#i think from the cold air going through the windows

[whoevenisjavier]

EROTICA

part 1 | part 2

pairing: no outbreak!joel x reader

The plan was to finish your thesis. You didn’t actually want to meet a neighbor with a past you can google and a history caught on tape. Or did you?

a/n: the adult content t-shit gave me ideas. btw, my first story here and I swear this is not a TED talk about morality. critical thinking? yes, bc the story needs it. moral lectures? absolutely not. porn? you'll see. this is just for fun — enjoy, i guess. the storys finished already, so I'll post the next chapter soon.

additional tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. reader is 26, joel is 50ish. no outbreak. joel is a dad. conversations about porn. inaccuracies about joel miller (I know his parents aren't chilean but bear with me). javier peña is there too. do I have to add anything else here? I don't know how to do these things.

wc: 9k

This time, your parents aren’t waiting for you at the bus terminal like they’ve done every year for the past three. It’s a good thing, a sign you’re standing on your own now, with your own car, but you still miss seeing their smiles through the fogged-up bus windows.

That moment always made you feel like you belonged somewhere.

Driving through the streets of Lake Placid on your way home feels like walking through your childhood memories. The stores look almost the same — sometimes with a fresh coat of paint — and the people, though not exactly familiar, are the daughters and grandsons of the adults you grew up around before moving to New York. Their faces carry just enough resemblance to make you do a double take.

When you park in your parents’ driveway and pick up your phone for the first time in two hours, there’s a message from your mother.

“We’re in the backyard having a welcome barbecue for the new neighbor! You can go up to your room and rest if you want some time alone or come eat. Can’t wait to see you. X.”

You smile as you step out of the Jeep, the door creaking behind you, and breathe in the cold, clean air rolling down from the mountains and the lake that wraps around the village where you were born. Your parents’ house sits above Mirror Lake Drive, right at the edge of the hill on the northeast side of the village, and from your bedroom window on the second floor, you can see the lake and the distant peaks of the High Peaks.

A far cry from the view outside your New York apartment: nothing but gray swallowed up by buildings. It’s the perfect setting to finally finish your thesis.

As you grab your two suitcases from the back seat, your eyes wander to the house next door, which had been empty for the past three years, mostly because the previous owners were asking too much for it.

Buying real estate in Lake Placid takes careful thought, since turning a profit is unlikely even with upgrades and expansions – the village is just too isolated. So if you’re buying here, it’s not for the money. It’s because you want a life far away from the city.

The house in question is a larger and more luxurious version of your parents’, made of gray stone, with cute white-framed windows, and for the first time in months, you see the lawn freshly trimmed and a new pickup truck parked in the driveway.

Probably the new family your mom mentioned.

The house is empty when you walk in, but you can hear laughter and voices drifting up from the backyard. You head the opposite way, climb the stairs to your room, drop your bags, take a shower, and spend a good while debating whether to sink into sheets that smell like home for the first time in ten months or go downstairs and find something to eat.

Hunger wins.

You throw on a warm sweater and go down. When you open the back doors, six pairs of eyes turn toward you, but it’s your mother’s squeal that makes you smile, followed by the tight hug she and your father give you.

“There’s our girl,” your father says to the others, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he says your name. You give a small wave. “She always comes home for the holidays.”

The couple sitting together you recognize. They’ve been friends with your parents for years.

But you don’t know the woman who smiles sweetly at you, and you definitely don’t recognize the man, at least twenty-five years older than you, who keeps a neutral expression as he sips from a beer can. He doesn’t seem particularly friendly, but maybe that’s just the impression left by the slightly graying mustache and broad shoulders.

Two minutes later, you’re settled into a lounge chair with everyone in the backyard, a warm burger on your plate and a cold beer in your hand.

“I told Joel he’d have trouble with the house,” says the sweet-smiling woman to your parents, continuing the conversation they were having. “But he really wanted a place here, so I just supported him.”

“What kind of trouble are you having with the house?” your mom asks Joel — the mustached man, now officially identified.

“Nothing major,” Joel replies in a deep, firm, polite voice. “Had to redo the plumbing in two of the bathrooms and fix the heating in the kitchen sink, but it’s all fine now.”

“And are you liking it here?” you venture. You glance at the woman. “You and... your wife?”

Joel gives a faint smile.

“Tess isn’t my wife. And yeah, I’m liking it. It’s peaceful. Not too many teenagers. Feels like paradise.”

“What’s with the teenage hate?” you ask, half-joking, half-serious, silently filing away the Tess isn’t his wife detail.

“Fewer teenagers means fewer cell phones.”

Your response is a light laugh that earns a slight eyebrow raise from Joel, but you go back to your burger and let him be.

The conversation between the adults shifts to Fleetwood Mac, Lake Placid families, suggestions for places Joel should check out, and gossip about someone’s daughter who apparently got knocked up by the neighbor’s grandson, or something like that. You listen in, partly because you’re curious about the latest news (true or not) in the town you grew up in.

Your parents mention that you’re staying longer this time to get a change of scenery and finally work on your thesis, and that’s when the dreaded question comes. From Tess.

“And what’s your thesis about?”

Your mother holds back a laugh, because despite the seriousness of the topic, the initial reactions are always the same.

“I study anthropology,” you say. “My thesis is about the influence of pornography on male behavior over the years.”

That’s because the way men acted around you had always bothered you. When you were ten, wearing a cute chiffon skirt to the grocery store, they stared. When you were fifteen, walking home from school in your uniform, you heard disgusting things shouted at you on the street.

It wasn’t until you got older and realized that behavior like that isn’t natural (and why would it be, if women don’t do it?) that all your anger turned into the foundation for your research.

Tess raises her eyebrows and smiles slightly while the older couple gasps in surprise. Joel doesn’t react at all, except for rubbing the condensation on his beer can with his thumb.

“That’s a very interesting topic,” Tess comments, glancing at Joel, who briefly looks at her, then back at you. “Do you have any conclusions yet?”

“A few,” you say, though you already know the core of your research is the objectification of women’s bodies for the industry’s gain. “But I don’t want to bore you—”

“What’s your research method?” Joel cuts in before you can finish.

“Sorry?”

“Your research method. The system you’re using for the thesis.”

“Mixed methods,” you say, but you sense something more behind the question. Something slightly aggressive that you can’t fully pin down. “I did some fieldwork in New York.”

“Did you interview anyone from the industry?”

You shake your head.

“No one agreed. At least not the newer actors and actresses. The more established ones charged absurd fees just to answer ten questions.”

Joel says nothing, and the silence is broken when your father makes a joke about the topic. Everyone laughs—including you.

The barbecue lasts another hour at most before people start saying their goodbyes. Your mom wraps up two burgers for Joel, and he thanks her sincerely.

Then he turns to you and says:

“Good luck with the thesis, sweetheart.”

You nod, and you could swear you catch a faint smirk at the corner of his lips before he waves goodbye and walks off.

You run into Joel again at the market three blocks from home, standing in front of the fruit display, looking stuck between red grapes, green grapes, and oranges.

Joel’s voice comes suddenly from your left.

“What deep philosophical truth are you hoping those grapes will reveal to you?”

You startle, turning toward him with your hand over your heart as if that could slow it down. Joel raises one eyebrow as he begins placing seedless green grapes into a plastic bag.

He’s wearing worn jeans and a plaid flannel shirt over a white T-shirt. Thin-rimmed glasses rest on the strong bridge of his nose.

He smells like pine and something expensive—you guess it’s aftershave.

“Hi,” you say first, then quickly add, “I was trying to decide between grapes and oranges.”

“Grapes are sweeter this time of year.”

“But I like sour fruit.”

“Then go for the oranges.”

“But grapes are easier to eat. More practical.”

Joel gives you an impatient look, and you answer with a laugh. You grab a plastic bag and start selecting oranges.

