The curve of your shoulders, the way your hair falls messy against your skin, the little mole on your left shoulder blade that he used to kiss, used to run his tongue over just to hear you giggle and squirm—

Look away look away look away—

DON'T FUCKING LOOK!!

He tries. He genuinely tries. He squeezes his eyes shut so hard he sees colors blooming behind his lids, and he counts to ten, and he tells himself he's not going to look, he's a good person, he's respectful and he loves you and he don't want to...

But it’s been so long since he’s seen you like this.

Your jeans. You’re taking off your jeans. The button pops and the zipper whisper hisses down and he can see the edge of your underwear, plain cotton, the kind you always wore on lazy nights when you didn’t expect anyone to see.

You’re naked now.

And he's not looking away.

It's a violation of privacy—

No it's not! You're his girlfriend!

Well, you don't remember him, but that doesn't change the FACT that he's your boyfriend. Your high school sweetheart. The guy who held your hand through every panic attack, who learned how to braid your hair because you said it helped you relax, who gave you his virginity in his aunt's apartment while it rained outside and it was the first time you told him you love him—

And also, it's not like he hid in your closet on purpose! He didn't PLAN this!! This is just... circumstances! Bad timing. A misunderstanding, yeah that's it! If you knew the truth, you'd understand. You'd forgive him. You always forgave him.

So maybe it's fine if he watches. Just for a little while. Just until you're asleep. It's not like he hasn't seen you naked before. You were his girlfriend. His first everything. The woman who taught him how to kiss without emberassing himself, how to use his tongue to make you cum, how to angle his hips just right to hit that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back.

"Right there, Pete, right there, don't stop—ahh love you love you love you—"

Love him.

You love him.

He missed it.

He missed your voice. Missed the way you gasped, the way your nails raked down his back, the way you clenched around him so tight he thought he might die from how good it felt. And you smiled at him afterward, sweaty and glowing and proud, and you said he was a fast learner.

Of course he is. He's a smart guy. Not that he's bragging, but truth is just truth.

You always said he was the best you ever had.

Do you still think that?

Would you still think that, if you remembered him?

Do you remember him?

Of course you don't.

Hahaha. Peter Parker don't exist anymore. What the fuck is he even thinking?? Stupid stupid stupid—

Huh?

Oh.

His face is wet again.

Tears sliding down his cheeks and soaking into the fabric of his mask.

When did that happen? When did he start crying?

Doesn’t matter.

He’s gotten good at crying without making a sound. Good at a lot of things he never wanted to be good at.

Don't. Don't you fucking cry right now. You're not a kid, why the fuck are you crying?

Because he misses you.

He misses you so much it feels like someone scooped out his insides and left him hollow. You don't look at him anymore. You don't smile at him anymore. You walk past him on the street like he's a stranger, and every time it kills him but at least you're alive, at least you're safe, at least he can still protect you even if you don't know he exists—

Oh him? No he's great. He's fantastic. What are you talking about? Pfffff—

He's not sad. He's not lonely. He's not spending every night curled up in his suit, jerking off into your sock while he replays memories of your laugh on a loop in his head.

No, no, he's fine. Everything is fine. What's important is that you're safe. That's all that matters.

Okay. Okay, get your shit together and just shut the fuck up until it's over. You can have a breakdown later. In private. Like you always do.

When he looks back through the slats of the closet door, you're on the bed.

When did you get on the bed??

He must have blacked out for a second. It happens a lot these days.

You're stretched out on top of the covers, completely naked (when did you took off your panties?) and the lamplight is hitting your skin in a beautiful way that make his mouth water. Your hair is fanned out on the pillow. Your legs are slightly parted. And your hand is lazily trailing down your stomach like you have all the time in the world and—

Nope.

Nope nope nope.

Don't think about it, Peter.

Just don't fucking think about it.

But it's been so long.

So fucking long since he touched you. Since he tasted you. Since he heard the little sounds you make when you're turned on, those breathy, helpless whimpers that drive him insane. And if you knew he was your boyfriend, you wouldn't have a problem with this. You'd probably invite him out of the closet. You'd probably pull him onto the bed and let him take over, let him worship you the way you deserve, because that's what you used to do, that's what you used to want.

