ninety-year-old multi-billionaire and living the rest of my life filthy rich, then you might as well follow up for me! And don’t forget about me when you’re going on vacation to Tenerife with your boyfriend’s super expensive and huge yacht…” 

“You’re sick,” you mutter, completely fed up, “and not in the good sense. I’m sure there’s people in Arkham down on the worst levels that are much more reasonable than you.” you sigh, feeling the by-now familiar punch to the gut that follows every single thought about him, “I don’t care about yachts. I would’ve been just happy with a little apartment in Metropolis with Clark.”

She groans dramatically, “Oh, please! What was so great about this guy? Was he the genie of the lamp or something? Was he that good in bed?”

You sniffle. “You’re so cruel. He was my everything.”

“He’s a guy! An average one, at best!” 

“You take that back–” you’re about to strangle her because Clark Kent is definitely above the average male population but get conveniently stopped by the call of your name. It’s the PR manager, you assume, and he smiles kindly at you when Jenna takes your hand and raises it up like he’s a teacher making a difficult question and you’re a student eager to reply. “Please come with me, this way.” 

You find out his name is Roy and he’s better at make up than you are — you stare at his perfect eyeliner with envy as he leads you to a room with a camera set up and a table with other people quietly chatting. You already feel awkward just by standing there, and you’d be lying if you said that you were ready for this thing, so you find yourself thinking about Jenna’s dreams to force yourself to go on. Think about Tenerife and a yacht. Think about Tenerife and a yacht. Think about– 

“So, miss,” a redhead at the center of the table smiles at you, leaning her chin on her intertwined fingers, “are you ready to start?”

You'd be lying if you said that you got out of there without feeling stupid. They made you walk into a straight line with music in the background, asked you to pose, took a few pictures and then just started asking questions about your life, saying something about wanting to know the personality of the candidates. You feel so relieved when you walk out that room that suddenly being single doesn’t look as bad as staying ten minutes more in that hell hole. 

Jenna doesn’t seem to be too worried about your relief about being out of there. “So?” she asks excitedly, “How did it go?” 

“I doubt they’ll call back,” you weren’t that terrible, but you’re sure that much more qualified people auditioned for this thing — and even if they didn’t, you’d seen at least fifteen girls that look like they could rock the style of Flowers n’ Kisses way better than you, “but if they do, I’m not replying. Please don’t make me do that again, like, ever. We don’t need an ancient husband to have a yacht, we can just steal one. Seems way more doable to me.” 

Except that they actually call back. And you hadn’t put into the equation the fact that while registering you for the audition, Jenna was smart enough to put her cellphone number in it instead of yours. 

“You signed me up for another thing?”

“I had to! They were happy about your audition and wanted to schedule the day for the shoot of the campaign!”

“What campaign–”

“The one for the summer collection! Aw, c’mon, they’ll pay you eight hundred something dollars and give you some free clothes too–” 

You want to smash your forehead into the wall — but then again, she wouldn’t let you do that, because your forehead is on your face and your face will be on an ad of some kind. “I wouldn’t risk having a restful sleep if I were you,” you hiss, “because I think that one of these days I’ll become one of the many maniacs that help the violent crimes rate be so high, and rest assured that you’ll be my first victim.” 

Jenna doesn’t seem to worry about that, and as it turns out she’s right to be — because on the day pre-established you still make yourself presentable and head to the studios where the photoshoot’s supposed to be at 7 a.m. sharp like requested. 

The same PR guy you met at the audition greets you first with a smile and a hand shake, “Roy Chamler,” he introduces himself — you only notice you didn’t know his full name when he says it. You were so nervous at the audition that you barely introduced yourself, let alone asked the name of the other people there. “PR manager and guy in charge of the campaign. Is this your first time participating in something like this?”

You cringe. “Yeah, is it that obvious?” 

He shrugs, smiling at you. “I’ve made it work with worse in my hands. You were chosen in the end, weren’t you?” 

The day starts with a worryingly high stack of paperwork in need to be signed. “Your contract,” Roy explains, patting it, “the rights for your image and copyright, parties involved, payment times, everything.”

You frown, “Is it normal for employees to sign their contract on the first day of work?” 

It’s his time to cringe. “No. It’s just that… the owner of the brand — Mrs Livvie, she was at the audition — is a very demanding woman. She called me a month ago about making the campaign and I have barely a week left to organize the rest. So, please, even if the conditions of this job are weird, please bear with me.” 

You sigh. “Alright. Where will the pictures of the shoot be exposed, exactly?” 

He cringes even more. “I… it’s all in the contract. You know, before Mrs Livvie, it was her father who thought about the brand. Then it was passed down and she wanted to do a lot of things, but it’s clear that she still doesn’t really know her way around. So, the thing is, it will depend on how much her and the other owners like the shoot.” he tilts his head, “I wouldn’t say more than a couple of posters around town and maybe some internet ads, though.” 

You sign the contract while not trying to overthink too much about your face being splattered around the internet, and as soon as Roy gets his hands on the paperwork you’re dragged into a room that positively looks like a spa. A girl gets immediately around to work on your hair as another worries about your nails, and you have to admit that if submitting to this thing meant a free manicure and hairdo you’d have gotten here even earlier than needed to. The make-up is the last thing on the list, right after the clothes, and then you’re ready for the shoot.

The whole ordeal lasts about five hours — five grueling hours, during which you have to change outfit, make up and hairdo one time too many for the day to still be considered relaxing. You go back home with your hair still in the last slickback they gave you, mascara a little smudged from all the times you rubbed your eyes during the train ride, and a bag full of clothes to wear this summer. Roy tells you that the ads should be up somewhere between next week and the one after that, takes your actual phone number and promises to call you if any problem with the campaign emerges. 

Meanwhile, you're surprisingly starting to accept the fact that Clark dumped you and probably will never get back with you, that he’s now who-knows-where doing who-knows-what with who-knows-who. Actually, you’re starting to get mad — how dare he not tell you about his plans? For how long was he thinking about just disappearing? You were out there dreaming about a future with him and he just–

“Yo,” oh. Is your mental health that bad that now your dreams are angry about Clark, too? Because you’re in bed, it’s been a little over a week since the shoot and Jenna is shaking you awake. “Yo. You did not tell me the campaign was so serious.” 

Still groggy, you barely find the strength to raise your head from the pillow, “Whatcha mean?”

“The billboard,” she hisses, “you didn’t tell me they were going to put your pictures on a billboard.”

That wakes you up instantly. “They what?” 

Sure enough, there’s a big ass billboard with a picture of you in a strawberry shirt and a pair of low-rise jeans while subtly smiling at the camera from the side (under the brand’s name and motto, of course) right in the middle of Union Square — literally the most trafficked place in all of Gotham. You’re about to slap yourself in the face because there’s simply no way they actually put a whole billboard of you when they said it was gonna be just a couple of ads online and maybe some posters around town. You suddenly fear what they’ll do with the pictures of you in that one blue tankini.

“Dear God,” you utter in disbelief. 

Jenna blinks. “If it reassures you, you do look good. It’s the sad eyes, I think. They give you depth.” 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to show my face around ever again,” you’re on the verge of tears, “how will I manage to get around on campus again? No, Jenna, I’m finding a house in the Appalachians and hiding there for the rest of my life–” 

“But you can’t! This is one picture and you’re really shining in it– why can’t you embrace this? Maybe it’s a good thing! Do you know how much models make–”

“Jenna!” you shriek, “My photo is on a fucking billboard right in front of Wayne Tower! Can’t you understand I just want to bury myself in the ground and die?”

“Well, maybe it’ll make Bruce Wayne fall in love with you as he’s forced to see your face every day.” she jokes, “And then I’ll be able to get my vacation on a yacht–”

“We are not going on vacation with Bruce Wayne,” you hiss, “have you seen one footage of him with any woman? God knows what he puts in their — and his — drink to act like that.”

“I think of him as someone who’s actively drunk all the time without even drinking, and his company is surely not better than him.” she shrugs, “Besides, he’s not that older than you. You would be happier with him rather than with the ninety-year-old billionaire."

You blanch. “I’ll be happy if they both leave me alone.” 

They will, unfortunately, not leave you alone, you find out soon. Because thanks to the spike in sales, not even two weeks after the ads are made public the management of Flowers n’ Kisses organises a gala with all of its associates and investors, and you — just like the other models who do runways and are the face of previous campaigns — are contract-bound to participate, because– well. Your face is scattered all over the city while wearing their clothes — it would be weird if you didn’t show up, no? 

And guess who is one of the biggest associates of Flowers n’ Kisses? Exactly. Fucking Wayne Industries. Guess your dream of not becoming one of Bruce Wayne’s victims as the latest coming model — not that you would describe yourself as one, but you guess that his definition of model is much more wider than yours — in Gotham may be a little more difficult to achieve, since if they could talk, he would probably try to have one-night stands with walls too. 

Roy calls again to arrange for you to get a dress, one from the newest collection that you hadn’t had the chance of trying out, and thankfully he doesn’t seem too mad about the last time you called him — you had insulted him so much about the billboard that you almost discovered new curse words. “You know, I got a few calls about you,” he says, ecstatic, “people love you! I’ve got the list of a few other brands that would like a contract with you–”

You shut the idea before it gets a little too deep into his head. “No. Bye, I have an exam to study for.” 

The event’s in some fancy, fancy rented mansion’s ballroom — incredible that they still have those, by the way — and the timing’s just right, because tomorrow morning you have a test, and you’re already mumbling names and descriptions under your breath before they even get you in that evening dress. And about the dress– it’s dark blue, with little embroidered silver stars around your hips, tight where it needs to be and softer as it reaches your legs. They give you a pair of silver kitten heels to match the stars around the dress, and even if they do kill your feet a little, you have to admit that you look good. 

Getting out of the room where they dolled you up, you immediately notice another woman at the end of the hallway — probably one of the other models of the brand, hopefully one more experienced than you. She seems to notice you too, and waves a hand up to catch your attention, “Hey! You must be the new girl they told me about,” 

She’s stunning, with chocolate skin and honey eyes and a dress that — you guess — is made to be worn right next to yours, because while your gown resembles the night, hers resembles the dawn, with an embroidered red sun on her waist. She offers you her hand, which you shake without any questions, “I’m Kelly,” she introduces herself, “Roy asked me to keep an eye out for you — didn’t want you to feel lost. She knows these types of gatherings can be scary, and I’m happy to help a new recruit out.” Kelly does look a bit older and experienced than you — early thirties, at most, even if she does carry them well. 

“Thank God,” you can’t really hide your relief, “I was afraid I had to do all of this alone.” 

She giggles, “I remember being this scared too. You’re doing it well, though, from what I have seen — you came out perfect in the pictures, I really couldn’t believe it was your first shoot,” 

You feel your face get hotter at her words, “Thanks,” you manage to squeal out as she guides you into the ballroom, where the main event is held, “It’s the sad eyes, I think.” she adds. You’re one more comment about your sad eyes apart from imploding. “I don’t tend to like these events, but usually the food is pretty nice, so that’s a plus. I’d avoid any drink already served if I were you, though,”

Thankfully, you soon find out that you two were put at the same table — great thing for you, because you really don’t want to socialize more than you actually need to. The other people around the table are mostly boring investors and owners of shares, who don’t seem interested in asking anything more than what’s expected in a common conversation — your name, age, what do you do in life. One kind old lady asks you more about university and looks actually interested in hearing you repeat the subject of your exam tomorrow, until you are rudely interrupted by a voice calling out for you just as the dessert is being served. 