After a short silence, while Joel ties off his grape bag and begins picking oranges too, you ask:

“Are you liking it here?”

Joel murmurs:

“There are some interesting things. Sarah likes it.”

“Your wife?” you ask quickly. Too quickly.

“My daughter. Just turned fifteen.”

Oh. Great. He’s a dad. You glance at his hand but see no ring. Joel notices.

“What’s with the marriage obsession?” he asks, although not rudely.

You shrug.

“I’m just curious. And you’d better brace yourself. The older ladies in Lake Placid are going to eat you alive with questions about your relationship status.”

“Really? Why do you think that?”

You freeze with your fingers wrapped around a particularly juicy orange. Without meaning to, you basically confessed that you think he’s a catch: attractive, polite, middle-aged, apparently wealthy, and tall. What other reason would the ladies have to shift their attention from their knitting?

You avoid his eyes.

“You bought the house that had been on the market for years. They’ll want to know who the buyer is,” you say, a half-truth.

He grunts, as if to say he doesn’t care about any of that, ties his orange bag, and places it in the cart. He glances at your basket, scanning the hygiene items (specifically the pads) and the chocolate bars.

“Did you drive here?” he asks.

You shake your head. He does too.

“Then let’s go. I’ll give you a ride home. It’s raining.”

His tone doesn’t invite objection and you don’t want to argue. Silently, and after grabbing a bag of green grapes too, you follow him through the market. He picks up a box of chocolate cereal, milk, kale, and oats, and then you both head to the checkout line.

You pay for your items first, so you end up waiting under the automatic doors, arms crossed beneath the blasting air conditioner.

People come in shaking umbrellas, mumbling about how unexpected the rain is or how cold the drops feel.

Older women walk in, spot Joel, and start whispering to each other with that smile every woman — no matter her age — immediately recognizes. The universal woman-smile.

He, seemingly unaware to all of it, pays with his card, grabs the bags with one hand, and walks over to you.

“Need help?” he asks, motioning toward your three bags.

You shake your head. He nods once and tilts his head toward the door, signaling for you to follow him across the crowded parking lot.

His pickup truck is parked near the exit—big and sturdy. You both get in at the same time. The inside smells good but feels stuffy from the rain, so he turns on the A/C and runs his hand through his graying hair to shake off the water.

“It rains a lot here,” he mutters as he starts the engine and buckles his seatbelt. You do the same. “Not sure I like this humidity.”

“Where were you living before?”

“Los Angeles.”

Your eyebrows rise. You can’t picture him with the stereotypical California vibe. It doesn’t fit.

So you ask the million-dollar question:

“What did you do there?”

The sound of the windshield wipers is your only response for a few seconds. Long enough for you to wonder if you crossed a line.

“A bit of everything,” he finally says, and you understand that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Yeah. You were being nosy.

Weird. Joel is weird, and everything about him makes you feel like you should think he’s an assassin, or a retired California mobster, anything that would kick your survival instincts into gear. You probably shouldn’t be sitting in a closed space with him like you’ve known him for years.

“Nothing illegal,” Joel adds when your silence starts to stretch.

That makes you laugh.

“Very reassuring.”

He smirks. At a red light, his fingers tap lightly on the leather steering wheel.

“How’s the thesis going?” he asks.

“Honestly? I haven’t opened the file since I got here.”

“Procrastinating?”

You hum in agreement, resting your head against the seat.

“I think I’m stuck.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I need to watch some films to move forward.”

He freezes. Then he lets out a low chuckle. You defend yourself:

“I’m serious. I need to understand which narratives work best and why, and connect that to how they influence real-life behavior.”

“Makes sense,” Joel says.

“It does,” you reply, a little proud. You glance at him. The shape of his nose, the mustache, the gray-streaked beard. Then you add, “But it feels weird watching porn in my parents’ house, even if it’s for educational purposes.”

“Porn isn’t always for educational purposes?”

You gasp in horror.

“No!” you exclaim. “Porn is not educational. People don’t have sex like that in real life.”

“Hm…”

“You disagree?”

“I do,” he says plainly. “People do have sex like that.”

“I didn’t mean physically, Joel. Sex is easy: a good position, one thing inside the other, and done.” You catch yourself, because not all sex involves penetration, and something about Joel makes you think he wouldn’t mind sitting through a lecture on inclusivity if it came to that, but you add: “What I meant is that sex doesn’t happen like that. It’s not normal to open the door for the pizza guy and two seconds later be bent over the couch.”

“Says who?”

The frustrated growl that escapes you seems to amuse him. You know he’s teasing, and his grin proves it, but you can’t resist continuing.

“Not to mention the incest plots or the underage fantasies. Do you really think sex happens like that?”

His smile disappears instantly.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No, I’m not. You can’t separate porn genres like some are less harmful than others, because even the ones that seem ‘harmless’ fuel the same industry that writes those sick scripts.”

“We’re here.”

He cuts you off with that simple phrase, and when you look out the window, you realize he’s right — you’re in front of your house. You turn your gaze back to him, and he meets it firmly, returning all the intensity you just threw his way.

You swallow and reach for your bags.

As if you hadn’t just delivered a monologue on the ethics of pornography, you simply say:

“Thanks for the ride.”

He doesn’t respond. You step out of the truck and walk to the door of your house, feeling like a kid who just got scolded, which is ridiculous. But even more ridiculous is the fact that Joel only drives away after he sees you walk safely inside, even though he literally lives next door.

You meet Sarah — Joel’s fifteen-year-old daughter — the next day.

After running along Mirror Lake Drive, you get home with your lungs burning and your body drenched in sweat, the elastic band of your pink sports bra stuck to your back. As you’re kicking off your sneakers at the door, you spot a pair of pink Converse, way smaller than anything anyone in your family would wear.

In the kitchen, there’s a skinny, unfamiliar girl sitting at the counter, two open books spread across the marble, her curly hair pulled up into two puffs.

She lifts her head, and her brown eyes hit you with a soft echo of familiarity.

“Hi,” you say, as if it’s totally normal to have a stranger in your house.

She waves back. Before you can ask “who are you?”, your mom walks into the kitchen and calls your name.

“This is Sarah, Joel’s daughter. Sarah, this is my daughter I was telling you about.”

Sarah gives you a shy little smile, and you smile back, a bit frozen by the fact that you’re standing face-to-face with Joel’s daughter. You’re not even sure why it freezes you.

“Joel had to spend the night out because he needed to go to New York, and he asked if Sarah could stay with us,” your mom explains.

“I’m old enough to stay alone, but my dad’s crazy,” Sarah chimes in, and you laugh.

You don’t think she’s old enough to stay alone, especially in a new town, but you don’t say that.

What you do say is:

“So, Sarah... what are you studying?”

Sarah needs help with her social studies homework, so after you shower and change into something comfortable, you sit down next to her and go over the assignments together. That’s when you realize she’s ridiculously smart and funny, slipping little jokes into the conversation, blending internet memes with historical facts, and talking to her turns out to be genuinely easy and fun.

Your mom serves dinner, you both eat, and then you settle onto the couch with your Kindles, each of you leaning against an end and your feet meeting in the middle of the cushions.

You’re in the third chapter of Ghost Radio when she calls you.

You peek over the top of your Kindle to let her know you’re listening.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Twenty-six.”

She looks up at the ceiling as if doing mental math. Then, reaching some conclusion, she raises her eyebrows.

“Why?” you ask.

“No reason,” she shrugs, turning back to the book she was reading. Another question follows, this time without looking at you. “Are you dating anyone?”

“No. I ended my last relationship six months ago.”

“Was he older?”

“No,” you say with a laugh. “I mean, yes, but only by about three years. Why do you ask?”

Sarah wiggles her feet like she’s a little too excited about something.

“Just scientific curiosity,” she says, but her tone sounds more like a villain plotting something mischievous.