So it's okay, right?

It's okay if he touches himself. Just a little. Just to take the edge off. He'll be quiet. He'll be so fucking quiet. You won't even know he's here.

He's just palming himself through his suit, see? No big deal.

His breath stuttering. He unzips his suit slowly, one careful inch at a time. His cock springs out, already hard, already leaking, the head slick and flushed and obscene in the dim light filtering through the closet slats. He wraps his hand around himself and bites down on his lip so hard he tastes copper.

You’re touching yourself.

Fuck you're so pretty.

Just like always.

You cup your breast, thumb brushing over the nipple, and he watches it tighten under your touch. Watches you pinch it, roll it between your fingers.

Yeah yeah yeah.

Play with your tits just like that. Pinch them. You always liked it when he did that. Always liked it when he got a little rough, when he pushed you just enough to make you feel it the next day—

He remembers doing that, remembers the way you'd arch into his mouth when he sucked on you, the way you'd gasp his name and told him you love him.

He's stroking himself now. Slow. Trying to match your rhythm. His palm is too dry, the friction almost painful, but he don't care because you're spreading your legs wider and your other hand pushing deeper inside—

Fuck.

Shit.

Shit shit shit shit—

The closet door creaked. He moved. He fucking moved and his elbow hit the door and it creaked.

You heard him didn't you?

Fuckfuckfuck—

You heard it, oh god you definitely heard it, your head just turned toward the closet and you're looking right at him, right through the slats, and he can see your brow furrowing, can see the question forming on your lips—

Why are you standing up???

Wait. Wait. Wait.

STOP!!!

He can't breathe. He can't move. His hand is frozen on his cock, pre cum dripping onto his knuckles, and his heart is slamming against his ribs so hard he probably going to have a stroke.

You're going to find him, and he's going to have to explain, going to have to watch your face twist into fear and disgust and he's going to have to see the moment you realize spiderman is a creep who hides in women's closets and watches them—

Oh...

You're not looking at the closet anymore.

You're bending down. Reaching under the bed. Pulling out a box.

It's your toy box, the one he knows about because he's gone through it half a dozen times because you two used to play together and now when you're not home, he replace the batteries in your vibrator and clean your plugs even though you probably wondering why they were suddenly spotless—

You're pulling out a dildo.

The one you custom ordered online for your two years anniversary. Modeled after his dick, every vein and every curve. Everything exactly like his.

You hold it up and a little smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

You like that one, don't you? You always reach for it. He's seen you. He's seen you more times than he should admit, and every time you pick this, every time you choose this over the others—

Okay. Okay, everything's okay. Thank god. Thank fucking god.

But he needs to be quiet. He was loud. Too loud. He needs something to muffle himself.

And there—right there beside his foot—a pair of panties. Lace. Red. The little bow on the front slightly frayed from too many washes.

He recognizes them. Of course he recognizes them. He bought them for you. Four years ago. Valentine's Day. You wore them for him that night and then peeled them off slow, teasing, throwing them over your shoulder with a grin and then he eat you out until his knees bruised.

He picks them up. Brings them to his face. Inhales before he can stop himself.

Fuck.

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. But he's already folding them, already pressing them past his lips, already biting down on the fabric, and the taste of you—even secondhand, even laundered—floods his senses and makes his eyes roll back.

Okay. Okay, now he can be more comfortable. Now he can jerk off without giving himself away.

You don't mind, right? No? Okay thanks.

You're on the bed again. Propped up against the pillows. The dildo is in your hand but you're not pushing it inside yet.

No, you're teasing yourself. Just like you always used to.

Running the tip along your slit. Circling your clit. Getting it wet with your own arousal while your hips twitch and your breath hitches and you make those perfect little sounds that he loves too fucking much.

You always wanted him to tease you first. Always wanted him to rub the head of his cock against your pussy, back and forth, back and forth, until you were so needy you couldn't do anything but beg—

"Please, Pete, please, I need you inside me—"

Go on. Put it in. You've teased yourself long enough, sweet girl. Put it in.