“Oh, there she is!” you’ve only seen her once, but you do recognize Mrs Livvie from the audition — you did not forget those striking red hair of hers. Beside her, your latest possible obstacle: in all his striking glory, Bruce Wayne. “This is our latest golden girl, miss…” it’s clear that she has forgotten your name, which you kindly suggest to her, “Right! A real sweetheart. Anyways, this is Kelly Th–”

“I know Kelly,” he interrupts her, giving her and your — hopefully — latest friend a kind smile. “I remember her from the runway for the autumn collection.” he turns his gaze to you, “I’ve never met you, though, which is really a shame because you’re stunning. You know, the billboard with one of your photos is right in front of my office, which is the motivation to get on time around the office I just needed.” well, if this isn’t your nightmare come true. 

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Mrs Livvie looks at you, “this is Mr Wayne–”

“Please,” he looks directly at you in a way that would normally have you swooning, but that from him just makes you quite worried. “Just Bruce will go.” 

You give him a tight-lipped smile, “Sure.” 

“Weird that I have never seen you before,” he continues, “usually models start young, but I’m happy that Nina found you — you’re a real jewel, miss. May I ask why you — or your parents — never thought of putting you out there?” 

“Well, I never knew about this talent of mine until now.”

He smiles, chuckling quietly, “Well, you don’t sound like you’re from around here, either, am I right?”

You nod. “Yessir — I’m from Smallville, a little farm town a couple of hundreds of miles from here.” you hope that being the daughter of farmers will scare off a playboy that is known to socialize with rich people. It doesn’t. 

“Well, if you ever need anything,” he takes out a business card from his breast pocket with a pen and scribbles something on it, then gives it to you, “please don’t hesitate to call me. I’m at your disposal.” 

You don’t reply, getting a weird look from all the people on the table before Mrs Livvie quickly brings his attention elsewhere — hopefully away from you. Kelly looks at you, delighted, “Well, miss girl, that is the offer of a lifetime.” 

You snort, looking unamusedly at the private number scribbled on the card. “I doubt I’ll ever use it.”

Summer break comes a lot faster than you’d expected. 

You’re not sure it’s a good thing. You still haven’t exactly come to terms with what happened with Clark now almost three months ago and the thought of seeing your parent’s farm draped with pictures of you and him from when you two were kids nauseates you. Besides, you just know that your mother talked to everyone who willing to listen about your newfound talent as a model, even if you only did one shoot. It’s also your first time doing the trip from Gotham to Smallville alone, and you opt to just use the train after seeing the whopping prices for a taxi.

Your father picks you up at the Midvale train station, teary eyed and with arms wide open to hug you. “My baby,” he says trembly, once you are in his arms “oh, it seems like it’s been years since Christmas,” 

You laugh tearily. “Oh, trust me, I know.” 

The car trip is filled with conversation and love. “Oh– did your mother tell you we adopted a dog?”

You perk up. “Oh, did you, now?”

Your father nods, “Dunno what kind o’ dog he is. All I know is he’s yellow. We found him on the side of the road to the farmer’s market a coupla’ weeks ago and he won’t leave your mother's side since then. We tried to ask around, see if he was someone’s dog — nobody knew anything, so her resolve was just to take him home.” he looks at you, cracking up with laughter. “You wanna know what she called him?” 

You grin, loving to see your father so serene. “Do tell me.” 

“Batman!” his laughter gets even louder, “Batman, you get it? Said, it’s after the psycho that runs around in a Halloween costume and makes sure that my daughter’s city doesn’t burn down. I really owe him. Have you ever even seen him, or is he just some kind of urban legend?”

You crack up with laughter too, half from hearing him laugh so openly, half for the actual story, “No, no,” you wheeze, “never seen him, but I do know people that have. I just don’t get out late enough for him to be running around yet, I fear.” 

It’s with relief that, once you enter the farm, you notice that all the pictures of you and Clark have either disappeared or been replaced. You know your mother’s too much of a sentimentalist to get rid of them, so they’re probably carefully hidden in some drawer — but that doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate her gesture. She hugs you tightly and kisses you on both cheeks before calling out for the dog — which you find out is a golden retriever — to meet you. 

The next three weeks are spent helping your parents around the farm and bringing Batman — or, as your mother calls him, Battie — in the fields so that he can run as much as he likes. You gotta admit that you also do it to try to form new memories of the place — because you simply can’t spend the rest of your life brooding as soon as you go back there to visit your parents. 

You avoid the old classmates to prevent any questions about Clark. You don’t visit the Kents. You’d like to, but honestly, you are ashamed — ashamed because Martha had called back when you and Clark had just broken up, and yet you never called her back or replied. Or sent a message. Or a postcard. Did you really ghost a nice old lady? Because that has to be some kind of new low.

It’s your mom that tries to get you back to sanity. “Martha and Jon did nothing to you,” she tells you, angered, when you refuse to take the muffins she’s just baked to their farm, “and you are going to say hi to them because they’ve always been nothing but nice to you!”

That’s how you end up at the porch of the Kent’s farm, a tray of still steaming muffins in your hands as you anxiously wait for either of them to answer the door. You almost burst out in tears when it’s Martha that greets you — because, you have to admit, you’ve missed them too. And as she invites you in and calls Jon down to say hi to you too, not mentioning that call you had completely ignored — you thank the universe that at least you didn’t lose them too with Clark. 

You return to Gotham feeling shittier than ever, but, hey! At least you got some nice pie while you were in Smallville, since you can’t really say that you and Jenna cook real food when you have to eat. The University’s not back open just yet, so you spend most of your days picking more shifts at work so that people that actually go on vacation can do it without any remorse or trouble. 

You’re worrying about getting every animal at the clinic fed when the bell of the door rings out in the waiting room. “I’ll be there in a minute!” you call out, petting a cat and putting him back into his carrier as he meowles happily around the meat stick you just gave him — a good enough treat in exchange to being neutered, you hope. 

You exit the backroom and go back to the front desk, “So, how can I help–” your eyebrows raise. “Mr Wayne?” 

In all his glory, surely. He’s right in front of you, smiling, hair slicked back and sunglasses hanging from the neckline of his shirt. “I thought I asked you to call me Bruce,” he says, not unkindly. 

You try not to grimace. The last thing you wanted for him was to find out where you worked. “Yeah, sorry,” you press your lips into a thin line, “how can I help you?” 

“I was thinking about adopting a dog.” this actually surprises you, because you didn’t think billionaires had the time for animals — and even if they did find the time to get them a petsitter, you’d taken for granted that they would buy the fancy breed ones. “I was thinking about getting a german shepherd, I told your friend Kelly at last week’s Prada runway and she suggested coming here since apparently this clinic collaborates with the local shelter.” 

“We do,” you nod, “they’re running out of space and we have a decent sized backyard for them to play in and some rooms for the animals to stay in.” you open a drawer on the desk, taking out a folder with all the registered pets, “We mostly have the injured ones that are recovering, but I’m not sure about german shepherds. I do think there’s a mixed one though– there!” you stop at one of the pages and turn the folder for him to see the picture of a dog with brown fur and a star-shaped white patch on his forehead. 

“This is Ace– he’s a retired K-9, mixed german shepherd. He’s just two, but was shot during an inspection and has been limping ever since. Nobody in the police department could adopt him, so we took him in. He’s been doing well with the recovery and we’re trying to rehabilitate him to normal as to our best abilities.” 

He nods,  “Looks like a cute dog. Can I see him?”

You show him the way to the backroom with all the strays, stopping at Ace’s crate. He immediately raises his snout from his paws, tail wagging as he sees you, “Well, this is him,” you sneak a hand between the rails to give him a pet, “one of the nicest dogs we have here — if you want, you could take him on a walk today or when you want. Usually we ask for at least four outings before permitting the adoption — to see if the owner and the pet are compatible, y’know.” 

He nods, “So, I can take him out today and then come back in the next few days to later on adopt him?” 

You lean your head, “If everything goes well, yes.” 

“Perfect– I’d like to take him on a walk right away, then, if possible.”

You get a collar for Ace and a leash for Bruce after getting the dog out of its crate, then put a couple of treats in a little paper bag with some toys. You attach the leash to Ace’s collar and give it to his aspiring owner with the paper bag, “Wait a moment, I’ll tell my coworker that I’m going out and then we can go,”

Mr Wayne perks up, suddenly interested in something else rather than the dog, “You’re coming with us?” 

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Of course. The outings before adoption are always supervised.” 

You come back after alerting your coworker that you’re going out, then exit the clinic with Bruce — who's handling a definitely too excited Ace — on tow. It’s weird seeing a blue Rolls Royce parked right in front of where you work, as usually the most expensive thing that’s parked there is a FedEx van. “There’s a dog park just around the corner — we often bring customers there for supervised outings.” 

Bruce Wayne looks so out of place in such a funny way at the dog park that you barely manage to keep your laugh in; in his Armani tailored coat as Ace, finally without a leash in the dog fence at the park, looks thrilled to play with him, it’s so obvious that he’s never been in this kind of situation. “Are you sure he’s still in rehab?” he squeals, as the dog tackles him to the ground and licks his whole face clean. “He’s– aargh!– definitely in better shape than me!”

Your laugh finally blesses his ears. “That just means he likes you, Mr Wayne! Be nice to him, or he’ll think you’re friendzoning him.” 

Ace is a good dog. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense for bad people — he never barks at kind customers, only at the rude ones, so you guess that’s kinda his talent. And since it’s never betrayed you, you admit that maybe — just maybe — Bruce Wayne isn’t that bad of a person as you thought he would be. 

He comes back to the clinic for three days in a row, just what he needed to be able to adopt the retired K-9. He always suspiciously shows up during your shifts, with mysteriously not a single paparazzi on sight and always the same Rolls Royce. On the second day he got there with brand new toys — some for Ace, some in donation for the other pets awaiting a loving owner — and a new collar with a bone-shaped metal tag with a bold ACE engraved on it.

Saturday’s the last day of the supervised period, and just as the last three days, you find yourself leaning over the railing of the fence that limitates the unrestrained dog area, watching them play like they’ve known each other for years. It’s a rare connection to see forming with a guard dog — they usually need time to adapt to new people, but apparently Ace didn’t. He took one look at Bruce and thought yeah, I want to munch on his atelier shoes for the rest of my life. 

“You know, I think it really was love at first sight,” you tell him as you walk back to the clinic.

Bruce looks at you like for a second he forgot you were talking about his dog. “You really think so?”

You laugh, “Yeah, I mean, have you seen him? He’s wagging his tail like crazy and he met you three days ago. It’s like he knows you’re taking him home today.” 

His shoulders deflate a little as he understands that you’re talking about him and Ace. “Yeah, well, I’m happy that he’s happy.” 

“Why do you want a dog, by the way?” you realise just now that you hadn’t asked, having taken for granted that he just wanted one for show, but now it’s clear that it isn’t. 

He shrugs, “To keep me company. I guess I just want someone other than my butler greeting me at the door when I get home. Besides, I liked playing with him — it’s a win-win: I get to destress about work and he gets to play catch.” he pets Ace’s head as you reach the clinic, “Don’t you, boy?” 

You go behind the desk and immediately get to work, preparing the paperwork for the adoption, “So– here, fill out this form and this one. There’s a ten dollar fee on every adoption, but I guess it shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

He chuckles. “I should have a fifty dollar bill in my wallet — you can keep the change.” he coughs a bit as he starts to fill out the paperwork, “You know, I, uh… I didn’t come here just because I wanted a dog. I wanted to talk to you.”

You square him up and down. “Yeah. We talked the last three days.”

“Oh, no, I mean–” he looks honestly embarrassed, “I was… I was wondering why you didn’t call me back after the event.”

You blink — you had completely forgotten about the business card rotting in your bedside drawer with his private number written on it. You must be the first girl that doesn’t call him back after receiving such an opportunity. “Well, you told me to call if I needed anything, and I have yet to be in need of anything.” 