The next morning, Joel comes to pick her up at eight o’clock. You’re the one who opens the door since your parents left early to go to the farmers’ market to buy honey and vegetables.

He’s standing on the porch, wearing a thick leather jacket, jeans, and heavy boots. He looks exhausted, and the two-day beard growth makes him even more intimidating.

“Good morning,” you say.

Joel looks you up and down in your pajamas: heart-printed pants and a tank top. You realize too late that you’re not wearing a bra.

“Good morning,” he replies, lifting his eyes back to your face. “I’m here to get Sarah.”

“She’s finishing breakfast. Come in.”

Before he can protest, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him no choice but to step inside and follow you to the kitchen. You hear his slow, hesitant footsteps as he returns to the room filled with the smell of butter and coffee.

Sarah is sitting at the counter, devouring pancakes. Joel walks over, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and they exchange a few quiet words before he says something that makes her nod and hop down from the stool, leaving the kitchen.

You hear her going upstairs, probably to grab her things.

“How was the trip?” you ask, filling a mug with coffee and placing it in front of him on the marble.

Joel stares at the pink mug like it’s a threat but eventually wraps his big hands around it. You take a sip from your own cup and look at him over the rim, just the counter between you two.

“Good,” he says simply. He gestures toward the coffee. “Thanks. I needed that. Drove back and forth without stopping to rest.”

“Just thinking about it makes my back hurt.”

“I want my bed.”

You watch him over your cup, blowing on the surface of the coffee. You imagine him in the silence of his own house, in his bedroom, in his own bed. You wonder what color the walls are, what the sheets look like, and whether he sleeps clothed or not.

“Sarah’s really smart,” you say, pushing away the mental images.

That earns a small smile from him.

“She’s fantastic, my girl. But she’s cocky, so don’t tell her that.”

“She takes after someone.”

“I’m not cocky.”

“I’m joking,” you say lightly, offering peace because you don’t want to relive the animosity from the last time you saw him. “Is the coffee good?”

“Very.”

“Want to take some pancakes? Bet you’re hungry. I’ve eaten, Sarah’s eaten, and my parents always grab breakfast out when they leave early.”

Joel drums his fingers against the ceramic, looking like he’s fighting an internal battle, as if accepting food from you would be a terrible crime. Still, you take his silence as a yes and start stacking the remaining pancakes into a thermal container.

When you’re done, you walk around the counter and hand him the container with both hands.

“Here.”

Joel takes it with his left hand. With his right, he reaches out and gently pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says quietly, and you freeze.

He walks past you, saying something to Sarah, who apparently has come back downstairs. Feeling a warm flutter deep in your belly, you turn and follow them to the living room. You hug Sarah goodbye, promise to send her books for her Kindle, and then walk them to the door.

You smile when Joel thanks you for looking after Sarah and asks you to pass his thanks to your parents as well.

You watch them cross the lawn between your gardens, and just before Joel enters his house, he turns to look back at you.

You could swear he deliberately and slowly sweeps his gaze over your body—from your feet to your head.

And then he goes inside.

And you have to mechanically force yourself to close the door.

That same night, you start watching the films.

As you work through your research, you put together a report listing the names of the ten most famous stars from each decade between 1970 and 2020, five male, five female.

You already have a pretty clear idea of what defined the main point of pornography in the ’70s: the start of structured scripts and absurd, fantastical narratives that, one way or another, tied a woman’s pleasure directly to a man’s. Like in Deep Throat, where they came up with a story about a woman whose clitoris is located at the back of her throat. You can already guess what the most "effective" method of stimulation would be.

Porno chic was created to make adult content more palatable to the general public, especially as debates about the legality and morality of filming started to gain traction during that decade.

Sitting on your bed with your laptop open in front of you and your tablet resting on your lap for notes, you watch the films at 1.5x speed while eating green grapes.

You knew you might get aroused watching them, because dopamine responses are inevitable, but apparently there's nothing about '70s pornography that even remotely stirs your body. It feels like you're watching a National Geographic documentary.

You can't push away what Linda Lovelace wrote in her autobiography about the most famous film of that time, the one that made millions of dollars: There was a gun pointed at my head the entire time, she said.

You swallow hard and return to your notes.

By the end of the first week of this stage of your thesis, you finish watching the films from the '90s. You note the radical shift in the female body ideal — all the actresses with breast implants — and the peculiar aesthetic of VHS tapes, since this was the era when films started being widely distributed in that format.

What stands out most, though, is the shift in perspective. Gonzo-style pornography centers the camera exclusively on the man, making him the sole focus, and by extension, reducing women to mere tools for male pleasure. The camera's focus on women's bodies is restricted almost entirely to their genitals, which explains a lot about the birth of violent pornography during that time.

If women exist solely for male pleasure, then it’s no problem if they’re violated, right?

And just like that, the normalization of male domination in pornography begins, which, of course, spills over into social behavior.

You shut the laptop in front of you and lie down on the bed, closing your eyes. You doubt even a sixteen-year-old boy has seen as much porn as you have in the past few days, and there’s still so much left to do.

You reach for your tablet and pull up the list of male stars from the 2000s.

Tyler Cross, Javier Peña, Max Thunder, Ryder Grey, and Clint Fury.

Is there someone in the industry whose only job is coming up with these ridiculous pseudonyms?

You get up, leaving everything behind, and head toward the kitchen to find something to eat. It's already past eleven at night, your parents are asleep, and the only light in the living room comes from the lamp. On tiptoe, you’re halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rings.

You freeze like you're in the middle of a crime scene.

A doorbell ringing at eleven at night in Lake Placid? Something must be on fire.

When you open the door, it’s Joel standing there on your parents' porch, looking anxious.

“Hi,” he says. Another meeting where you're in pajamas and he's fully dressed. “It's dangerous to open the door in the middle of the night like that.”

“Great way to start a conversation. I'm calculating how many seconds it'll take me to get to the kitchen and grab a knife.”

You get a somewhat tense smile.

“I’m still not used to these small-town habits.”

“I get it. I would never open the door for anyone after eight p.m. in New York, but here it’s normal.”

He nods, then asks,

“Were you sleeping?”

You wrap your arms around yourself as a cold breeze sweeps by.

“No, I was studying. Is everything okay?”

“I need a favor,” he says bluntly. “Sarah’s asleep, and I have to head back to New York. Can you stay at the house tonight?”

“Is everything okay?” you repeat.

“My brother’s wife just went into labor. He asked me to be there. I should be back tomorrow night.”

Your eyes widen, and Joel nods as if to say, “Exactly, got it?” You hold up a finger to ask for a minute, then run upstairs to grab your slippers, your robe, and your phone. When you come back, Joel is still on a call but waits patiently until you close the door before leading you to his house.

He lets you step inside first, and even with the urgency of the situation, it feels a little like you’re a twenty-year-old girl walking into a guy’s house for the first time, especially when Joel shuts the door behind you, finishing up his call.

The house is warm, clearly lived in by a family. There’s a big rug in the living room, a brown leather couch, and pictures of Sarah hanging in the hallway: lifting a soccer trophy, carrying a skateboard, the two of them at the beach. A line of photos shows her growing up, from a baby all the way to now.

The last photo is of her at Jewtraw Park, right here in Lake Placid.

“You can sleep in my room if you want. If that’s too weird, the couch is really good too. I left some blankets and a pillow right there,” he says, pointing to the armchair. Then he adds, “Everything’s clean. The guest rooms aren’t ready yet.”

You roll your eyes.

“I know, Miller. Relax. I’ll manage.”

“Okay. Give me your number. I’ll text you so you have mine. And if you need anything, call me.”

You say your number, and he types it into his old, barely-hanging-on iPhone.

“Thanks,” Joel says, genuine. “Really.”

You smile and give his arm a quick rub without even thinking about it.

“No problem. Just let me know if you need anything.”