And then you do.

The tip slides inside you, stretching you open, and Peter watches your mouth fall open, watches your back arch off the mattress, watches your hand fly up to grip the sheets. And the sound you make goes straight to his cock and nearly make him cum right there.

Yeah. Yeah, just like that. Pretty girl. Such a pretty fucking girl.

His pretty, gorgeous, perfect girl.

He strokes himself faster. The pre cum ease the friction. His eyes are glued to the place where the dildo disappears inside you, the way your hips start to roll, the way your thighs tense and tremble.

Aww, look at you. You're so desperate, aren't you?

Yeah baby? You want to get off? You want to cum?

You want him, don't you? You want his cock?

So bad you don't remember your boyfriend, right?

So fucking bad he just can stalk you on the street.

So bad he had to break your date’s teeth down his throat last month when the guy got too handsy at the bar.

So bad he has to hide in closets like a fucking cockroach instead of fucking your brains out like he used to, instead of holding you after and listening to your heartbeat slow down while you trace patterns on his chest—

So bad Peter Parker doesn't exist anymore.

Haha.

But it’s fine. He can protect you better now. Spiderman doesn’t have a curfew. Spiderman doesn’t have a secret life to care about. Spiderman can be on your fire escape every night, can follow you home through the subway tunnels, can crawl across your ceiling while you sleep and make sure you're breathing and your nightmares stay away.

He's protecting you.

Yeah. He knows you get scared sometimes. He's seen the way you double check your locks at night, the way you jump at shadows, the way you told your friend on the phone that you think someone's following you. "I think I have a stalker," you said, voice trembling, and Peter had to press his forehead against the wall and breathe through the urge to break something.

You called him a stalker.

He's not a fucking stalker. He's your BOYFRIEND. The man who loves you more than anyone has ever loved anyone in the history of the entire goddamn universe. The man who would crawl through hell just to see you smile. The man who let you go because it was the only way to keep you alive, and he'd do it again, he'd do it a thousand times, even if it meant you'd never know his name.

So what if he beat up your date? You were about to cheat on him. Yeah, yeah, you don't remember him, he knows, but what if you REMEMBERED and you'd already cheated on him and then you were going to hate yourself and feel guilty because how could you cheat on your high school sweetheart? The boy who held your hair back when you were sick, who stayed up all night helping you study for exams, who looked at you like you hung the goddamn moon?

You'd hate yourself. You'd be so guilty. You be a bitch. A horrible, disgusting piece of shit—

No. No no no, baby, you're not that. It's not your fault. Peter knows it's not your fault. He's not blaming you. He could never blame you. You're a victim in all this, you're innocent, you're perfect, you're the only good thing left in his miserable excuse for a life.

He's just helping you stay loyal. That's all. Helping you be the person you'd want to be, if you could remember. You're welcome.

"Ahh—fuck—"

You're close, aren't you, sweet girl? Yeah, you're close. He can see it in the wetness spreading down your ass, the way your nipples are tight and peaked, the way your hips are bucking up to meet the toy like you're fucking it instead of the other way around.

You're going to cum. He can tell by the way your rhythm is faltering, the way your thighs are starting to shake, the way your free hand has is now frantically rubbing your clit in needy, desperate circles.

Go on. Go faster. Faster. Yeah, just like that. Fuck, you're perfect, you're so fucking perfect, look at you taking it like a good girl.

His good girl. His.

Play with your clit. Yeah, yeah, baby, just like that. He remembers exactly how you like it. Two fingers, tight circles, a little pressure, not too much. You taught him that, remember? You guided his hand, showed him the rhythm, moaned his name when he got it right—

"Just like that, Pete, don't stop, please don't stop—"

It's almost like you can read his mind.