“I–” he sighs, “I was hoping I’d see you at the following Flowers n’ Kisses event, but you weren’t there.” 

You raise an eyebrow in the politest way you can muster up. “Yeah. It was a lunch on a Monday. I had an exam.” you actually started ghosting Roy as soon as he started suggesting coming to events not included in your contract, but that’s a story for another time. 

It seems you aren’t really getting what he’s trying to say, Bruce understands. He takes a deep breath, “What I meant to say is… that I was wondering if you wanted to grab a coffee one of these days.” 

You stare at him, bewildered, then point to yourself. “Me?” 

He looks even more bewildered than you. “…Yeah. Would… would you like that?”

“I mean, I,” you aren’t really understanding if he’s interested you in a romantic sense — which would be absolute bonkers, by the way — or if the conversations of the last few days just made him want another friend. “Sure. As… as friends, right?” 

He winces. “Yeah, of course.” he’s losing count of how many awkward yeahs he’s mumbling. Alfred’s right; he, terrifyingly so, has a crush. 

“Wouldn’t, like, paparazzi follow us?” you really don’t want your face splattered all over the news again. 

“I honestly doubt it.” he wouldn’t waste his little chance because of a couple of gossip-hungry journalists. “When I don’t want to be noticed I use my butler’s car, so that if anyone passes by they think it’s him around rather than me, and the staff of the places I frequent can be very discreet.” he looks down to Ace, “Besides, could you really say no to seeing this cute face again?” 

No, you couldn’t. You do raise an eyebrow, though, “Your butler… owns a Rolls Royce?” 

He nods like it’s the most common thing in the world, “Yeah, it was my gift for his fiftieth birthday.” 

And that’s how you end up having coffee with Bruce Wayne in some high-end uptown cafè two days later. Then two days later after that. Then, someway, somehow— fucking everyday. And thank God that he’s the one paying, because you doubt you can even afford one of the smallest macarons they have on the menu. 

You have to give it to the man — he’s trying really hard to be nice. It’s clear he’s not good at courting — not the kind that doesn’t let him bring a woman into his bed an hour after he met her, at least — but he’s doing that while also doing his best to respect your boundaries. 

“I don’t think it’s really a great time for a new relationship as of now for me,” you explain, a little embarrassed, over the first coffee you share. “I just got out of… one of the most important connections I’ll ever have in my entire life.” 

Bruce isn’t one to give up easily, and surely not on the first person he’s actually interested in since years. Even if it will take decades — and he’ll be just as happy being just a friend during those — he won’t give up. Even if he has to be just a friend for all eternity — you and your accent really did a number on him. 

Just as he promised, no articles come out about you two, even if a couple of curious waiters do ask if you’re that one girl from the billboard in Union Square — much to Bruce’s sincere delight, because it’s probably the first time in his life that he gets overlooked in favour of his date. What’s so special about your ads to overlook a billionaire, you’ll never really understand. 

It goes on for months, and before you can really assimilate it, It’s November and it’s been eight months since Clark broke up with you, seven since the terrific Flowers n’ Kisses campaign and four since you started seeing (you’re not sure how to actually describe it, because you’re kinda warming up to him despite everything) Bruce. 

You cave in to Kelly’s constant nagging, and finally accept her invitation to go out for dinner, just the two of you, to her favourite Thai restaurant down the street from her apartment — even after almost a year in Gotham, you’re reluctant about going out at night, still a bit scared after Jenna’s horror stories about her outings during the evening. 

It’s a fun night — you chit chat about anything and everything and she makes sure you’re updated about the latest rumors going around in the modeling world (apparently, Linda Reynolds is pregnant, and the father is supposedly the son of the sixty-year-old CEO she should be marrying in a few months). You both laugh as a teenager from one of the other tables comes over and asks you if you’re the girl from that one Flowers n' Kisses photoshoot, and you almost forget about the dangers of going out at night as you exit the restaurant because — c’mon, you’re with Kelly, her car’s just a few feet away from you two and she’s Kelly, she just knows how to deal with things. That is, until–

There’s a man. He’s in front of you. He has a gun. You barely even register all that happens next. 

She pushes you behind her as he screams to give him all the valuables you have, gun trembling in his hands — is he drunk or just a schizo? — and just as she reaches for her purse — to take out her wallet, she says as she feels around for her taser — he panics and pulls the trigger. 

You don’t know when you start screaming, nor register your hands pressing on her bloody shoulder, nor the cashier from the Thai restaurant going out in the street after hearing the shot and calling the police. You barely feel Commissioner Gordon’s hands around your shoulders as he gently pulls you away from Kelly and gets you to his car while two paramedics get a stretcher ready and lift her into the ambulance, nor notice when he pulls a blanket over your shoulders and a mug of hot chocolate into your hands at the police station. “You’re trembling, kid.” you think you started when the man took out the gun, but it could be when he shot Kelly. You’re not sure. 

“Can I call anyone?” 

You snap out of your trance, looking at Commissioner Gordon with eyes that could only be described as haunted. “Huh?”

He presses his lips into a thin line like he’s been in this situation one too many times. “Can I call anyone?” he asks again, not unkindly. “To come and pick you up and stay with you for the night? It would be better for you not to be alone.” 

You blink. “Is Kelly okay?” 

Gordon sighs. “The paramedics said she should recover without any trouble. You can go visit her tomorrow, if you want.” he leans forward, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder, “Can I call someone for you?” he asks for the third time. 

You sniff — you hadn’t even realized you’d been crying. You can’t call your parents — you know they’d drop everything and come here, but you don’t want them to worry. Jenna’s out of the city for a week, having gone to visit a cousin in Blüdhaven, and terrifyingly so the only person who comes into your mind is Clark Kent– wherever he is, he does know how to fly, and if he wanted to he could just zap here. You manage to scribble his number in the post-it that Gordon hands you, and then he’s off to make the call — only to return defeated ten minutes later. 

“I’m sorry, nobody’s replying. Can I call someone else for you or would you like to try to make the call yourself?” 

You try to swallow the lump in your throat, “Can I try? With my phone?” Clark’s never ignored your calls. And, sure, you haven’t heard from him in months, but you don’t think he’d actively avoid you — he has to know that you wouldn’t call unless it was strictly necessary. Besides, he’s never turned you down in the time of need. 

Gordon nods, “Sure. I think I left your bag in the car, though, so I’ll be right back,” 

He brings your purse, and as soon as your phone’s in your hands you press onto Clark’s number and try to reach him. The Commissioner leaves you in his office, probably to try to give you a bit of privacy, and you’re quite thankful he’s not there to witness you start crying as Clark not only doesn’t reply to the first call, but also to the next five you make. 

“Clark, I know that maybe you don’t want to hear from me but — could you just please, take up the phone?” you try not to sob as you leave what must be the third message in a row, “I wouldn’t call unless I really needed you and– and I’m trying my best not to sound hysteric but please, just pick up the fucking phone.” 

You try and try and try, but lo and behold, it always goes straight to voicemail. Gordon knocks on the door of his office, opening it hesitantly when you don’t reply, “I– it’s been twenty minutes.” 

“I,” you huff tearily, slamming your phone on your thigh, “he just won’t reply.” 

You don’t want to look Gordon in the eye, because even now you can feel the pity in this voice. “Is there anyone else you can call? If… if there isn't, I could have an agent escort you home,”

“No, I–” you really don’t want to cry in front of him, even if your cheeks are already tear-streaked and your eyes are puffy, “I guess I could call someone else.” 

You hadn’t even thought about calling Bruce, having taken for granted that Clark would have replied and knowing about the late hour, but it’s not like you have any other choice. Besides, he did say to call him if you ever needed anything. You dial his phone number and have to hold back a sob as he replies in two rings, voice hoarse, “Hello?” 

“Hi, um, I…” you stumble over the words, not managing to hold the tears at bay anymore as your voice breaks. “Hi, Bruce, could you…” a hiccup interrupts you. 

“Hey,” his voice is alarmed even if it’s clear that he either just woke up or is hungover from the roughness of his voice, “is everything okay? Did something happen?” 

“I…” your throat betrays you again as you let out an embarrassingly loud sob. You hear Bruce’s worried questions on the other side of the line, but you aren’t really able to respond to any of his questions, and Commissioner Gordon holds his hand out for you in a way that says ‘If you want, I can talk to him for you,’. You don’t ask many questions and just pass him the phone. 

“Hello, this is Commissioner Gordon from the GCPD…” 

Not even twenty minutes later Bruce rushes into the office, accompanied by Gordon, and holds you tight as you rise from your chair and crash into his arms. You’ve never hugged before, but that doesn’t really matter as of now, because he’s rubbing your back and pressing his cheek on the top of your head and suddenly you feel safe. “I was so scared,”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, and something on the back of your mind whispers that it’s not fair to cry to him about your friend getting shot but surviving when he had to watch his parents die when he was just a kid, but he doesn’t say anything. He just holds you tighter, thanking Gordon and leading you to his — his butler’s, technically, as it’s still the blue Rolls Royce he came here with — car. Well, if the media didn’t know you two were seeing each other before, now they probably know, because Gotham’s cops are the most gossip hungry people in the city. 

He helps you get into the car as you sniffle, making sure your seatbelt is on before jumping on the driver’s seat and going back to look at you. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “He shot Kelly on the shoulder. Looked crazy, like a schizo maniac on drugs.” 

He sighs, a bit disheartened, “I mean, does a schizo maniac need drugs to look crazy?”

“I guess he doesn’t.” a beat passes before he reaches over to your side, opening the glovebox and reaching for wet wipes — the kind you use for babies’ butts. “Here,” he murmurs softly, “you might want to get the blood off your face.”

You didn’t even know you had blood on your face. You look at the picture of the newborn on the wipes pack, puzzled, “Is there anything you might want to tell me?”

He chuckles and starts the car. “I told you this was my butler’s car. He carries a pack of those anywhere.” 

You look at yourself in the sun visor mirror, acknowledging the fact that you look like absolute crap and definitely have splatters of blood as well as smudged make up all over your face. “Sorry I made you come all the way here so late,” you mumble, trying to wipe the now dried blood off of your face. 

“Nonsense,” he assures, “Commissioner Gordon said it would be best for you not to be alone tonight — would that be okay for you?”

You nod. “Yeah, my place’s a bit cramped but I can sleep on the couch.”

He frowns, “That’s not a problem, I’ll take it. You need a good night’s sleep. We could always go to the Manor if you want.”

You shake your head, “I need a shower and to eat the leftover ice cream in my freezer.”

Bruce smiles the tiniest bit. “Okay. Where to, then?” 

You wouldn’t say the apartment’s cluttered, but you weren’t expecting any guests over so it’s a given that it’s not tidy either — if Bruce notices it, he doesn’t mention it, something you’re grateful for. Instead, he puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling softly, “You should go take that shower. Don’t worry, I’ll be right here.” 

You take a good look at yourself in the mirror and almost start crying again. You had seen that you were covered in blood, but you also didn’t think it was so much blood — the cardigan your poor mother had hand-stitched for you is awaiting a brilliant future in the trashbin, because there’s no way that the stain will ever wash out. 

The water is soothing, even if it takes you a good half-hour to scrub away all the dried blood from your hair and neck — so much so that the skin is left red and sore. It’s your first time witnessing one of the violent crimes Gotham’s so famous for, and you gotta say, it’s even worse than you thought. 

You put on an old ratty sweater — that after a year of living together neither you nor Jenna are too sure of who it belongs to anymore — and a pair of cozy sweatpants that are definitely Jenna’s, because you would never buy such a thing as yellow pants with the bat signal print on them. 