After showing you where Sarah’s room is, where the extra blankets are, and telling you about ten times you can eat whatever you want, he leaves. You quickly text your mom, explaining the situation and letting her know you’re staying at Joel’s, then settle down on the couch.

Little signs of Joel are scattered around the house. The reading glasses forgotten on the coffee table, the suede jacket hanging by the door, the boots by the entryway, the faint smell of the same lotion you caught on him at the store.

You feel a little like a criminal as you get up and start quietly wandering through the rooms.

The kitchen is beautiful and organized, but there are a few dishes left in the sink. Since you’re still awake, you start washing them.

You move on to the dining room, all wood furniture and a classic chandelier, and then to a small office off to the side. It feels almost too empty except for the bookshelves. Just a desk with a laptop sitting on it, making you think it doesn’t get much use.

You head upstairs.

Sarah’s door is closed, but you walk softly down the carpeted hallway to the room at the end.

You push the door open, heart pounding like you’re about to find a monster—or Joel sitting on the bed saying, “Snooping where you shouldn’t be?”

Instead, you find a huge bed neatly made with gray sheets, dark curtains, and matching desks on either side. There’s a closet and a door leading, you assume, to a bathroom.

It’s empty in the way you’d expect a fifty-year-old man’s bedroom to be.

You almost give in and crawl into his bed but force yourself back downstairs, turn off the main lights, and curl up on the couch, which really is pretty comfortable.

It takes a while to fall asleep in a strange house, but when you finally do, your dreams are filled with gray beards and gray sheets.

You wake in the middle of the night to the ping of your phone. You rub your eyes, still dazed from sleep, and grab the phone from the pillow beside you.

4:47 a.m.

It’s a text from an unknown number:

“Hi. Joel here. Sorry for the hour, I hope you’re sleeping. I just got to New York. Please let me know when Sarah wakes up. I’ll need to call her.”

A sleepy smile tugs at your lips at how formally he writes, no abbreviations at all. You save his contact as Miller.

You type back:

“hey. don’t worry. I’ll let you know. everything ok over there?”

“Why are you awake?”

You don’t tell him it was his text that woke you.

“New place… light sleeper.”

“I see.”

An “I see” with a period and everything. Then another message:

“Yes, everything’s fine. I’m in the waiting room, and Tommy’s with his wife. She’s been in labor for seven hours.”

You type: “ouch. hoping all goes well. lmk if u need sth”

“What kind of vocabulary is that?”

“don’t you have bigger things to worry about, grumpy?”

The impossible happens: Joel Miller sends you a smiling emoji.

You reply with one sticking its tongue out.

His next message comes in text again:

“Tell me about your thesis.

“you’re really curious about it.”

“It’s an interesting topic.”

“sure… men and their obsession with porn.”

“I’m not obsessed with porn. I don’t even remember the last time I watched it.”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard—it sounds way too intimate.

You type back:

“last time I watched was this afternoon.”

You get a single question mark in response: “?”

You clarify:

“for my thesis. I’m at the stage where I have to watch films.”

“Oh. How are you doing that?”

“picking stars from each decade and watching two movies for each. starting with the 2000s tomorrow.”

Joel reads your message but doesn’t reply right away, which is odd. He had been responding immediately. You wonder if something’s happened at the hospital, if everything’s okay with his sister-in-law.

You stare at the screen until it goes black. Three minutes later, his reply pops up:

“Who are the stars from the 2000s?”

“looking for suggestions?”

“No.”

You open your report from iCloud and copy the list of male and female stars from the 2000s. You send it over.

He reads it. Another little pause.

“I see.”

Then another question:

“And how are you watching? Like a documentary?”

“yeah, pretty much. I put on the films, watch them critically, and take notes.”

“And they don’t affect you?”

“in what way?”

He reads the message but doesn’t answer. After ten minutes of staring at the ceiling, you take a deep breath and type courageously:

“are you asking if I get turned on?”

Again, no response.

Still, you type back:

“i do. it’s inevitable and natural. but only starting with the '90s films. the ones from the '70s and '80s were way too gross for that.”

This time, a reply comes.

“Gross?”

“yeah. the men were really disgusting. it’s obvious they had no idea how to have sex to actually please a woman.”

“I see.”

You picture Joel Miller, tall and broad-shouldered, sitting in a sterile hospital hallway, texting you about porn while waiting for his nephew to be born.

The thought makes you smile to yourself. You burrow deeper under the blanket and decide to be a little bolder.

“do you have a favorite genre of those movies?”

“To watch?”

You frown. What else would it be for?

“yeah”

“I don’t watch them.”

“okay, but if you were going to watch one today, what type would you choose? one with a storyline, straight to the point… what? help me out for the research.”

You almost chew on your lower lip as you watch the little “typing” bubble appear and disappear three times. Finally, he sends a simple response:

“No storyline, not a lot of talking. Something filmed in the morning, in bed, right after waking up.”

“morning sex?”

“Yes.”

Before you can stop yourself, your mind fills with images of Joel’s bed, the same gray sheets now rumpled and tossed aside. The cold morning light pouring through the window, the scent of him still on the fabric, the warmth of sleepy skin, the scratch of his beard against the sensitive part of your neck.

A big hand adjusting and lifting your leg into the right position, low, sleepy moans filling the space.

You snap your eyes open wide.

“got it,” you type back, heart racing.

“Do you have a favorite genre?”

“i hate porn,” you reply.

“Okay. But if you were going to watch one today, what would you pick?”

He’s throwing your own question back at you, meaning you can’t dodge it.

You type the whole answer at once but hesitate a dozen times before finally pressing send, knowing Joel will understand exactly what you mean and exactly what you like. It’s probably not right to tell your parents’ neighbor, who’s at least twenty years older, but you don’t take it back.

“in the car. an age gap where he looks a little older than her, slightly graying, and he’s desperate for her, desperate to do things to her in the backseat.”

“Things?”

“you know what I mean.”

“Say it clearly.”

“desperate to go down on her.”

And again, he responds:

“I see.”

Your cheeks burning, you turn off your phone screen.

But another message buzzes through:

“Good choice.”

You cross your legs and lock your phone again.

The next time you wake up, it’s to Sarah poking your cheek with an insistent little finger. She’s standing over you by the couch, looking at you like you’re a science experiment.

The sunlight pouring through the living room windows makes you wonder if it’s already past ten.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, still poking your cheek.

Yawning, you answer,

“You’re about to have a baby cousin.”

Sarah squeals.

Joel calls her twenty minutes later, right after you text him—carefully avoiding rereading the messages you sent each other during the night—that she’s awake.

Afterward, you eat breakfast together, and Sarah gets ready for school, where she’ll stay until six in the evening. You wait until the bus picks her up before going back to your house, crawling into bed, and sleeping a little more.

When you wake up again, it’s time to log onto a video call with your boss, even though you’re technically on vacation.

You help your mom with some work in the garden, bake muffins, and by late afternoon, you lock the door to your bedroom, find a cozy spot in bed and open your laptop again.

2000s.

Now all the actresses definitely have implants, bleached hair, heavy makeup, thin eyebrows, and elaborate hairstyles: exactly the fantasy for any guy with a DVD player and one hand free.

But it’s also the beginning of the internet era, meaning access to all of it is even easier than it ever was with VHS tapes.

Roleplay everywhere. Boss and secretary, student and teacher, best friend's mom, best friend's dad. A fantasy world that definitely fried a lot of men’s brain circuits.

You start with the male stars.

First up is Tyler Cross. He's a tall actor with spiky, gelled hair, a tribal tattoo on his left bicep, and a defined six-pack.

You watch a POV movie, new at the time, and another where he plays the older brother’s best friend. It’s set in a girl’s pink-walled bedroom, teddy bears thrown to the side, and it’s all absolutely disgusting.