He's close. So fucking close his vision is blurring at the edges. His cock is throbbing, slick with pre cum, and his hand is moving in short, desperate strokes, and he's biting down so hard on the panties that his jaw aches, and he wants to come, needs to come, but he wants to come with you—

Come on, baby. Come on. You can do it. A little bit harder. He can hold on, don't worry about him, he can hold on forever if that's what you need—

Ah, fuck. Ah, fuck fuck fuck—

You're shaking. Your whole body is shaking. The hand on your clit is moving faster now, sloppy and messy, and your back is arched so high you're barely touching the mattress, and your mouth is open in a silent scream, and your stomach is tightening, rippling, and you're so pretty, so fucking beautiful that Peter feels his heart crack right down the middle—

So hot. So fucking hot. Look at you. Look at you coming apart on his cock. Yeah it's a dildo but it's still his cock. It's still him inside you, still his shape. So sorry he can't give you the real thing baby—

Ah, shit—

You come with a broken cry, your pussy clenching around the dildo so hard Peter can see it, can see the way your body pulses and milks the silicone, and that's it, that's all it takes, he's gone—

He comes so hard his knees buckle. Hot ropes of cum spatter his hand and the closet floor. He bites down on your panties and screams into the fabric, a muffled sound that would have given him away if you weren't still lost in your own orgasm. His hips jerk, his cock pulses, and he keeps stroking himself through it, keeps milking every last drop while his vision whites out and his heart threatens to explode and it's just your name in his head and on his tongue.

Y/n. Y/n. Y/n.

And then it's over.

He slumps against the back of the closet, panting, soaked in his own shame and sweat and tears. The panties are still in his mouth. He doesn't take them out. He can't. If he takes them out, he might start sobbing, might start screaming, might do something that gets him caught, and he can't get caught, not if he wants you safe and sound and happy—

Through the slats, he watches you catch your breath. Watches you pull the dildo out with a wet sound. Watches you stare at it for a moment, something unreadable flickering across your face.

Then you set it aside, roll onto your side, and close your eyes.

Just like that. Like nothing happened.

Peter tucks himself back into his suit. Wipes his hand on an old tshirt from the laundry basket. Spits the panties out. Yeah he's keeping them, he's definitely keeping them, they're his now.

Sorry baby. It's just this time. You probably won't even notice. It's not like you remember wearing it especially for him anyway. So it's fine.

Then he waits.

Waits until your breathing evens out. Waits until your heartbeat slows to the steady rhythm of sleep. Waits until he's sure, absolutely sure, that you're not going to wake up.

The closet door opens without a sound. He's spiderman, after all. Give him some credit, yeah?

He stands over your bed for a long moment. Looking at you. Memorizing the curve of your cheek, the part of your lips, the way your eyelashes flutter against your skin. You're drooling a little on the pillow.

Cute.

He leans down. Presses the gentlest kiss to your forehead. You don't stir.

"I love you," he whispers against your skin. "Don't be mad. I won't do it again, I promise. I'm sorry."

Then he slips out the window, into the night, and disappears like he was never there.

The only evidences are a single tear, dried on your pillow, and a pair of red lace panties missing from your closet.

Please don't hate him too much.

Okay?

If you want to be in my marvel taglist let me know :)

It's not a kiss. It's an apology. It's a confession. It's every "I'm sorry" and every "I love you" and every "I don't deserve you" that he's never been able to say aloud, poured into the press of his mouth against your skin.

When he pulls back, there's paint on his lips. Red, like he's been drinking pomegranate seeds. Like how your blood always looks so beautiful on his lips.

You reach for him—just to brush the paint away, just to touch his face, just to remind him that he's here and you're here and you're not going anywhere—

He flinches.

Just... withdraws.

Pulls back into himself like a flower closing at dusk. His shoulders go rigid. His jaw sets. His eyes, his beautiful green eyes, go distant and guarded.

"Don't."

Don't pity him.

Don't comfort him.

Don't look at him like he's something broken that needs fixing, even though he is, even though he know he is, even though he been broken since long before you found him and he'll be broken long after you're gone.

Don't touch him like he's worthy of your tenderness.

He doesn't say any of that. But you hear it anyway.

So you let your hand fall. You don't push. You never push. That's why he keeps coming back to kneel at your feet—because you understand that some creatures can only be loved sideways, in glances, in silences, in the space between reaching and touching.

He exhales. The tension in his shoulders eases by a single degree.

And he picks up his brush again.