You exit the bathroom with your damp hair still wrapped in a towel, eyes barely managing to stay open thanks to the aftermath of the shock you had been in. You find Bruce sitting on the sofa, maybe a little too interested in the news broadcast playing on the TV. “And it’s game over for Harvey Dent, also known as Two Face, who was arrested just yesterday by the GCPD thanks to an ambush coordinated by none other than Batman…”

“Wasn’t Dent the district attorney?” you’d lie if you said you were informed about the latest coming criminals of Gotham City. “Man, in Smallville the craziest guy we’ve had was Samuel Comell and that’s just because he ate nothing but corn. We’ve got clinical psychos guiding the law here.” it actually would’ve been Clark if anyone knew he was an alien, but you avoid talking about that. You aim for the refrigerator and take out the ice cream, bringing it and two spoons with you to the couch. “Ice cream?”

Bruce grimaces as he takes one of the spoons, “You couldn’t be more right about madmen in Gotham, but Harvey wasn’t one of them until less than a year ago.” 

You raise an eyebrow at his soft tone. “You knew him?”

“We grew up together.” his face falters, “He was my friend– still is.” 

You blink. “Man, the universe must be laughing really hard right now, because the boy I grew up with is also kinda weird.” sure, not a mass-murderer type of weird, but a little weird still. 

He leans to take a spoonful of ice cream from the tub you’re holding, “What do you mean, kinda weird?” 

“Oh, you can’t even imagine,” you can’t even tell him — you swore to Clark that you wouldn’t have told anyone his secret, and you don’t plan on breaking that promise now. “Remember the guy I told you I was trying to get over?”

“It was him?” 

“Yeah,” you try to laugh it off, “Clark was… pretty much everything for me. Then he dumped me to, I don’t know, disappear to find himself or something like that.” it’s much more complicated than that, but you can’t just tell him that your ex-boyfriend is an alien — he’d freak. 

Bruce’s eyes soften a bit. “Well, it’s always more complicated than that, isn’t it?” this time you can’t exactly handle your emotions well, and sputter as your eyes widen. Did he just read your mind? He laughs, “What? I know a thing or two about relationships. Well, about how they end, at least. You know, uh…” he rubs the back of his neck, “I haven’t really said this to anyone, really, but me and Harvey… let’s say we were more like you and your old friend rather than simple friends.” 

You squint, then force the ice cream tub in his hands. “Here. You probably need it more than me.” 

He stares at the tub. “It’s been years. I’m sure you need it more than me.” 

“Well, my ex hasn’t just been arrested,” your face drops, “for what I know, at least.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at you. “He really just disappeared?” 

You shrug. “Could be in Alaska right now and I wouldn’t know about it.” 

The night starts off easy. You finish the ice cream, then put away the towel you had around your hair and get a blanket because it’s getting a bit chilly, then one thing leads to another and suddenly your cheek is resting on his shoulder as Criminal Minds is playing on the TV. 

“You know,” you mutter at some point, almost half-asleep and too cozy to muster an actual, coherent thought. “You should be detestable. You’re ugly rich, live in a mansion up on the hill and have a butler that has a car that’s probably worth more than my parent’s farm.” you poke his cheek as he turns his head to look at you properly, his arm going around your shoulder, “And instead, you’re nice — and worst of all, relatable.” you raise a hand to curl a lock of his hair around your finger, and he makes that face that men do when they’re about to kiss you — the blank stare that makes them look dumb in the head. “Now, one evil ex’s down. Do I have to defeat the other six or can we just get this over with?”

His lips slosh over yours with unexplainable easiness, like they’ve wanted nothing but to do this their whole life, and maybe you should feel a little guilty about eating Bruce Wayne’s face in your little beat-down couch, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. It’s the first time your mind finally manages to shut down — to stop worrying about anything and everything, and think about just one thing: Bruce. 

Tomorrow, he’ll worry about catching the guy that shot Kelly, he says to himself. Tonight, he worries about you and tries to make sure you’ll be alright. And he does. 

You wake up the next morning with an absolute sight — infamous Bruce Wayne, untouchable playboy and known for his one night stands, standing in your small ass kitchen in a pair of hot pink pajamas — the only thing you had that vaguely fit him — trying to cook pancakes. Key word: trying, because you weren’t woken up by the birdies singing outside of the window, but by the smell of burnt food. Badly burnt food. 

You come up from behind him, hugging his back, “Have you ever even made pancakes?”

He purses his lips like a kid. “No. What is so terrible about wanting to try?” 

You chuckle. “Nothing, nothing,” you tug him down to kiss his cheek, “I just think it’s really funny of you to try to cook when you’ve clearly had problems just with getting the stove on.” 

He rolls his eyes, “Okay, okay, I wasn’t that stunted.” 

He turns to take a good look at you — and apparently, notices your pants just now. “What’s with you and Batman?” he asks, amused. You shrug, ”More like, what’s with Jenna and Batman. When I tell you she’s obsessed with him, dude. She keeps a med kit in the bathroom just in case he falls on our balcony and we have to stitch him up.”

He shudders. “That does sound a bit manic.” 

After a definitely too cheesy breakfast and quickly getting dressed, Bruce accompanies you to the hospital — not before going to the flower shop, of course, to get the biggest bouquet you’ve ever seen and a couple of Get well soon! balloons. 

“What?” he asks. You’re not saying anything, but still clearly judging him, “I thought Kelly was your friend. She has to enjoy the flowers, especially since they’re from you.” 

“Technically, they’re from your wallet,” you retort. He shrugs, “Same thing.” 

Kelly’s still a bit pale, but happy to see you and Bruce. She gives you a look as you apologise for what happened, eyes teary as you remember that she got shot while protecting you. She swats a hand in your way, laugh full of not suggestion but knowledge — absolute certainty. “Honey, if what you two needed to get it on with was me getting shot, I’ll get shot another hundred of times.” she lowers her voice as your face burns red, “Besides, you might want to raise a little that scarf you’ve got — a hickey’s still showing. Just remember me when you’ll go on vacation with his big-ass yacht.” 

What is it with your friends and yachts? You really need to make Jenna and Kelly meet — just kidding, you take that back, the consequences of their team up for your psyche would be devastating.

Time passes quickly when you’ve got one exam after another, and suddenly — before you can actually register it — it’s December, you and Bruce have been together for a month and it’s time for the Christmas holidays. While Jenna goes as soon as she can back to her parents in Chinatown, you, of course, need to go back to Smallville — without Bruce, as it’s still too early in the relationship to meet the parents. He doesn’t look too beaten up about it — just before you told him you wanted to go visit your parents, he had suggested a skiing trip in the Alps in an all-paid-for resort. Poor him, having to go on an exclusive resort with all the comforts in the world all alone! How will he manage without you, you wonder? How will he thrive? 

(Just kidding, of course. You’re pretty sure it’ll take all of his restraint not to go back to his old playboy ways and try to seduce the first female that approaches him. He’ll be just fine.)

There’s two trains for Metropolis on the 22nd of December: you plan to take the first one, the one that leaves Gotham’s station at 8 a.m. sharp — and so you tell Bruce, who unfortunately has a plane to catch and can’t give you a ride — and of course, you just had to miss it. You wake up twenty minutes too late, and by the time you’re at the station the train has just left. 

You go back home to take a nap while waiting for it to be time for the 4 p.m. train, and wake up just two hours later with an emergency broadcast for all Gothamites going off on your phone — God forbid you have a happy holiday in the arms of your loved ones, because the corridor that connects the prison’s main structure to Arkham’s left wing — the one holding captive the major crazed maniacs — has just blown up, and now years and years of captures and police operations have ended up in a massive breakout that will probably pulverize the city in a matter of two days. You’ve never been happier to not be a police officer than now. 

The downside is that the whole city’s on lockdown. Commissioner Gordon appears on TV, warning all citizens to remain home unless strictly necessary and inevitable. A quick call to your parents later you’re fuming about your own stupidity while laying on the couch, wondering why you didn’t just wake up earlier — because now you’re condemned to a Christmas and probably New Years all alone, as all trains and planes are canceled to avoid the passengers turning into hostages or worse, victims. 

Later that night you receive a call from Bruce, voice unusually rough, who says that he’s grateful that you’re already back at home in Smallville and not in Gotham because, if you hadn’t heard, a massive breakout happened. You really don’t want him to worry, so you lie and tell him that you’re relieved too that you took the 8 a.m. train — that your parents say hi and hang up. 

The following days are weird. There’s barely anyone but cops in the streets — you wonder why — and your only interactions with a human are the ones with Nelson, the guy that works at the 7/11 right beside your apartment, and you both try your best to ignore the shotgun he’s keeping behind the counter as he scans your items and wishes you a happy Christmas. 

You spend Christmas Eve eating instant noodles and watching the old Harry Potter DVDs that Jenna left behind — Ron’s just been dragged into the Whomping Willow by Sirius when your phone starts ringing. 

You pause the movie and frown — because you’ve already heard both your parents and Jenna, who could be the only people calling at such an hour. It could also be Bruce, you guess, but you haven’t heard much from him considering the six hour difference between Gotham and wherever he’s staying in the Switzerland Alps. Except when you take your phone, you see an unknown number on the screen. 

“Hello?” you reply tentatively — you really don’t want to be blackmailed by the Penguin or one of his friends on Christmas Eve. No one responds to your hesitant greeting, so you try again, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

You’re about to close the call when you hear it — barely there, the whisper of your name by a voice you know too well. You put the phone back against your ear, eyes already twitching, “Clark?” 

“Hey,” his voice is the tiniest you’ve ever heard from him, “I, uh… wanted to know how you were holding up.”

Your hand starts trembling — if in anger or disbelief, you’re not sure. “You know, you’ve got some fucking audacity calling me now,” you manage to keep your voice steady only by some weird miracle, “when just a month ago I called you about twenty times and cried in the voice messages begging for you to come and get me.” 

He doesn’t reply, but you can almost see him grimacing. “I… I got busy. I’m sorry about that.” 

You pinch the slope of your nose, “Clark, I get it. You need to find yourself and all that but– but I needed you. Like, really needed you. Even if we broke up, I thought you would’ve always been there for me.” a grumble escapes from your throat, “I would’ve always been there for you. But you weren’t there, even with your flying abilities and supersonic speed.” 

He sniffles. God, is he crying? “I just… I thought you would’ve been able to handle it alone. I know you’re strong enough to.” 

“Well, if I call you at an ungodly hour an ungodly number of times then maybe I’m not able to handle it alone. Where are you, anyways?” 

You hear a shuffle on the other end, “Somewhere in the Arctic. Not sure I can exactly tell you where.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure your dead parents would be really offended if you did.”

Ouch. That was a low blow. He says your name as if to try to calm you down, but you shake your head even if he can’t see you, “Why exactly did you call, Clark?”

“I told you, I wanted to see how you were doing–” “Please, we both know that’s just an excuse you invented right here and now. Why did you call me, Clark?”

Silence meets you on the other end. “I… it’s Christmas. We’ve never spent a Christmas apart.” 

You check the hour on your phone, and it’s true — it is Christmas. Has been for only a few minutes, but still. “So what, Clark? It’s not like it was me who decided to break it off between us.”

Another sniffle on his end. “I guess I… I just wanted to wish you a happy Christmas.” 

You sigh. “Merry Christmas, Clark. I loved you, and I’ll always love you– but I’m trying to get over you, and you need to understand that. I can’t do that if you call me just now after ghosting twenty of my calls and voicemails. I’m sure we’ll find a balance in some years when you get back — maybe even be friends again — but please… don’t call.” 

You press the red END CALL button almost as soon as a crash comes from your balcony. You shriek and jump up from the couch, running from your purse and the Bat-taser — finally, his moment to shine. Jenna’s hard earned ten bucks will serve their purpose, maybe. You also eye the metal baseball bat sitting beside the entrance in case you’ll need it, but choose against it in case your opponent is way too strong for you to kick him out. 