You glance at the clock after finishing Tyler Cross’s films. 5:55 p.m. You figure you’ve got about fifteen minutes before Sarah gets home, so you decide to at least start Javier Peña’s movies.

You type his name into the search bar.

The results flood in. One of the first titles you see: No Overtime for the Babysitter: Daddy Comes Home Early!

You roll your eyes. Great, now they’re coming for babysitters’ labor rights too.

You click the movie. It takes a moment to load.

The cover stares back at you while the loading icon spins.

The actress is gorgeous, with breasts you immediately envy and long black hair. Her lips, glossy and slightly open, look like she’s mid-moan. She’s one of the first actresses you’ve seen who isn’t drowning under a pound of makeup.

The scene starts with her dusting some furniture in the living room.

She’s wearing a mini-skirt and a light blue crop top made of thin fabric that shows her stomach. Definitely very appropriate attire for her job.

The sound of a door unlocking fills the room, and then it swings open.

The actress sighs:

“Oh! Mr. Peña! You’re home early!”

The camera pans to Mr. Peña. You blink at the screen.

Javier Peña has that classic '80s kind of handsomeness. He’s tall, lean but broad-shouldered, his dark hair messy in a way that somehow suits him. The thick mustache above his tight lips and the long sideburns give him the look of an old-school movie star, and you have to double-check the release date of the film. 2002.

He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a loose tie, his gray blazer slung over his left shoulder. But it’s his brown eyes that catch you — because they’re familiar. It feels like you know them.

“The meeting was canceled,” Peña says, tossing the blazer onto the couch. “My daughter’s asleep? You can go now.”

The gasp that escapes your mouth is quickly muffled by your hand when Javier Peña’s voice fills your ears through the headphones, because you immediately realize where you know it from.

The voice is a little softer, younger, with more of an accent — but it’s the same voice.

Joel Miller’s voice.

“She is,” the actress says sweetly, crossing the room. Javier looks her up and down — from her bubblegum-pink painted toes to the way her chest strains against her top. “Are you sure, Mr. Peña? You seem really stressed out. Can’t I help you with something?”

You freeze where you are, heart hammering against your ribs. Holy shit.

“Help how?” Javier asks, raising an eyebrow, pretending to be disinterested.

She smiles, grabs his hand, and leads him to the couch, urging him to sit.

You’re almost ready for her to drop to her knees in front of him, because that would be the obvious next step, but that’s not what happens. The actress — Mila, her name — circles behind the couch, leaning over him to start unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’re so tense, Mr. Peña,” she says, pouting as she undoes each button. “Taking care of the house by yourself, your daughter…”

The shirt falls open, revealing a firm, broad chest.

“So responsible… No one to help you out…” She leans in and whispers against his ear: “No one to suck your cock.”

The shocked laugh that bursts out of you is immediately covered by your hand again.

Javier’s shirt falls completely open, and he takes Mila’s hand, guiding it straight to his pants, her long red nails vivid against the gray fabric.

“I’ve got you for that.”

“Mmm…” the actress moans, massaging him through the fabric. She runs her hands back up his shoulders. “That’s right. You do.”

She moves to kneel in front of him, but Javier clicks his tongue and says:

“Take off your clothes.”

You feel a pulse low in your stomach. The actress smiles and obeys.

Once she’s fully naked, she starts to kneel again, and Javier spreads his legs wider, tossing his shirt aside.

She massages him through his pants for a few more seconds before tugging the zipper down and pulling his pants down with both hands. He’s not wearing underwear, of course he isn’t, and suddenly, you’re staring straight at Joel Miller’s cock.

Large, hard, slightly veiny, every inch of it.

Javier shifts on the couch, gathers all of Mila’s soft hair into one hand, and with the other, guides himself to her mouth, and—

Someone knocks on your bedroom door and you nearly slap the laptop closed.

“Honey, I think Sarah’s getting home from school. Aren’t you going to greet her?” your mom asks.

“I am,” you say, but your voice comes out too soft. You clear your throat and try again: “I’m going, Mom. Just a second.”

“Okay!”

Your mom leaves you sitting there, staring at the wall with wide eyes and a racing heart, so much slick between your legs you have to stand up, clean yourself, and change panties before going downstairs to greet Sarah.

She gets home, you both go into Joel’s house, you make her a sandwich, and she heads upstairs to shower. You stay on autopilot, your head still completely full of Javier Peña... and Joel Miller.

Holy shit.

The man was a porn actor.

And apparently, a very successful one, because you distinctly remember seeing that his films topped the charts for years. Is he still doing it?

You rub your eyes and fight the urge to shove your fist in your mouth and scream.

The irony is almost too much. Fate is throwing a former porn star into your lap when it knows all too well the thesis you’re writing, and all your hatred for the industry.

You order pizza for you and Sarah. You eat while watching a cheesy teenage romance movie that keeps her glued to the TV. When she’s yawning hard, you ask if she has any homework (she doesn’t) and send her off to brush her teeth and get into bed.

She hugs you goodnight and heads upstairs. You hear her brushing her teeth, then the door to her room closing.

You take a deep breath. Pull your phone out of your pocket. You type in the search bar: Javier Peña. The image results flood the screen.

Joel Miller in a thousand different styles. At industry parties in clothes that scream early 2000s, at photoshoots with other actresses, even holding up a trophy that reads—

You lean in closer to make sure you’re not misreading it.

Longest Orgasm of 2006.

Wow. Congratulations.

The Google summary confirms it: Joel Miller, born in 1981 in Arlington, Texas, to Chilean parents. Porn actor, best known as Javier Peña. Joel Miller became an advocate for porn actresses’ rights, one of the main reasons he left the industry in 2010.

One of his last public appearances as Javier Peña was in 2016, co-hosting an adult film awards show alongside Tess Servopoulos, his former career agent. Since then, very little is known about Joel Miller, though several producers have tried to lure him back with massive paychecks, even for solo work.

You hear the key turning in the lock.

You lock your phone at record speed and sit up straight on the couch, eyes wide open. Joel will probably think that you’ve been doing cocaine on his coffee table.

He walks in, shrugging out of his coat, and looks at you.

“Hey,” he says, kicking off his boots. “Everything okay?”

You nod, then try to use words:

“Hey. Yeah.”

Joel gives you a strange look, glancing up the stairs.

“Sarah’s asleep?”

You nod again.

Oh, Mr. Peña. You must be so tired. Can I help you? My God. You’re the babysitter working overtime.

“Are you really okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Um… I…” you rub your hands over your thighs. “I’m just tired. That’s all. Is everything okay with your sister-in-law?”

“She’s fine. I’ve got a nephew now,” Joel murmurs, collapsing onto the couch across from you, legs spread, hands over his eyes. “And he’s so small. I almost didn’t have the nerve to hold him. I don’t even remember Sarah being that tiny.”

“Ha ha.”

At your awkward laugh, Joel drops his hands and studies you carefully, narrowing his eyes. He watches you for a moment, like he’s seeing right through you.

Joel says,

“You found out who Javier Peña is.”

You freeze, hands clenched in your lap. Joel rubs his temple with a heavy sigh and sits up straighter.

“Which one did you watch?”

You swallow hard.

“The babysitter one.”

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, sweetheart.”

“The film’s from 2002. I think the actress’s name was Mila? She was trying to comfort you about being a single dad.”

Joel raises both eyebrows.

“I know the one,” he says with a dry, humorless laugh. “Right. Here it is. I was Javier Peña for ten years. I guess I still am, when the paycheck’s good enough. I made porn movies. They’re out there.”

“Still are?”

“Not for films. Just for appearances or special gigs at awards shows.”

“Oh.”

He says your name firmly.

“That industry — it’s your thesis. You know those actors and actresses are real people. I’m one of them. Are you going to stop treating me like a normal person now?”