He paints robins on your collarbone. They perch on the branches of old hickeys, little rust breasted birds with wings half open, ready for flight but choosing to stay. Choosing you.

He paints so slowly. His free hand rests on your knee, thumb tracing absent circles on the inside of your thigh—just... there. Just reminding himself that you're real, that you're here, that you haven't left.

He doesn't understand why you stay.

Why do you stay? Why do you let him do this? Why do you let him paint your bruises into flowers when he should never have bruised you in the first place?

He thinks about it constantly. It keeps him up at night. It follows him through his days like a shadow with teeth.

He wants to ask.

He's terrified of the answer.

So instead he paints. He paints and paints and paints, covering every mark he's made with something beautiful, something soft, something worthy of you. He's trying to become someone who deserves to touch you. He's trying to paint his violence into love, his roughness into reverence, his fear into something that could almost pass for tenderness.

The tears come without warning.

They always do.

One moment he's painting a delicate vine on your skin, and the next there's a tear sliding down his cheek, and then another, and then he's silently crying while his brush hand stays perfectly because he's so used to falling apart while still doing what needs to be done.

A tear drops onto the half finished rose on your thigh and makes the color bleed.

He makes a sound—a small, frustrated, heartbroken sound—and scrubs at his face with the back of his hand. But his hand is covered in paint, so now there's red smeared across his cheekbone, across the bridge of his nose, across his lips. He looks like a man who's been trying to claw his own heart out through his mouth.

He looks broken.

He looks beautiful.

He looks at you with those wet, dark eyes and there's a thousand apologies in them and not a single word makes it past his lips.

He's sorry he's not better. He's sorry he's not gentle. He's sorry he keep hurting you when all he want is to keep you safe. He's sorry he's like this. He's sorry he can't say any of this out loud.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry—

"It's okay," you whisper.

His jaw tightens. His eyes flash—not with anger at you, never at you, but at himself. At the part of him that wants so badly to believe you and the part of him that knows he never will.

He shakes his head like a dog.

It's not okay. It's never okay. He's never okay.

But he doesn't leave.

Because you're his entire world.

He dips his brush again. He paints another rose on top of the smeared one, layering his apologies like rain drops in a puddle, like all the things he can't say building up into something almost visible.

Your friends see his work and call it romantic.

"Oh my god! He's so artistic," they say, admiring the painted robins on your collarbone, the roses blooming down your arms. "So lovely."

They don't know what lies under the paint. They don't know the marks, the cuffs, the chains, the nights when his control slips and his love comes out too rough and he hates himself for it for days afterward.

They don't know the roses bloom with blood and the robins sing screaming.

But you know.

You know all of it.

You know that the boy on his knees before you with paint on his face and tears in his eyes is the same one who bruised you. You know the hands that hold the brush so gently are the same ones that gripped you too hard. You know the mouth that kisses your painted skin in silent apology is the same one that bit down with too much hunger.

You know he's a boy made of thorns who desperately wants to be a flower.

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

He's so pathetic, in the truest sense of the word—so full of pathos, so drenched in yearning, so achingly human despite all his training to be anything but. He'd carve out his own heart if you asked. He'd hand it to you still beating. He'd apologize for the mess it made on your floor.

But you don't want his heart carved out. You just want him. Here. On his knees. Painting your bruises into flowers and crying silently and flinching from your comfort and still, still, still choosing to stay.

He doesn't know how to be loved. No one ever taught him. He was raised on discipline and duty and the cold lines of expectation.

But he's learning.

Brushstroke by brushstroke.

Rose by rose.

He's learning.

The light shifts. The golden hour fades into dusk. He's still painting. He'll probably paint until there's nothing left to cover, and even then he might keep going, might paint flowers on unbruised skin just because he wants to, just because it gives him an excuse to touch you gently, to stay close, to keep kneeling at your altar.

You don't rush him.

You just sit there, watching the sunset catch the paint on his face, the red smear across his cheek, the way his lashes are still wet. He's so beautiful like this—broken open, trying so hard to be good.

He catches you looking and his expression flickers. Something soft. Something almost vulnerable. Something that might, in another life, in another boy, have been the beginning of a smile.