You try to peek outside and see nothing but darkness. So, you do the only thing you can think of: hold the Bat-taser in front of you like it’s a gun, slowly open the door to the balcony and yell (probably sounding more shrill than you’d intended to): “GoawayorIswearI’llcallthepolice!” 

A pained groan comes from the ground, “Please don’t.” 

You have to hold onto all the self control you have not to shriek again, “Batman? Is that really you?”

Another pained groan — from the dim light, you notice him holding onto his side and trying to get back up– and also that he crashed one of Jenna’s beloved flower pots while falling here. “The one and only.” 

Now, Jenna had told you about him ending up on civilian’s balconies, but you didn’t actually think he did it. You let the taser fall from your hand and rush to his side, helping him up and then inside the apartment. “What the hell, dude? You scared the shit out of me.” 

He slips from your grip pretty easily — he’s built like a tank, of course he does — and maybe you should worry about getting him back up to his feet, but rather think about closing the balcony door behind you. “Well, my guy, I sure hope you haven’t dragged one of your nemesis right here in my poor little apartment — because I might just lose it.”

He just groans — again. He must be a real sweet talker. “You don’t happen to have something to stitch me up, do you?” 

And that’s how you end up hunched over Batman’s limp body on the tiles of your bathroom floor — you had begged him to at least get there before the living room’s carpet was ruined without any means to salvage it — with an All That You Need If Batman Crashes Through Your Window! medical kit — a wonder that they make these and that Jenna paid a whopping thirty bucks to have it — while watching the shortest video you found on Youtube teaching how to stitch an open wound. Because while you’re a vet student, you still haven’t exactly gotten to this part of the practice just yet. 

“It’s scary that you haven’t even flinched since I started sewing your side close,” you murmur — the first thing you say to him after managing to get him laid down decently. You say it just to try to break the ice, feeling kinda pressured by the awkward silence. “Sorry, man, I’ll have to cut your suit open again. You’ve got a nasty cut on your ribs.” 

“What’s scary is that you’ve got all these Batman themed things,” he replies curtly. “The Bat-taser? The Bat-signal pants? This… abomination of a medical kit? I didn’t even know they made those.” 

You would’ve laughed loudly if you weren’t trying to make the stitches as even as possible. “That’s not on me– that’s on my roommate Jenna. She’s a big fan of yours. I’ll need you to sign her limited edition iridescent Bat-popcorn-bucket before you go, by the way.”

He blinks. “A Bat… what?”

“Bat-popcorn-bucket. It’s iridescent. It makes it look like you’re wearing a rainbow and she keeps it in a display box in her room just in case.” 

You take the scissors and cut away some more fabric, only to stop and squint at his abs. Now, don’t they look familiar… “So, Batsy… how are you holding up in these fantastic days of freedom for all the Arkham prisoners?”

He grunts — does this man know how to start a phrase without an animalistic sound? “Just what I needed for Christmas.” 

You hum, scanning his abdomen as if to understand how to better close the rib wound while you try to understand if your mind’s playing some trick on you or not. “It was just so nice of them to ruin Christmas for everyone, wasn’t it?” 

You dab some hydrogen peroxide on the cut on his ribs, “Don’t you have someone to spend Christmas with, anyway?” his response is kinda quipped, and if your suspicions are true, you might just know why — after all, Bruce does think you’re in Smallville as of now. Who knows what he’s thinking right now. 

You decide to test your theory. “Oh, yeah. My boyfriend’s in the bedroom, he was so tired from cooking all day that he just collapsed after dinner.”

His entire body freezes, and as he tries to sit up, you get your answers. “I have to go,” he mumbles hurriedly, “Scarecrow’s still out there–”

You place a firm hand on his chest, smirking as you inch closer to his face. “Huh-huh,” you tut, his eyebrows twisting in confusion, “where do you think you’re going, Bruce? I just started stitching this cut right here, and you’re not getting out of here unless you take a good nap.”

He raises an eyebrow, “I don’t know what you’re talking about–”

“Please,” you push him back onto the floor, “I would recognise these abs anywhere. By the way, the only thing sleeping in the next room is Jenna’s elderly hamster. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t even have the social skills needed to cheat on someone if I wanted to.”

He sighs, then presses a hand to his forehead and decides to drop the act. “What gave me away?”

“I told you,” you tap his abdomen, “those abs don’t lie. Besides, the way you reacted when I told you my boyfriend was in the bedroom sleeping? Whoof, you slipped right into my trap. Now, can I look into your baby blues or will I have to converse all night while looking at those ugly white lenses?”

He rips off his cowl, rising to his elbows  — and there he is, your handsome, so-tired looking loverboy. “I’m mad at you, by the way,” he says while glaring in your direction, “you told me you were in Smallville. I thought you were safe, and here you are — do you know how many home invasions I had to stop just these last two days in this area?” 

You blanch. “I’d prefer not to, thanks.” but you also raise an eyebrow, because you’re not about to lose an argument to a guy that outed his real identity because of abs and jealousy, “You told me you were in the Alps, by the way. In Switzerland. About… what, four-thousand miles away?” 

Bruce sighs, resigned. “I received word of the breakout just as I was flying above the Atlantic.” 

You tie the last stitch and cut the excess string, pressing a kiss on the wounded skin. “Well, I lost the 8 a.m. train but was too embarrassed about it to tell you. I guess we’re even.” 

You lean down to his level as he holds out an arm to brush your hair off your shoulder, “Oh, sweetheart, we’re always even.” his hand rests on the back of your neck as you two kiss hard, all spit and tongue — so much so that you lose yourself in the moment and press your side a little too hard on his cuts. 

He jumps, yelping in pain as you stare bemused. “Oh, so you do feel pain,” 

He raises an eyebrow, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Thought you were some kind of robot programmed not to feel soreness for a second.” 

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “I’m still mad at you. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“Thank goodness then that the guy crashing on my balcony wasn’t one of the Joker’s henchmen, no?” you frown, “Besides, why did you come here? For all you knew I wasn’t home.” 

“Well, missy, I wasn’t looking for you,” you feign a gasp of disbelief, “I was hoping to find that horrendous medical kid you told me about.”

You pinch his side — one of the parts not wounded, at least. “You were thinking about breaking in? What are you, a criminal?” 

He purses his lips. “I would’ve forced the lock, but I would have repaired it before you got back.” 

“Is that how you spend your fortune?” you murmur, defeated. “Fighting bad guys in your free time? That’s a pretty expensive hobby.” you suddenly remember something you had said to Clark — I don’t want you to be the man lying half-dead in a dark alley while I wonder why you’re so late to dinner. Would you look at that — you ended up with the same guy you told your ex to please not be. You’re not even too surprised about it — because sometimes, it does feel like Bruce is faking being dumber than he actually is. 

You let him go as soon as the sun peeks out from the horizon with a kiss on the lips and the promise of coming back later in the day, to autograph Jenna’s popcorn bucket, and while he later on keeps his promise, he makes sure to make you another Christmas gift other than the too-expensive necklace he already got you — and somehow manages to get all the criminals back in their cells by the time New Year’s Eve comes around. 

The lockdown ends, but all means of transportation are still off-limits thanks to a few well-placed explosions that went off in the last few days. That’s why you’re confused when Bruce tells you to pack a bag and come with him to the Archie Goodwill International Airport. “I mean, Bruce, we should be somewhere opening champagne bottles — not in a completely deserted airport looking for– what exactly are we looking for?” 

He chuckles, going for one of the hangars present at the launch track, the number 18 plastered on it. “Have you ever flown on a helicopter?”

You frown, “I’ve never flown like, ever.” you don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s because your ex-boyfriend knew how to fly and you’d always hoped he would be the first one to take you flying. 

He takes out a key and opens the sliding door of the hangar — revealing, surprise surprise, a helicopter. “Well, get ready for your first flight, then.”

Flying is much more scary than you would’ve thought — especially because you really don’t know if you should trust Bruce at the wheel. All you know is that you’re holding onto the armrest for your life, hoping that he actually got the licence for flying and didn’t randomly purchase it one day. “Wh– where are we going?” you ask him, trembling, not even managing to look down from the window. 

He sends you a look, “Don’t worry, I would never crash the helicopter with you in it. About the place where we’re going, however– it’s a surprise.”

Barely an hour up in the air later you look out the window to see the helicopter landing in a familiar — too familiar — field, with the grass cut weirdly low. “Bruce, are we–?”

“In Smallville? Yeah, we are.”

Your whole face lights up. “No, you didn’t,” you jump on him, kissing everywhere you can reach, “oh, Bruce, thank you, thank you, thank you– mwah! You’re a real sweetheart, I don’t know how I ever managed to think that you were any less of a person than you are–” 

Needless to say, your parents are elated to see you — they did know about Bruce’s plan, hence why the grass was cut so short where you landed: they were his accomplices and made sure the soil was decent to land on. You’re so happy when you take a bite out of your mother’s pie that you could cry, and your boyfriend — is he? You still haven’t really talked about labels and such — looks not too far away from tears either. 

You spend at least two hours chatting away happily with your parents before Bruce coughs, taking his coat back from the hanger at the entrance. “Well, I think it’s time for me to go.”

Your mother raises an eyebrow, “Oh, but you can’t go! I’ve just put the sweet potatoes in the oven– besides, it’s already dark out there, you seriously wouldn’t want to fly that thing in complete darkness!”

Bruce looks at you, waiting for your approval — well, it was you who said that spending the holidays together at your parents’ was a step a little too big for just a month-long relationship — but you nod, smiling. “You were the one who brought me here, Bruce. C’mon, you gave Alfred the week off– surely you don’t want to be all alone during New Years’ Eve?” 

He relents, “Well, if you say so,” 

That’s how he ends up staying at your parent’s house against all predictions — and you won’t forget the kiss he gives you when the clock strikes midnight for a long, long time, that’s for sure. 

You two spend one week at the farm and another one in the Alps’ resort Bruce had planned to spend Christmas in, spending your time either skiing — tripping over the snow, in your case — or, an activity you appreciate much more, cozied up in the jacuzzi of your private suite. It’s also during this vacation that your relationship gets leaked, but surprisingly — apart from a call from an absolutely fuming Jenna (you had somehow managed to keep the relationship a secret from her) and one from a triumphant Kelly — you take the new wave of publicity suspiciously well. 

Because for the first time in months, you’re truly happy.

It’s the summer of the year later when he appears again. 

You’re on one of the Wayne's biggest yachts in Tenerife with Bruce, Kelly and Jenna — just as the prophecies predicted!, the latter had shrieked when you’d shared Bruce’s invite with her — sunbathing on the boat’s deck as your friends play mermaids in the water when you notice an unusual silence from the upper deck. 

You get up from your sunbed, raising your sunglasses up to your hair as you look for your boyfriend. “Bruce? Honey, is everything alright?” 

You find him seated on the plush couch of the lounge room, staring intently at the TV; you hug him from behind, leaving a kiss on his temple, “Did something happen in Gotham?”

He takes the remote and raises the volume, turning to look at you with a puzzled face. “Not exactly in Gotham.”

Looking up at the screen, you frown when you see the broadcaster. “DPN? Isn’t that the Daily Planet News channel?” 

“And things apparently just keep getting weirder in Metropolis, because after scarce apparitions and helping for some minor crimes the man that the citizens have lovingly dubbed as ‘Superman’ has just shown the public what he’s really capable of by preventing a building from falling onto the passers-by after an explosion cut the structure in half…”

Your heart skips a beat, and suddenly you begin to wonder what you must have done wrong in your life to end up not only with a vigilante boyfriend, but also a vigilante ex-boyfriend. You have to hold back not to slap your forehead in disbelief — really, Clark, and the glasses should be your mask? It’s the stupidest disguise you’ve ever seen, and you have no idea how no one connected Clark Kent — just starting his career as a reporter in the Daily Planet — and Superman — just starting his career as… you don’t know what he’s trying to be. 