“It’s weird,” you say softly. “Sorry, Joel, but it’s weird seeing you like… that… and then coming here and seeing you being Sarah’s dad, being… Joel Miller.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not,” he sighs, collapsing back onto the couch. “I’m way too tired to be mad, honestly. We can talk more about it later if you want. I’ll even help you with your thesis if you need. But not tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for staying with Sarah, seriously,” he says, shifting back into Dad mode. “Let me pay you.”

“No way,” you say quickly.

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off:

“You said you’d help me with my thesis, right?”

He just looks at you. You explain,

“I’ll take that as payment.”

Slowly, he nods. And just like that, you have a deal.

That night, you head upstairs again and lock the door.

You open your laptop, type Javier Peña into the search bar, and scroll through the films. One title catches your eye: Neighbors: The Lust Lives Next Door.

The irony.

The title is ridiculous, sure, but the movie isn’t. He’s the married woman’s neighbor, and when her husband goes out of town, Javier shows up at the door asking if everything’s alright because he heard a noise and got worried.

He’s wearing tight jeans and a short-sleeve, light pink button-down shirt.

They head upstairs to check the bedroom.

She sits at the edge of the bed while Javier kneels down to look under it, but when he straightens up again, he sees the actress isn’t wearing any panties. Of course.

Two minutes later, Javier spreads her legs and goes down on her for a good while, his dark eyes locked on hers. And you could swear the moans are real. Either that, or she’s a damn good actress.

It’s when Javier starts whispering in her ear — loud enough to be picked up by the mic, but low enough to sound private — that your own fingers hover at the waistband of your pajama shorts.

He grips her thigh firmly, legs wide open, about to sink into her, both of them watching where they meet.

“Like this?” Javier asks.

She nods.

He licks his fingers and touches her clit. Her left leg trembles slightly.

“Sensitive? You’re not gonna come again for me?”

You swallow your shame and remind yourself that no one will ever know about this.

You slip your hand into your panties.

You close your eyes, listen to Javier whispering filthy things into the actress’s ear, and feel your pulse thudding in your ears and the slickness between your fingers.

[stilljuststardust]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Visualization; How I do it

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

As always, take what works for you. This is my opinion and experience, I don't want you to do everything the same way I do, I just hope it helps you discover your way. I probably experience visualization different than you and that's ok.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

1. Embrace tunnel vision

When I was first exploring visualization, particularly in shifting, it was emphasized to me that it should be as realistic as possible.

It's easy to sit down and lose yourself in trying to perfect the visualization. I would try to visualize and end up annoyed because I couldn't nail down the details. I felt pressure to get everything "right".

Here's the thing, visualization is not perfectly mapping out the floor plan of your bedroom, nor is it a 1:1 recreation of your environment.

Don't get overwhelmed trying to juggle everything single detail. Your brain doesn't multitask, it switches focus between tasks rapidly. In trying to switch between everything on your checklist you are going to overwhelm yourself and lose all immersion in the process.

The five sense are important but they are not a checklist. Trying to juggle five different experiences at once can be overwhelming. Pour your focus into something and let the other senses come up if they want to, instead of breaking your focus to add in something new.

You don't have to get it "right". You don't have to be perfect, exact, or accurate.

Tunnel vision is your friend. When you're going about your day to day life you're not focusing on your entire environment all at once. Some of the most immersive and potent visualizations you will ever have will be of minute details.

You don't visualize the whole scene you visualize a moment of it and get lost in it.

Maybe it's hard for you to visualize an entire room, but can you visualize one aspect of it? Instead of trying to map an entire castle, can you imagine the cold feeling of one of its windows against your hand?

You're overwhelmed trying to imagine your bedroom, so try instead to imagine the feeling of your bed in the morning when you don't want to get up. It's difficult to build an entire soundscape in your head so just imagine the grating sound of your alarm dragging you from sleep.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

2. Smell + touch > sight

While vision is the sense we rely upon for day to day life, and is therefore the focus of most visualization, we have four more that are often over looked.

The easiest way to immerse yourself is smell.

When it comes to memory and emotion one of our most powerful senses is smell. Sometimes you're moving through your life and you catch a whiff of something unidentifiable that drags you, head first, into nostalgia.

You may not be able to figure out the exact lay out of your environment but you probably know how it smells.

I find that when you start with smell all the other senses enter the visualization more naturally. When u think of the smell of the Hogwarts library the images of floating books and worn pages enter my mind without me having to consciously summon them.

This could just be a me thing so don't bite me if it's not yours, but personally thinking of how something looks always feels flimsier than the other senses even if it is still important.

When I am trying to imagine laying on the lawn the image easily feels impersonal, but the smell of morning air, feeling of wet grass under my hand and sun on my face, feels so much more real.

But YK, that's just me.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

[leriexoxo]

A Hot Mess

Chan x Possesive Bestfriend! Reader

“If this is what it takes to finally have you… then I’m not letting you go.”

Tags: Smut (18+ only), unprotected sex, Angry sex, Emotional breakdowns, toxic possessiveness, Verbal fighting, physical altercations (pushing, grabbing, punching the wall), Angst, hurt/comfort, raw emotions, jealousy.

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: You were supposed to be best friends. It wasn’t supposed to get this ugly — this violent. It wasn’t supposed to break you. But one look at him — one look at the girl who hurt you standing by his side — and you lost it. Words were said. Things were broken. Lines were crossed. And when the dust finally settled, there was only anger, heartbreak, and two people who hated each other so much it burned. Or maybe… it was never hate at all.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

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

You spotted him before he spotted you.

Through the thumping bass and drunken laughter of the party, you caught the flash of his familiar profile — head tilted back in a laugh, hand lazily cupping a plastic cup, eyes crinkling in that way that used to be reserved for you.

And standing beside him… was her.

You froze, drink slipping between your fingers, ice-cold beer soaking through your jeans.

You didn’t even feel it.

All you could feel was the sudden, ugly heat creeping up your throat, strangling your breath.

Her hand brushed his arm, nails trailing casually down the sleeve of his jacket like she had every right to touch him. And Chan — your best friend, your supposed ride-or-die — didn’t move away.

He smiled.

He smiled at her.

The same girl you had cried over. The same girl who had betrayed you and left you gasping for air, choking on your own hurt.

And he knew.

He knew.

You stood there, chest heaving, the world blurring around the edges. You couldn’t hear the music anymore. Couldn’t hear the chatter, the laughter.

All you could hear was the pounding of your own heart in your ears, drowning everything else out.

He laughed again, leaning closer to say something in her ear.

You saw red.

You shoved your way through the crowd without thinking, barely registering the annoyed grunts and curses as people stumbled out of your path. You didn’t care.

You didn’t care about anything except getting him the fuck away from her.

“Chan.”

Your voice was low, sharp — cutting through the noise like a blade.

He turned, and for a second, his face lit up — the way it always did when he saw you — and it made something inside you crack even deeper.

Because he looked happy.

Happy with her.

Then his smile faltered when he saw your face.

“Hey—” he started, but you were already grabbing his wrist.

“We need to talk. Now.”

You didn’t wait for a response. You didn’t care if she was still standing there, pretending not to gloat.

You dragged him through the crowd, yanking him into the nearest hallway and finding the first door you could slam open — an empty guest room, dark except for a sliver of light leaking through the window.

You shoved him inside and shut the door with a hard bang.

The tension snapped into the room like a live wire.

Chan stood there, shoulders stiff, eyes cautious.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snapped, chest heaving.

He ran a hand through his hair, already looking exhausted. “Can you just tell me what this is about?”

You laughed, sharp and ugly.

“As if you don’t know.”

He stared at you, jaw clenching.

“She’s nothing,” he said finally. “It wasn’t—”

“You think I’m stupid?” You stepped closer, voice rising. “You think I didn’t see the way you were looking at her? Laughing with her? Letting her touch you?”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“You knew what she did to me!” you screamed, voice cracking on the last word. “You knew, and you still—God, Chan, how fucking stupid are you?”