He doesn't smile.

But he doesn't look away either.

And when he leans down to press one more kiss to the newest rose on your thigh—longer this time, slower, like he's trying to memorize the feel of your skin against his lips—you feel the words he still can't say vibrate through you like a struck bell.

I love you.

I'm sorry.

I'm trying.

Please don't leave me.

You won't. He should know that by now. Maybe he's starting to.

You let your hand rest gently on his head. Just for a second. Just the lightest touch, barely there, barely anything.

This time, he doesn't flinch.

He exhales against your skin.

And he keeps painting.

Maybe tomorrow he paints you a garden.

𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖼 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𖹭

"I can't. I have toー"

"Bed."

"Just let me finish this report, it's due tomorrow and the formatting is fucked and my boss is being a dick about the projections—"

You close his laptop.

He makes a sound like a kicked puppy.

"Hey—"

"No. You're done."

"I'm fine."

"You're shaking."

He looks down at his hands. They are, in fact, shaking. He shoves them under his thighs like that'll hide it.

"I'm fine," he repeats, stubborn, stupid, infuriating.

God, he's such a liar.

He's not fine. He hasn't been fine in months. He's running on coffee and cortisol and some deeply pathological need to provide, to protect, to make sure you never want for anything even if it means grinding himself into dust. He does all the cooking. All the cleaning. All the grocery shopping, the bill paying. the appointment scheduling, the car maintenance. He won't let you touch the dishes. He physically removes your hands from the laundry basket. You tried to vacuum once and he looked so genuinely distressed you thought he might cry.

"l just want you to have a good life," he said once, when you confronted him about it. "I want to give you everything. The nice things. The expensive things. You deserve— you deserve so much, and I can't— I have to—"

He couldn't finish the sentence. His throat closed up. You held him for an hour.

That was six months ago. He's gotten worse since then.

Now he's sitting in his office chair at four in the morning, vibrating with exhaustion and the desperate, delusional belief that if he just works hard enough, he'll finally be worthy of you.

As if he isn't already. As if he hasn't been since the day you met him.

You take his face in your hands.

He freezes.

His eyes go wide and wet and immediately. instantly. all the fight drains out of him. His shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. His breathing hitches and then slows, and he's looking up at you like you're the sun and he's been living in a cave for a thousand years.

"There you are," you murmur.

He makes a soundーa tiny, broken thing, half sigh, half whimper一and leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth.

"Baby," he whispers, and his voice cracks on it.

"I've got you. Come on. We're going to bed."

"But the report—"

"Fuck the report."

He blinks. You never say things this... aggressive.

"Okay," he breathes. "Okay."

You take his hand and pull him to his feet. He stumbles. He actually stumbles. Your strong, capable, hyper competent boyfriend can't even stand up straight because he's so depleted. You have to hold him. And when you do, his forehead drops to your shoulder and he just... stays there. Breathing. Just breathing.

"I'm so tired," he whispers, so quiet you almost miss it.

It's the first honest thing he's said all week.

"I know, love."

"l just— I want to give you— want you to have一the necklace, the blue one, I saw you looking at it, and I've been saving, I've almost got enough, l just need to finish this project and then I can—"

"You think I want a necklace?"

"..."

"You think I want anything more than I want you alive?"

He doesn't answer. But his hand clenches in your shirt.

Fuck.

He always have to make you emotional.

"Alright, we're going to bed."

He follows you.

Of course he follows you.

In the bedroom, you sit him down on the edge of the bed. He's still in his work clothes—button down wrinkled, top two buttons undone, tie somewhere lost in the office. He looks up at you with those huge, exhausted eyes, and you can see him trying to figure out what you want, what he should be doing right now to make you happy.

You peel his shirt off. He hold out his arms to help, even now, still trying to make it easier for you. His pants come next, then his boxers.

Such a beautiful man.

Your boyfriend is such a beauty.

"Do you trust me?" you ask.

His brow furrows. "Of course I trust you. I trust you more than— more than anything, more than—"

"Then lie down."

He lies down.

"On your stomach."