You seem to have a magnet for too good-hearted guys, apparently. Bruce presses a kiss on your cheek, “I’ll worry about it when we get back. Don’t think too much about it, okay?”

You’re not ready to tell him your ex-boyfriend is the guy saving old ladies from having to carry their groceries alone — that would be a conversation for almost six months later, when the Justice League is formed — so you just smile at him and pretend to your best abilities that you don’t know anything.

The first time you see Clark Kent again after that morning at the cafè is five years after the start of his crusade as Superman. 

He’s one of the six reporters who were granted permission to be inside of Wayne Manor during the engagement party, briefly interviewing anyone he can talk to and taking notes of everything he thinks valuable on his little notepad. 

You? You’re the one who’s getting engaged. 

You’re wearing a silky white dress that fits you like a glove as you stand next to Bruce, talking to some WE associates, Dick patiently waiting for the conversation to end as he stays glued to your side, hugging your waist and pressing his cheek into your hip as you gently run your hands through his hair. Clark is expecting a one-of-a-kind rock on your ring finger, but is instead surprised with a simple white pearl adorned with two smaller ones on its sides — he did hear something about Bruce proposing with his mother’s ring, now that he thinks about it. 

Lois’ gone off to interview Lucius Fox when you notice him standing awkwardly to the side, scrambling with his notebook and looking around. You excuse yourself from the conversation, giving a little smile to Bruce, nudging Dick with a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to come and meet an old friend of mine, bubba?” he nods, eager to please, and lets your waist go in favour of your hand. 

You approach Clark with the confidence of someone who doesn’t hold any grudges when they should. “Hi, Clark,” you greet him like you two are old friends that meet again — and even if you technically are, you’re also so much more than that. You hold out your hand — again, like you were just good old friends catching up — and he has to force himself to shake it instead of tackling you into a hug. “Have you seen my parents? I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you– it’s been a while.” 

You nudge Dick from behind you, gently holding him by the shoulders in front of you, “Dick, this is Clark, the old friend I was telling you about. Clark, this is Dick, my son.” 

As the child holds out a hand and excitedly says “Hullo!”, Clark tries not to think about how weird it is that he’s still trying to figure out his life while you just have a whole ass kid — adopted, but still. It’s clear how much you have taken into the role of mother. “Hi, Dick,” he says as kindly as possible, not really believing that the Robin who beats up criminals during the night beside the fearsome Batman is the same kid who hides behind his mother during formal events. 

Said kid raises his eyebrows in curiosity, looking up at you, “What kind of friends are you, anyways?” he asks, knowing all too well about your distaste for reporters and journalists alike. 

“The kind that goes way back,” you reply easily with a chuckle, “me and Clark grew up together, bubba.”  

“Oooh,” he ushers, “does that mean you also know nana and gramps?”

Guessing that he’s talking about your parents, Clark chuckles a bit before nodding, “That I do, champ.” 

“Aren’t they the coolest people you know?” Dick rambles excitedly, “last time gramps took me a ride on his tractor and it was so fun! Besides, they have this dog–” he turns to look at you, “Batman’s here, isn’t he?”

Clark’s eyebrows shoot up to his airline. He knew the kid was talkative, but he didn’t think he would be able to out Bruce like that. You laugh, “Yeah, I think I saw him earlier somewhere in the garden with Ace. It’s a miracle the both of them still have their tuxedo collars.” you then look at your old flame, a playful smirk on your face, “Don’t worry, Batman’s my parents' golden retriever.” 

“Ooh,” he sighs in relief, “for a moment there I wondered why Gotham’s most famous vigilante was playing with Bruce Wayne’s dog, and how exactly to phrase it in my article,” a terribly awkward silence follows. 

You shift your gaze to Dick, “Hey, Dickie, why don’t you–”

“Hello! Good evening!” a man with blazing red hair and a whole lot of freckles on his face runs up to the two of you, nudging Clark with an elbow as if clearly saying, please please pleaseeeee introduce me. He’s one of the reporters, you notice, with the press pass and a Canon slung over his neck. He kinda looks like a kid in a candy shop — eyes shining with excitement and almost jumping up and down on his feet. 

Clark sighs, “This is Jimmy Olsen, one of my coworkers from the Daily Planet,” 

The guy grins and holds out his hand, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” his fingers are a bit sweaty, “I’m a great fan.”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to avoid bursting out in laughter, “Oh, I’m flattered,”

“May I take a picture of the two of you?” it’s clear it was what he had wanted to ask since he saw you and Dick talking to Clark. You look at your son, and he grins up at you with glee. You smile, “Of course,”

You lower yourself a bit and cross your arms over his chest while pressing your chin to the top of his head, smiling widely — and you don’t doubt that he’s smiling with all he’s got too, hands holding your forearms, showing the window his last canine that fell out left. Jimmy snaps a little more than one pictures, but gets interrupted by a voice from behind you, “I hope you aren’t hogging the missus too much, boys,” 

It’s Bruce — of course it is, he’s been staring since you got out of that conversation twenty minutes ago — and he slings an arm around your waist as you rise from your position. Jimmy sits up straighter like his drill sergeant just entered the room — you’re surprised he doesn’t do the salute. “Sir,” he starts, “it is an honor–”

“Clark,” Bruce casually shakes the man’s hand, to his coworker’s utter disbelief. Technically, Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne don’t know each other, but it’s another story for Batman and Superman. “A pleasure to meet you — this pretty girl right here told me a lot of stories about the two of you growing up together."

Jimmy’s mouth falls open. His gaze turns to his coworker with an accusation that could only be described as treacherous. Clark smiles awkwardly, “Yeah, well–”

“You’re a photographer, aren’t you?” the Brucie Wayne persona isn’t trained to hold his attention on just one person at once, so he immediately switches his charming smile to Jimmy, “Why don’t you take a few photos of us? We’re a real nice picture to see,” he draws you closer to him by the waist, “Especially my soon-to-be wife.” 

Jimmy doesn’t let him repeat that, snapping a couple — more like a dozen — of pictures of Bruce holding you close to him while his other hand is as occupied as yours, sitting on Dick’s shoulder as he stands between the two of you, grinning ear to ear. 

“So, Clark,” you start when Jimmy stops snapping pictures, eyeing the other reporter from the Daily Planet — was it Lane? — from the other side of the room, “is that your girlfriend? You two looked pretty close earlier.” 

It’s meant to be a friendly remark, said with nothing but a happy tone, but Clark almost chokes on his saliva. “Oh, I mean–”

You raise an eyebrow, “Please,” you laugh out, “Don’t tell me she’s just a friend, because I’d be nearly as devastated as she would.”

He huffs with a little smile. “I’m… working on it.” 

You smirk. “That’s a good thing. Bruce here has got something for you that could help in your romantic quest.” you nudge your fianceè with your elbow as Dick snickers, “Don’t you, honey?”

He grumbles, looking with a frown at Clark — it’s not that their relationship isn’t good, it’s just that… he wasn’t really the happiest with your decision. “I do, actually,” he takes out an envelope and passes it to Clark with gritted teeth. “I’m… delighted… to invite you to our wedding.”

“As a friend, and with the possibility to bring a plus one,” you add, hand squeezing Bruce’s bicep, “not as press– there won’t be any, by the way.” you roll your eyes towards your boyfriend, “He’ll insist on making you sign an NDA, but I’m sure that you wouldn’t write anything about it nonetheless.” 

He blushes deep red, “Oh, no, no, I would never–”

“Clark.” you giggle as you interrupt him, “It was a joke. Nobody’s going to make you sign an NDA,”

“Yet,” Bruce grumbles. 

You ignore him. “It was a joke between friends,” you aren’t implying anything in your words — you’re sincere. After all these years, that’s what you see Clark as, and it would be sad not having him or his family at the wedding. You’ve already sent the invites to the Kents: only Clark was missing. 

You hold your hand out to him, hopeful. “We are friends, aren’t we?” 

I loved you, and I’ll always love you– but I’m trying to get over you, and you need to understand that. I can’t do that if you call me just now after ghosting twenty of my calls and voicemails. I’m sure we’ll find a balance in some years when you get back — maybe even be friends again — but please… don’t call.

He takes your hand and shakes it with a soft smile. “Friends.”

if you've managed to read all the way down here, congratulations! have some memes:

They’d chosen the cafe. A cute place in midtown, just outside of the business district. You’d circled it twice out of caution and once out of nerves — snagging an expensive-looking gold watch off a distracted salary worker during the final lap just to calm yourself down. You spent twenty minutes watching the doors from a measured distance, as if trafficked weapons or prohibited substances would be carted through the front doors. You checked your phone twenty-seven times.

Finally, you forced yourself to actually enter the building you now knew better than your own apartment. You considered counting exits or scoping the perimeter, but at that point, further distractions were useless. Your eyes found them as soon as you crossed the threshold, which might’ve been more impressive if Dick hadn’t already been looking directly at you.

It was a testament to your self-restraint that you didn’t turn around and run immediately. He was smiling that big, golden-boy smile — the one that used to be reserved for reporters and police detectives and Bruce, after the two of you had broken something expensive. He was sitting in a corner booth on the far side of the cafe and waved you over with a level of excitement only a touch too suppressed to be called childish. Barbara sat across from him, her wheelchair pulled up to the quarter of the table the rounded bench didn’t occupy. He didn’t have a drink, but she was nursing two separate cups of coffee. A binder-thick laptop sat closed to her left, which hurt to see. You couldn’t remember the last time she’d let herself leave the house with less than three disparate pieces of technology.

Dick greeted you with a bone-crushing hug. Barbara, a pursed-lip frown.

“Where is it?” she asked.

You laughed. “What are you talking about?”

She didn’t respond, only holding out an open palm to you. Dick nudged your side, pointing to your bulging pocket. “She’s been watching you reached your station,” he explained, his grin taking on a more sheepish note. “To make sure you didn’t get lost.”

You glowered, but fished out your stolen watch and handed it to Barbara, who turned it over in her hand analytically. “I’ll get it back to the owner tonight,” Dick went on, already playing damage-control. “Babs already has their details, and you can come with me to say—”

“Don’t bother,” Barbara cut in. She drew her nail along the back of the timepiece. The gold flaked away like nail polish — the cheapest gilding you’d even seen. “It’s worthless.”

Dick grinned. “Should’ve guessed. No one would be—”

“—stupid enough to wear real gold in Gotham,” you finished, leaning forward to snag one of Barbara’s mugs. “Not with people like me in town.”

You and Dick broke into obnoxious, irrational laughter. Barbara scoffed — her equivalent to your hysteria.

And just like that, you were home again.

The afternoon passed quickly. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t stay for long — one, two hours tops — but the sun sank low in the sky and suddenly, getting out of the city before dark didn’t seem to matter. Dick prattled on about Bludhaven’s many woes and the newest job on his every-expanding carousel of careers. Barbara buried her face in her arms as she complained about Bruce’s newest fledglings and swore that three of you had never been so incompetent. When it was your turn, you made up a pleasing, if not entirely true story about a young woman in the big city with a steady office job and only the occasional bout of kleptomania. It was hard to tell if either of them really believed you, but they were kind enough to let you pretend.

When you were done, Dick moved to the edge of his seat, laying his hand over Barbara’s. Somehow, you’d failed to notice the matching silver bands on either of their ring fingers before then. The sight alone was enough to make you choke on your coffee. You spent a few humiliating seconds hacking into your elbow before managing to spit out something halfway intelligent. “You’re married?”