He flinched — barely, but you saw it. And it only fueled the wildfire already tearing through you.

“I’m not your fucking possession,” he snapped, voice cutting sharp. “You don’t get to tell me who I can and can’t talk to.”

You shoved him — hard, hands flat against his chest.

“You’re my best friend!” you cried. “You’re supposed to be on my side! You promised—”

“I’m not your fucking pet!” he exploded, grabbing your wrists to stop you from hitting him again. “You treat me like I’m some trophy you own—like you’re the only person allowed to breathe around me!”

You ripped your arms out of his grasp, stumbling back a step.

“Maybe if you acted like my friend for once, I wouldn’t have to!” you threw back, voice shaking. “Maybe if you didn’t run to the first fucking slut who batted her lashes at you, I wouldn’t have to remind you who’s always been here!”

His eyes went wide — not in shock, but in fury. His whole body tensed, fists clenching at his sides.

“Careful,” he said lowly, voice trembling with restraint. “You’re crossing a line you can’t uncross.”

You laughed bitterly, blinking through the hot, angry tears gathering at your lashes.

“Fuck you,” you hissed.

Without thinking, you grabbed a decorative vase off the nightstand and hurled it across the room. It exploded against the wall, shards raining down onto the carpet.

“FUCK!” Chan roared, spinning and slamming his fist into the drywall — a sickening crack splitting the room as the wall dented under his knuckles.

You didn’t flinch.

You welcomed it.

You wanted it.

You wanted to see him break the way he was breaking you.

“Come on,” you sneered, shoving him again, harder this time. “Hit me too, if you’re so fucking mad!”

He grabbed your wrists again — tighter this time, bruising — and backed you up until your spine hit the wall.

His chest heaved against yours, breath hot and furious between you.

“Stop it,” he growled. “Before you make me do something we’ll both regret.”

You stared up at him, wild and reckless, breathing hard.

You didn’t stop.

You couldn’t stop.

You struggled in his grip, nails digging into his skin, kicking at his shins — and you saw it happen.

Saw the exact second something snapped inside him.

His mouth crushed against yours, bruising and violent, teeth clashing against teeth.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a fucking battle.

You fought him back just as hard — shoving at his chest, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, trying to push him away even as your body betrayed you and pressed closer.

When he finally tore his mouth from yours, panting, his eyes were dark with rage — and something else, something dangerous.

You barely had time to register it before you were shoving him again, both of you stumbling away from the wall.

“I fucking hate you,” you spat, voice shaking with fury.

“Good,” Chan snarled, chest heaving. “The feeling’s mutual.”

You swung at him — open-palmed, catching his shoulder — not really trying to hurt him, just needing to strike something.

He caught your wrist mid-air, twisting it just enough to make you gasp.

“You always do this!” he growled, voice rough with restraint. “You fucking push and push until I’m ready to snap.”

You ripped your arm free, staggering back a step.

“Because you deserve it!” you screamed. “Because you pretend you care, but the second someone else gives you attention, you forget about me!”

He laughed — a short, cruel sound that didn’t suit him.

“You’re fucking delusional.”

Your hand found the nearest thing — a picture frame — and without thinking, you hurled it at the floor.

Glass shattered, shards skittering across the carpet like tiny knives.

Chan flinched but didn’t move toward you.

Not yet.

“You think you own me?” he said, voice dangerously low. “You think just because you’re my best friend, I’m not allowed to have a fucking life without you breathing down my neck?”

“You promised,” you hissed, tears burning your eyes. “You fucking promised you’d always be on my side.”

“I never promised to be your fucking puppet!” he roared, stepping toward you now, looming, furious.

“You’re so fucking selfish. You don’t want me happy. You just want me miserable with you.”

You slapped him across the face.

The crack of it echoed in the room.

Both of you froze, breathing hard.

His head turned slowly back toward you, jaw tightening until you thought it might snap clean off.

“Don’t,” he said, voice a deadly whisper. “Don’t push me.”

You shoved him again anyway — fists pounding weakly against his chest.

“I hate you!” you screamed, voice raw. “I hate you for making me love you!”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Hung there between you, thick and poisonous.

Chan stared at you like you’d just ripped open your own chest and bled out at his feet.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Neither of you breathed.

Then he snapped.

He grabbed you by the waist, yanked you up against him so hard your teeth clacked together.

His mouth was on yours again, biting, punishing — but not out of lust.

Out of desperation.

You hit him again — fists pounding uselessly against his shoulders — and he just grunted, shoving you backward until you hit the bed frame, falling back onto the mattress with a gasp.

He followed, caging you beneath him, hands gripping your wrists so tight it burned.

“I hate you,” he growled against your lips, biting the words into your mouth.

“I hate you for never fucking trusting me.”

“I hate you for thinking you own me.”

“I hate you for making me feel like this.”

Each word was a thrust of his hips against yours, even though you were both still mostly clothed, bodies grinding in frantic, angry friction.

You struggled under him, kicking, writhing — but not to get away.

Never to get away.

You wanted him closer.

You wanted to tear him apart.

“I wish I’d never fucking met you,” you gasped, tears spilling over now, hot and furious.

“Liar,” he snarled, mouth dragging down your jaw, your throat, sucking hard enough to leave marks you’d feel for days. “You fucking liar.”

You whimpered, trying to buck him off, trying to flip the balance of power — but he just pinned you harder, grinding his cock against the desperate heat between your legs, making you arch up into him.

The friction was unbearable — jeans rough against jeans, too much and not enough all at once.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice breaking. “Say you hate me.”

“I fucking hate you,” you sobbed, nails clawing down his back, leaving burning trails through his thin shirt.

He groaned, low and guttural, and for a second you thought he was going to hit the wall again — or maybe just leave —but instead, he buried his face in the crook of your neck and bit down.

Hard.

You cried out, clutching him closer without meaning to, thighs locking around his hips.

“Fucking need you,” he muttered against your skin.

The words broke something loose inside you — something dark and desperate.

You grabbed his shirt, fisting the fabric, yanking him up to your mouth again.

The kiss was messy, wet, lips bruising.

Neither of you could catch your breath.

Neither of you wanted to.

When his hand finally found its way under your shirt, rough fingers dragging up your bare ribs, you didn’t stop him.

You invited it, arching into his touch like you were starving for it.

He pulled back for a second — just a second — forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.

“This is a mistake,” he whispered, voice shredded.

You smiled through your tears — sharp and mean and broken.

“Then make it worth it.”

And Chan finally, finally gave in.

His hands were shaking when he pulled your shirt off, tearing it over your head like he couldn’t stand another second of anything between you.

You weren’t any better.

You clawed at his hoodie, yanking it up, your nails scraping over his ribs, his stomach.

He ripped it over his head, tossed it somewhere into the room without looking.

You barely had time to register the sight of him — flushed, breathing ragged, muscles twitching with pent-up violence — before he was on you again, mouth bruising yours, teeth dragging your bottom lip so hard you whimpered.

Clothes vanished — torn, yanked, shoved down legs in frantic, clumsy movements.

Neither of you were gentle.

Neither of you asked permission.

You were a tangle of limbs, cursing, gasping, biting.

Needing.

When he finally yanked your panties down and flung them somewhere, he didn’t even pause to look at you — he just shoved his jeans down just far enough to free himself, cock flushed dark and angry against his stomach.

No words. No condoms. No hesitation.

You didn’t want careful.

You didn’t want protected.

You wanted this — raw, reckless, filthy.

Chan grabbed your thighs, spread you wide open, dragged you to the edge of the bed with a bruising grip.

You hissed when the cool air hit you, instinctively trying to close your legs — but he growled, low in his throat, and forced them wider, positioning himself between them.

“Fucking mine,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, one hand wrapping tight around his cock as he stroked himself once, twice.

You reached down without thinking, guiding him to your entrance, the head of him dragging hot and heavy against your soaked folds.