He rolls over. Hesitates for half a secondー just confusion一and then settles onto his stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, hands fisted loosely in the sheets.

You run your hand down his spine.

He start shaking. Full body. Like he's been electrocuted. A tiny, punched out sound escapes his throat, and his back arches into your touch before he can stop it.

"When's the last time you slept?" you ask.

"..Tuesday?"

"It's Friday."

"...Oh."

"Mmhm."

You keep stroking his back, slowy, tracing the knots in his shoulders, the tension that's been there for god knows how long. He's so tight it's like touching hot rock. He's been barely holding himself together and his body is screaming.

You lean down and kiss the back of his neck.

He sobs.

"Shh," you murmur against his skin. "I've got you. Let me take care of you. Just this once. Let me."

"I don't— I'm supposed to— you shouldn't have t一"

"You do everything for me. Let me do this for you."

He's crying now. Quietly, shamefully, face pressed into the pillow so you won't see. His shoulders are shaking and he's trying so hard to be quiet, to not be a burden, to not make this about him—

Fuck, he's such a mess.

Such a beautiful mess.

He's lying there naked and trembling and so vulnerable it gives you butterflies.

"Good boy." you whisper.

He whimpers. Actually whimpers. Like a fucking dog.

You reach for the drawer in the nightstand. The one he never opens because he's too busy taking care of you to even think about sex.

He hears the click of the lube cap and his breath catches.

"Baby—?"

"Shh. You're going to let me do this. You're going to let me take the stress out of you. And then you're going to sleep. Understand?"

"...Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes— yes, I understand— please—"

Please. There it is. The word he never says because he's too busy being the provider, the protector, the one who never needs anything.

You slick your fingers and then your strap一the one you bought specifically for this, for him, because you knew this day was coming, knew he'd eventually run himself into the ground and need someone to pull him back out.

Or maybe you just wanted to fuck him. But that's not important right now.

He's so tight. Damn, he's so tight.

Your first finger slides in and he gasps, back arching, hands fisting in the sheets.

"Breathe," you remind him.

He breathes. Shaky. Wet. Still crying a little.

"You're doing so well."

Another whimper.

You work him open slowly一so slowly. Because he deserves it, deserves gentleness, deserves to be handled like something precious instead of a machine that just runs and runs and runs.

He's making sounds you've never heard from him before. Little broken moans. Desperate, needy sounds. His hips are twitching, pushing back against your fingers, and he's babbling into the pillow.

"please—"

"I love you ughh—"

"Ahh fuck don't stop—"

By the time you're three fingers deep, he's a mess. Tears and pre cum and a flush that goes all the way down his chest. He's stopped trying to be quiet. He's just making noise—open mouthed, broken, gorgeous noise.

"Ready?" you ask.

"Uh-huh?"

He looks confused. So out of it already.

How cute :)

You position yourself behind him. Press in.

He keens.

A high, desperate sound that goes straight to your own core (of course you're wet, but tonight is just about him)一and his whole body goes taut for one second before it melts. All the tension, all the stress, all the months of holding himself together—it all dissolves as you push deeper.

"Oh— oh fuck— baby—"

You start to move. Slow at first. Letting him feel every inch of it, letting him adjust, letting him remember what it feels like to be taken care of instead of taking care of.

His hands are white knuckled in the sheets. His face is pressed into the pillow, mouth open, tears and drool soaking the fabric. He's moaning your name over and over like a prayer.

Y/n. Y/n. Y/n.

So hot.

"You're so good." you tell him, picking up the pace. "You're so good to me. You work so hard. You take such good care of me. Now let me take care of you."

He sobs again. Nodding frantically into the pillow. His hips are pushing back to meet your thrusts now, desperate and uncontrollably, and he's so hard it's leaking onto the sheets but he hasn't even touched himself, hasn't even tried. He's just letting you use him, letting you fuck the stress right out of his body.

"Let go. I've got you."

He comes with a cry of your name. Ropes of it, hot and thick, painting the sheets under him. His whole body clenches around you一around the strap, around this moment, around the feeling of finally, finally letting someone else hold the weight.