“Two years ago,” Dick explained. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. There wasn’t really time to send out invites.”

“He got me drunk and carried me to a courthouse.” Her tone was chiding, but she was smiling more brightly than she had all day. “Didn’t even get a honeymoon.”

She leaned back, pecking her husband’s cheek. The word seemed incomprehensible. Husband. The last time you’d seen Dick and Barbara in the same room, they’d been half an inch away from tearing out each other’s throats. The time before that, they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off of each other long enough to tell you whether or not they gotten back together. ‘Marriage’ seemed like an ill-suited title for their on-again-off-again, love-to-hate-and-back-again relationship. You’d never pictured them falling into such a permanent state of being. You’d never pictured them doing something you so clearly weren’t a part of.

But they were happy. They looked happy, at least. Dick pulled Barbara into a more substantial kiss and you stared at your drink, desperate to focus on anything else. Finally, they separated, both giggling like teenagers. You rolled your eyes. “Okay, I get it. You invited me back to bask in your matrimonial happiness. Can I go home now?”

They exchanged a glance. Dick’s grin took on a softer undertone. “We, uh— There was something we wanted to ask you for, actually. A favor."

You hummed. “A threesome?”

“Well, that’s not far—”

“Shut up, both of you.” She looked to you, resting both elbows on the table and propping her chin on her clasped hands. “We’re looking for a surrogate.”

It abruptly seemed much, much later. You really should’ve gone home when you had the chance.

Twelve years ago, you would’ve climbed over the table to hug them. Ten years ago, you would’ve still been overjoyed, if a little more skeptical. Five years ago, part of you might’ve been flattered. Now, though, after so many years of so little contact, the only thing you could seem to dredge up was ice-cold dread. You did what you could to hide it behind a sheepish smile, a light drumming of your fingertips against the tabletop. “A baby’s a lot of work. Especially for two parents on the night shift.”

Dick was almost too fast. “You don’t have to worry about that. Turned in my resignation last week. Barbara’s too valuable to lose so suddenly, but I made her promise to slow down before the baby gets here.” Your disbelief must’ve been apparent. He shrugged and added, “What can I say? You set a good example.”

The dread deepened into a frigid, bottomless pit. You shook your head and began to stand up, but Barbara caught you by the wrist before you could so much as get your feet underneath you. “Look, we’ve been taking it over, and neither of us can picture it being anyone but you. We want a family, obviously, but—” She paused, letting out an unsteady breath. “—not unless you’re part of it.”

It was unfair, really. In all your time apart, you’d forgotten how cruel she could be. Of course you were going to say yes, if she pulled that card.

The only thing you’d ever wanted to be was a part of their lives.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you didn’t try to. You nodded wordlessly, and Dick laughed — the sound like wedding bells and sunshine and cloudless sky. To your surprise, Barbara reacted just as strongly. She hauled you closer, dragging you into a bone-crushing hug. It squeezed the air out of your lungs and bruised your ribs, but a quiet, selfish part of you hoped that she would never let go again.

~

Dick insisted that the three of you go about the insemination in the traditional way. You and Barbara spent the better part of an hour berating him for being a filthy pervert before she admitted that it would save you all a lot of time (and you, in particular, a mountain of paperwork) and the idea began to seem much more reasonable.

Arrangements were made swiftly. They wanted you close, but you made it clear that you wouldn’t be spending the worst nine months of your life in the hallowed, haunted halls of Wayne Manor or moving back to Gotham. A travel schedule was made, a small fleet of doctors assembled using Bruce’s name, and about a week after your initial conversation, Dick and Barbara invited you over to their uptown apartment for dinner and a few drinks. What would follow was left implied.

Your anxiety was mitigated by Dick’s surprisingly edible cooking and Barbara’s insistence that your wine glass never be less than half full, even if you could’ve done without the muttered reminders that this was the last drink you’d have in a long, long time that accompanied every refill. You could only be glad you’d quit smoking when you were sixteen. All it’d taken was Selina mentioning that she’d been able to smell it on your clothes from a block away and you’d kicked the habit overnight. You doubted having to store your best friends’ baby for a few short months would have served as such powerful motivation.

As you savored your last drops of freedom, Dick and Barbara celebrated the beginning of theirs. They’d been pawing at each other all night, too giddy to remember how to act like adults, but it was only as dinner wrapped up and you sipped your nth glass of wine that their too-bright eyes turned to you. Dick pushed forward, more brazen in his eagerness. Barbara, as always, was more than happy to sit back and watch the love of her life make yours that much more difficult.

“It really hasn’t been the same since you left.” His words were slurred at the edges, blending together at the breaks. You hadn’t seen him drink anything, but he must’ve been drunk. You had to believe he was drunk.

You nodded sagely. “You wear pants now, for one.”

“Hey. The robin shorts were sick as fuck.” He sighed heavily, his head dipping low. “I just mean— I miss having you on the field. Barbara’s in my ear, which is great, but since Jason—”

He caught himself, breaking off immediately. Barbara grit her teeth. You let your eyes fall to your lap. You loved Dick. You loved Barbara. But there were some things you just couldn’t stand to talk about, even with them. Jason Todd would always be at the very top of that short, terrible list.

It was a small mercy that Dick, for all of his failings, knew when to change the subject. He forced a smile, letting out a breath of a laugh. “It’s probably for the best. You must be so out of practice — you probably couldn’t even keep up with us, now.”

This topic, you liked. You offered a demure shrug, emptying your glass with one more long swig. “I don’t know. Ten years isn’t that long.”

“It’s long enough.”

“Wanna test that out?”

Barbara sighed. “If you two do this in my dining room, I swear to—”

But it was too late. Dick was already vaulting himself over the table and into you. You let him take you to the floor, locking your arms to the side with an iron-clad bear-hold around your midriff. Once you’d landed, you jerked back and drove your knee into his stomach. Dick let you go on reflex, and you rolled to the side, using the momentum to spring yourself into handstand then cartwheel onto your feet. Your back ached from the rough landing, your muscles throbbing from disuse, but that was fine. If Selina had taught you anything, it was how to ignore the parts of you that valued comfort over survival.

Dick was stammering to his feet. He was acrobatic compared to the average civilian, sure, but years of training under a man more muscle than not had left him your inferior in all-but raw strength. You pounced on him before he could fully regain his balance, catching him under the shoulder and swinging upward so that your thighs locked around his head. You twisted and, sure enough, Dick went down hard. You unlatched at the last second, pulling away just far enough to land with a knee planted on either shoulder — pinning him underneath you. He grunted as he hit the floor, only just managing to keep his head from cracking against the tile. The two of you stayed like that for a moment, then another, both panting shallowly. Then, you cracked a smile. Dick grinned back, and a second later, both of you had dissolved into drunken laughter.

The room spun. You shut your eyes, letting your head dip low as you tried to catch your breath. At the same time, Dick reached up, grazing over your cheek and cupping the back of your head. Before you could brace yourself, he pulled you down, his mouth crashing into yours.

It wasn’t that you’d never kissed him before. No, you and him and Barbara had spent too much time together as hormone-addled teenagers not to have awkwardly pecked each other during rounds of truth-or-dare once or twice. But he’d never kissed you like this. Hungry and messy and deep. His tongue was in your mouth before you could think to draw back, his nails digging into your scalp when you flinched away on instinct. He was warm against you — too warm. Suddenly, their sprawling apartment felt too small, too stiffing. You would’ve given anything to be somewhere. Outside, walking the empty city streets at night, or better yet, on a rooftop, safe in the knowledge that you were the only person around for miles.

Except, you weren’t somewhere else. You were kissing Dick Grayson. And you were supposed to be enjoying it.

You glanced towards Barbara through your eyelashes. If she was jealous, you couldn’t tell. Her shoulders were relaxed, her smile fond and self-satisfied. With her unspoken blessing, you melted against Dick, moaning absently as his lips moved against yours. You let your knees slip off of his shoulders and a moment later, he was sitting up, looping an arm under your thighs and hauling you against his chest. Barbara was hauled onto his free shoulder with the same easy strength, laughing as she batted at his back. You let the world around you blur and fade as he began to move.

You really were drunk. Reality only came back into focus as your back hit a cloud-soft mattress. You moved reflexively to burrow into the sheets, but a pair of delicate hands corrected you — Barbara’s, taking you by the underarms and hauling you towards her. She was sitting against the headboard, drawing you close so that your back rested against her chest. Your head lulled to the side, but she caught your chin, tilting it up so that you faced her properly. She kissed you as Dick settled between your open legs. Your panties were torn off at the waist, your dress irreparably wrinkled as he pushed it up to your waist. Two minor inconveniences, better off discarded quickly.

Your vision swam. Blearily, with no real understanding of what was going on, you watched a head of dark hair dip low, felt warmth and wetness drag over your cunt. It took you a long moment to realize it was Dick’s tongue and even longer to realize that your best friend (and your best friend’s husband) was eating you out. You tried to close your legs on reflex, but Barbara caught your knee. “Calm down,” she whispered, her voice as strict as it was patronizing. “You have no idea how long he’s been waiting to do this.”

Dick moaned in agreement. The vibration shot straight to your core, drawing a warbling noise up from the base of your throat. The pleasure was there, but it was hot, alien. You’d never quite lived up to your mentor’s femme fatale reputation. Taking off your clothes around anyone, ally or enemy, had never come naturally to you. Somehow, even with the two people you trusted most in the world, it still didn’t feel right.

If Dick sensed your discomfort, he didn’t seem to care. His tongue traced aimless patterns over your pussy, always finding its way back to your clit. You shut your eyes, burying your face in Barbara’s shoulder as his attention dipped lower, his tongue slipping inside of you and curling. You writhed, bucking into his face, and she cooed, running a hand over your hair. You had the brief and nauseating thought that, one day, she really would make a good mother. The only tragedy here was that she needed your help to be one.

The flat of Dick’s nose ground into your clit, and suddenly, it was all you could do not to think at all. Your vision burnt white. Your legs twitched by means beyond your control, your hands finding his hair and tearing. Dick only groaned, leaning into your touch. That was fair. It wasn’t like you could hurt him, not now, not like this. That kind of strength — the resolve it took to do real, lasting damage to another living thing — was beyond you. And that scared you more than anything.

You forced yourself to blink, to breathe. Barbara was still cooing at you, stealing kisses from unresponsive lips. Dick heaved himself up to your height, catching your chin and pulling away from Barbara. There was a long, shallow kiss, and then he kneeling in-between your legs, dragging his shirt over his head and shrugging his pants low on his hips. It hadn’t occurred to you that both of them were still fully dressed. You were the only one exposed.

“Can’t wait any longer,” Dick said, as he pulled away from you. Barbara clicked her tongue, but he only grinned. You could feel the head of his cock pressing into your entrance, his breath on your skin. “Can’t wait to knock you up, kitty.”

Your skin crawled. He shouldn’t call you that, not here. He should say he was going to—

Oh, god.

What were you doing?

The panic set in all at once. You kicked and thrashed, trying to get away, but your body felt so weak and Barbara’s arms were so strong and Dick was so heavy on top of you. He hummed, beginning to ease into you, and you shook your head violently. “No, no, I changed my mind, I don’t want to—”

“Hey, now, we don’t need to do that.” Dick’s voice, smooth and easy. You could feel him inside of you, now, spreading you open. It hurt. “We’re taking it slow, alright? We’re— fuck—” His hips stuttered, thrusting too far too quickly. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Barbara’s hand fell past your stomach, rubbing quick circles into your clit by way of apology. “We’ve been needing you for years. Can’t make it without you. So you’ll be good for us, right?”

“Don’t talk to her like an animal.” Barbara let out a huff of a laugh. “An animal would be able to respond.”