You fuck him through it. Gentle. Lovingly. Until the last tremor runs through him and he goes completely limp.

And thenー finallyー he passes out.

Just like that. Face down on the bed, tears still wet on his cheeks, body finally relaxed for the first time in months. He's breathing deep and even, the way he hasn't breathed in weeks, and his pulse is slow and calm under your fingers when you check his wrist.

You clean him up. He doesn't stir. You wipe the tears from his face, the cum from his stomach, the lube from his thighs. You change the sheets around him—carefully, so carefully一and pull the blanket up to his chin.

He murmurs something in his sleep. Your name, maybe. Or l love you. Or both.

You kiss his forehead.

"Sleep well, honey."

He sleeps like a baby.

When he wakes up, the sun is streaming through the windows and the bed is empty and he panics.

What the fuck??

Where are you???

Fuck, he didn't made you breakfast—

He's on his feet before his brain catches up一stumbling, sore in a way that makes him pause for half a second...

Oh, right, last night, oh god—

And then he's moving again, grabbing the first thing he finds (your robe, pink, too small, he doesn't care) and following the smell.

Bacon.

Eggs.

Pancakes.

And you, standing at the stove in your pajamas, flipping pancakes like it's the most natural thing in the world.

He stops in the doorway.

"...Baby?"

You turn around. Smile. The smile that he loves more than anything in his miserable life.

"Morning, sleepyhead. Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready."

"But I— you— I always—"

"Yeah. I know. Today it's me. Sit."

He sits at the kitchen table and watch you cook.

He's confused. He's wearing your robe. He's sore. He doesn't know what the fuck is going on.

You set a plate in front of him. Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs over easy, just the way he likes them. A glass of orange juice. A cup of coffee—JUST ONE— fixed exactly the way he takes it.

He just... stares at it.

"lt's not going to eat itself."

"I—" His voice breaks. He tries again. "You made me breakfast."

"I did."

"But I always make you breakfast."

"I know."

"I'm supposed to— you shouldn't have to—"

You immediately rush to him, take his face in your hands, and kiss him. Soft. Sweet. Syrup from your lips sticking to his.

"l love you," you say against his mouth. "l love you and you're running yourself into an early grave and I'm not going to let that happen. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to eat this breakfast. Then you're going to take a shower. Then you're going to tell me what's been going on at work. And then we're going to figure out a schedule that doesn't involve you dying of sleep deprivation. Okay?"

"But the chores—"

"We'll split them."

"The bills—"

"We'll look at them together."

"l just want to give you everything," he whispers, and his eyes are wet again, and god, he's so tired of crying but he can't seem to stop. "You deserve the world. And I can't— I can't give you anything if I stop一"

You kiss him again. Harder this time.

"You are the world, you idiot. You're my world. And I need you alive in it. So eat your pancakes."

He laughs. It's wet and snotty and a little hysterical.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." He picks up his fork. Looks at the pancakes—perfectly golden, just the way he taught you一and his heart just skip a beat. "But I'm doing the dishes."

"Fine."

"And tomorrow I'm making you breakfast."

"Obviously."

"And tonight..." He pauses. Cheeks flushing pink. "Tonight can we... can we do that again? The... the thing. With the..."

You raise an eyebrow. Smile.

"You want me to peg you?"

He buries his face in his hands, "Oh my god."

"Is that a yes?"

"...Yes."

"Then sure. But only if you promise to sleep at least six hours every night this week."

"l promise."

"And eat lunch."

"l promise."

"And let me do the vacuuming sometimes."

"...I'll think about it."

You laugh and ruffle his hair and he leans into your touch like a starving man offered bread.

He's still a mess. But he's eating. He's sleeping. He's sitting at the table in your too small pink robe with syrup on his chin and a soreness in his body that's painful in a good way.

And when you sit down across from him with your own plate and your own coffee and your own smile, he looks at you like you're a miracle.

"Thank you," he says.

"For what?"

"For..." All of it. For not leaving him even when he's disgusting. "Everything."

"Eat your pancakes."

"Yes ma'am."

He eats his pancakes.

He's going to be okay.

You'll make sure of it.

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