“Aw, now you’re just being mean.” With a groan, Dick bottomed out. He was too deep, too big, filling in parts of you that you hadn’t known were empty. You felt his cock twitch inside of you as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. The gesture might’ve been sweeter — nostalgic, even — if you hadn’t wanted him to get away so badly. “You want this, don’t you, kitty? Go on — that’s all you have to say.”

You didn’t. You didn’t want to be pregnant. You didn’t want to ruin your body. You didn’t want this.

But Barbara was so warm against you and Dick’s smile was so wide where it cut into your lips. They were so happy. And you wanted them to be happy more than anything.

You could barely nod. Your head hardly moved. But Barbara kissed your temple and Dick began to move — pulling away from you as far as he could without slipping out of you cunt entirely.

You could only be thankful that you were far, far away by the time he thrust back in.

~

You took your first pregnancy test three weeks later. In their apartment, again, with the most expensive kit you and Dick could find at the nearest twenty-four-hour pharmacy. They waited outside the bathroom door while you struggled to stop crying long enough to piss on the goddamn stick.

Selfishly, you didn’t run back to them as soon as you were finished. Instead, you sat in a corner and counted out the seconds until the test had processed your results. Even then, you spent another precious minute hyperventilating before you could bring yourself to pick up that stupid plastic wand and find what you knew you would: two thin red lines, terrible and feeble and certain.

You were pregnant.

It went without saying that Dick and Barbara were overjoyed.

~

The first three months were the worst of your life.

You’d been beaten, broken, burnt, drowned, electrocuted, forced to go to a karaoke night with Dick and Titans, and yet, no form of torture you’d ever endured compared to morning sickness. You gained ten pounds, then lost fifteen. Your boobs hurt. You were tired all the time. All food smelled terrible, and you weren’t even allowed to eat half of it anymore. Your boobs really fucking hurt.

But Barbara and Dick’s legion of doctors had assured you that your symptoms, while unbearable, were completely run-of-the-mill. Most of your time was spent in Gotham, letting Barbara take you to obstetric appointments or helping Dick set up the nursery or generally trying to keep your head while they both fawned over you like a blue-ribbon breeding sow. You insisted on staying in Metropolis, but after your bump started to show, Dick made it clear that you wouldn’t be using public transit after dark. You tried to laugh off his paranoia, but for once, he wasn’t joking.

“You’re giving us everything we’ve ever wanted,” he told you, waving to Barbara as he grabbed his coat and started for the door. “Let us give something back, every now and then.”

Of course, you’d given in. As if you’d even stood a chance against him.

The drive was long and quiet. You stared pointedly at your lap as he passed through the sparkling sky-scrappers and shining storefronts of downtown, past the tranquil sprawl of uptown and midtown, and into the decaying residential district that didn’t get featured on tourist-trap billboards and brochures. Shame formed a knot in your throat as Dick’s shiny new sports car idled in front of the crumbling concrete corpse that was your apartment complex. He eyed the bars over the front door wearily, then asked, “You said you were on the top floor, right? Do you want me to walk you up?”

You shook your head. “I’m good, I just— The outside makes it look worse than it is. Thanks for the ride.”

“It’s no trouble.” He was already throwing the gear shift into park, easing his key out of the ignition. “Like I said, we want to—”

You didn’t stay long enough to hear the rest. You were out of your seat and rushing towards your building before he could convince you to make any more bad decisions for his sake.

The inside was, in fact, not a lot nicer than the outside. Cheap grey paint peeled off cheaper grey walls. The lobby stunk of cigarette smoke and mold, and the elevator had been broken since the day after you moved in. You had long, agonizing minutes to contemplate the depths of your embarrassment as you hiked up the stairs, even longer to wallow in your own self-loathing as you undid the three rusted deadbolts on your apartment door (none of which had been installed by the landlord). By the time you stepped into your flat and found Dick riffling through a drawer in your kitchenette, you almost didn’t have it in you to feel betrayed. Almost.

It was pointless to ask how he’d gotten in. The window on the far wall was cracked open and Dick had always been a good climber. Besides, even if you wanted to play detective, he was faster. Angrier.

“You don’t have an office job.”

“I’m on maternity—”

He pulled the drawer out of its socket, letting its contents scatter across the tile floor. It was jewelry, mostly. Pearl chains, diamond rings, earrings studded with gems that would’ve paid your rent twice-over for the next year — if only the money you’d get for selling them to your broker was clean enough to use so recklessly. “Stolen art in the closet, antiques under the bathroom sink…” He exhaled shallowly. “What happened, kitty? You used to fight crime.”

Only so there’d be less competition for you and Selina. Protecting Gotham’s innocents had never been as important to you as it had been to the Bat’s fledglings. You’d only ever really cared about yourself.

Well, yourself, Dick, and Barbara. But they didn’t need anything you could give.

“I don’t have a lot of other options,” you said, eventually. “I was raised in Crime Alley, Dick. I’m a middle school dropout. I had a record longer than Selina’s by the time I was seventeen. I don’t know if I’d even be able to get a real job, if I wanted one.”

“That’s not the problem.” Of course it wasn’t. Not from his perspective. He’d never had to work a day in his life. “If you were going to stay active, you could’ve been active in Gotham. Bruce would’ve helped. You could have—”

“And end up like Jason?”

His expression hardened, then broke open into raw hurt. It was a low blow, but it was true.

Things had already been getting bad, but Jason’s death had been the final nail in the coffin. Dick and Bruce had always argued, but at the time, they couldn’t say two words to each other without getting into a screaming match. A bullet to the base of her spine had paralyzed Barbara from the waist down less than a year before, and she was still swinging wildly between fits of mania that saw her locked in her clocktower for days at a time and depressive episodes so intense, she might as well have been comatose. Jason reminded you of yourself — pulled out of a bad neighborhood, dressed up in a costume he’d never quite grown into, and made to feel as if he could earn the love he was suddenly being drowned in. You used to beg Dick to let him patrol with the two of you, sneak him candy under the table while Barbara lectured you both about the importance of an upcoming mission. Jason was a balm. Jason was the light at the end of the tunnel, just bright enough to make you actually believe it might all get better for your little family.

And then, Jason was dead and the world was dark again. You got out of Gotham about a week later — permanently, this time. Between Barbara’s frustration, Dick’s anger, and your own grief, there just hadn’t been room left for anything else. Anything worth living for.

The wound was a decade old, but time had done little to heal it. The pain on Dick’s face was proof enough of that. He held onto it for a long moment, then another before letting his shoulders drop and stepping towards you, resting a hand on your arm.

“I can’t do anything to bring back Jason,” he said, squeezing gently. “But I can make sure we don’t lose you again.”

A knot formed at the base of your throat. You did your best to speak around it. “I’m doing fine on my—”

“Please, kitty,” he cut in. “You promised to let us take care of you.” And then, letting his hand slip from your bicep to the curve of your stomach, “Besides, you’re not exactly on your own anymore, are you?”

You swallowed dryly. “I can’t promise I’ll stay.”

Dick’s smile was too quick, too wide. “That’s alright. Just stick around for the next few months. Until the baby’s here.”

“Just until the baby’s here.”

By the time you got back to their apartment, Barbara had set up the guest room. She pulled you down to her height for a lung-flattening hug as soon as you stepped through the door, the few possessions you had worth keeping in a duffle bag on your shoulder. Dick stood behind you all the while, his smile bright enough to blind.

~

Living with Dick and Barbara was, admittedly, comfortable. You perched on their marble counters while Dick cooked and argued with Barbara about reality dating shows. You went shopping in a real, honest-to-God grocery store and didn’t mug anyone in the parking lot on your way out. One night, about five months in, you fell asleep on the couch while Dick was at work and Barbara was in her clocktower, and woke up in Dick’s arms as he carried you to the master bedroom. The next morning, you woke up tucked between the two of them, safer and happier than you’d ever been before.

At seven months, you were no better than a spoiled housewife. It felt like your stomach was ten times the size of the rest of you. It’d been weeks since you’d last cooked, cleaned, stole, or done anything remotely productive. On a particularly hospitable Gotham evening, half out of boredom and half out of domestic delirium, you decided to visit Barbara’s favorite coffee shop and waddle down to the clocktower to surprise her. Dick was working late that night, so there was no one home to talk you out of it. Had there been, you might have been able to save yourself a lifetime’s worth of devastation.

You arrived about an hour or so after sunset, carrying a tray of four black coffees with three shots of espresso each. Her workroom was a testament to the Bat Clan’s paranoia. Monitors formed grids of static and surveillance footage across three out of four walls. A holographic map of Gotham was projected into the center of the room, color-coordinated dots of light tracking the active vigilantes in the area and their movements — whether or not they knew they were under Bruce’s management. Barbara sat in front of one of two dozen keyboards, glaring at a black screen filled with incomprehensible code. Her headset was pulled down to her neck, but you could hear voices buzzing faintly on the other side. She nodded by way of greeting as you stepped out of the elevator, gesturing to a relatively empty patch of desk next to her. You did as you were told and leaned onto the back of her chair. “Slow night?”

“It’s not about to be.” She sighed, leaning back. “There’s an arms shipment coming into the port in a couple hours. Tim thinks he can handle it alone, but Damian—”

You chuckled. She pursed her lips.

“And you aren’t taking this seriously.”

“It’s not that,” you assured her. “I just can’t wait to be out there again. I haven’t done a backflip in, like, three months.”

Her frown deepened. “That number should really be—”

“An eternity, Babs.” You sighed dramatically, bowing your head low. “It’s too bad. I was thinking about staying in town for a little while after the baby’s taken care of, but B probably won’t even want the help. Not when I’m so out of practice.”

She grinned. “You’re already thinking about how to leave us?”

“Oh, absolutely. You should tell your kid that I went out for cigarettes and never came back. It’ll be kinder than the truth — that I died trying to jump between rooftops three days post-natal.”

Barbara threw her head back as she laughed, and you were abruptly aware of just how close her face was to yours. If the proximity made her uncomfortable, the way her smile widened as she stared up at you did very little to communicate it. “You don’t have to make excuses, you know,” she said, reaching up and tracing a thumb over your cheek. “You could just stay.”

You hummed. “And what? Live in your guestroom for the rest of my life?”

Something moved across Barbara’s expression — not amusement, but close. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

You opened your mouth to ask what she meant, but it was already too late. Barbara tugged you down another inch, pressing her lips softly against yours. You froze on reflex, but this wasn’t anything like Dick drunkenly shoving his tongue in your mouth, wasn’t at all like the way either of them had touched that night. She was being gentle. She was being loving.

It almost hurt more.

The moment was mercifully cut short. Something chimed on one of her many screens and Barbara pulled away, sending you an apologetic smile as she pulled on her headset and began to bark orders. Wasps stung the inside of your stomach, their wings beating against the inside of your throat. She loved you. Dick loved you. That was all you’d ever wanted. You were a part of their family and they loved you.

Why, then, did it feel so wrong?

In a daze, you retreated back to the elevator. On your way, you passed a monitor unlike the others — set to a passcode rather than left blank or idle. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips. You tapped Dick’s birthday into the nearest keyboard, only half-expecting it to work, and when that failed, another date. The day the three of you met. You used to celebrate it annually with gas station ice cream, then later on, cheap drinks at whatever dive bar was open late enough to hit up after patrol. To your surprise, the code was accepted and the monitor flickered to life. After a moment of squinting at the grainy security camera feed, you realized you were looking at Dick.

Except, that wasn’t right.

You were looking at Nightwing.

He was in an alleyway, his suit torn. Several unmoving bodies littered the ground around him. He was bleeding, but that wasn’t the part you were worried about. You’d been told that he was at his office. You’d been told that Nightwing had retired.