He paused — for just a second — trembling.

Last chance.

Last warning.

You lifted your chin, eyes burning into his.

“I hate you,” you whispered again.

That was it.

With a broken, guttural noise, he thrust into you — deep, brutal, to the hilt — stealing the air from your lungs.

Your back arched off the bed, a strangled cry ripping from your throat.

It hurt — the stretch, the force of it — but it hurt so good, exactly what you wanted, what you needed.

Chan didn’t move at first, just stayed there, buried to the base, forehead pressed hard against your collarbone, shoulders shaking.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “You’re so fucking tight.”

You dug your nails into his back, hips shifting, trying to pull him deeper even though there was nowhere left to go.

“Move,” you demanded, voice hoarse.

He did.

The first thrust was vicious — dragging almost all the way out before slamming back in, the sound of it obscene, wet and raw.

You gasped, grabbing fistfuls of the bedsheets, your body jolting with every punishing snap of his hips.

There was no rhythm at first — just frantic, furious thrusts, like he was trying to fuck the hate out of both of you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, locking him in, forcing him even deeper.

Chan growled, low and animalistic, grabbing your throat — not choking, just holding, grounding himself — as he fucked into you with brutal, relentless force.

“You wanted this?” he hissed against your ear. “You fucking wanted this?”

You couldn’t answer — could barely breathe — but you nodded frantically, sobs and moans ripping from your chest in equal measure.

“Fucking piss me off,” he muttered again, hips pistoning into you so hard the bedframe slammed against the wall with every thrust. “Sometimes, I hate you so fucking much.”

You clawed at his back, desperate, delirious, body burning from the inside out.

“Chan — fuck — Chan —”

He lifted your hips higher, changing the angle, and you screamed when he hit the perfect spot, stars exploding behind your eyelids.

“Right there,” you sobbed. “Please — don’t stop — don’t fucking stop—”

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He was a man possessed, lost, unraveling with every thrust, every broken gasp that fell from your lips.

You felt yourself spiraling, pleasure building sharp and fast, coiling tighter with every brutal snap of his hips.

“Gonna come,” you gasped, clawing at his shoulders. “Fuck, I’m gonna —”

Chan slammed into you harder, faster, his own rhythm stuttering.

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice wrecked. “Come on, baby — fucking come.”

And you did.

You shattered — sobbing, clinging to him like you were drowning — your body convulsing around him in waves of white-hot pleasure.

Chan cursed, low and filthy, and a second later you felt him spill inside you, thick and hot, cock pulsing deep as he rutted into you through his orgasm.

Neither of you moved for a long, long moment.

Just tangled together, breathing hard, shaking.

When he finally collapsed beside you, dragging you half onto his chest, his hands were still trembling.

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

There was nothing left to say.

Only the wreckage between you, raw and undeniable.

—

The silence was deafening.

The only sound was your breathing — wrecked, uneven — and the frantic pounding of your heart against your ribs.

You lay there for a moment, tangled in the sheets, Chan’s arm heavy around your waist, his skin slick with sweat.

And then you opened your eyes.

And saw.

The shattered frame on the carpet.

The broken lamp.

The deep cracks in the wall where his fist had slammed through.

The wreckage of your clothes scattered like battlefield debris.

You looked down at yourself — bruised, bitten, shaking — and the reality of what you’d just done slammed into you like a freight train.

You gasped — a high, broken noise — and covered your mouth with both hands as the first sob tore out of you.

Chan jerked up instantly, heart hammering against your back.

“Hey—hey, no—shh—baby—”

His voice cracked with panic, arms tightening around you as if he could physically hold you together.

But you couldn’t stop.

The sobs wracked your body, wild and uncontrollable, years of fear and fury and guilt all pouring out at once.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, curling into yourself, trying to shrink away from him, from everything.

“I’m so sorry, Chan, I didn’t— I didn’t mean—”

He caught your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him even as you tried to pull away.

His expression was a mess — pain, regret, confusion, and something far worse: helplessness.

“Hey. No. Don’t—” He shook his head, frantic. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this.”

You hiccupped, trembling in his grip.

“I broke everything,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“I hurt you— I ruined—” Another sob. “I hate myself—”

“Stop,” he said sharply, voice low and fierce.

Then softer, thumb brushing your wet cheeks, trembling.

“Please. Stop.”

You clung to him then, fisting his ruined shirt in your hands, burying your face in his chest as the tears soaked into his skin.

“I was just—” you gasped between sobs, “I was scared, Chan, I was so scared— I thought I lost you— I thought—”

He pulled you tighter into his arms, rocking you gently even as his own body shook.

“You didn’t lose me,” he murmured against your hair.

“Baby, you could never fucking lose me.”

You sobbed harder, the sound raw and ugly in the shattered quiet.

He kissed the crown of your head, again and again, desperate and apologetic, murmuring nonsense — shh, baby, it’s okay, I’ve got you, I’m here, I’m not leaving — over and over until your breathing finally started to slow.

When you pulled back, your face was a wreck — tear-stained, puffy — and Chan cupped your cheeks tenderly, thumbs wiping away the mess without a trace of judgment.

His own eyes were wet too.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For everything. For yelling. For breaking things. For fucking you like that when we were both so fucked up.”

You shook your head weakly, hands still fisting his shirt like you were scared he’d disappear.

“I wanted it,” you whispered. “I needed you. I just— I didn’t know how else to—”

He kissed you — slow and soft this time, no teeth, no rage — just lips pressing against yours like a promise.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice barely a breath.

“Why were you really so upset?”

You shuddered out a breath, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks.

“I thought you didn’t care anymore,” you whispered. “I thought you were choosing her over me after what she did to me. That I didn’t matter to you, it’s stupid I know.”

Chan closed his eyes, breathing out a long, shuddering sigh, his hands cradling your face like you were something fragile and precious.

“You matter to me more than anyone,” he said fiercely. “Always have. Always fucking will.”

You clutched him tighter, heart breaking all over again.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you whispered.

“Not the first time.”

He let out a soft, broken laugh, half pain, half affection.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me neither.”

He kissed you again — slow, aching — and when he pulled back, he brushed his thumb tenderly across your swollen bottom lip.

“But fuck, baby,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

“If this is what it takes to finally have you… then I’m not letting you go.”

You broke into fresh tears, but this time it wasn’t from pain.

It was from something terrifying and beautiful and blindingly real.

Hope.

He held you tighter, pressing you against his chest, and you knew — no matter how messy, no matter how broken — he was always gonna be yours.

And you were his.

Finally.

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

Authors note: So i did the angry sex headcanon yesterday and my friend was going crazy about it 😂 and that my loves is what gave birth to this craziness!

Thanks a lot for following me and always engaging on my fics, i always appreciate you guys, so please leave me a like or comment and reblog if you enjoyed this!

[powderpinkprincess]

Team [Lando Norris x reader]

 description: Your neighbour in Monaco calls Lando that someone had broken into your apartment. You won’t let him handle it alone.

Your plane barely landed when Lando got the call. Someone had broken into your home in Monaco. He answered hesitantly, frowning like he already knew it wasn’t going to be good news. You watched him from your seat, the way his hand tightened around his phone, how his whole body went still.

You didn’t need to hear the other end of the conversation. You could see it written all over him. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

 “Lando?” you asked quietly after he hung up.

He slid the phone into the pocket of his jeans, looking at you like he wasn’t sure how to say it out loud. He cleared his throat. “Someone broke in. The front door was forced. The neighbour noticed and called the police.”

For a moment, you just stared at him in silence. Then you spoke. “What…? Okay, well… The police are there, then. It’s getting handled.”

Lando didn’t respond. He just stared out the small airplane window like he could will himself back home, and you knew what he was thinking. It wasn’t about the stolen things. It wasn’t about money.

It was about someone knowing where you lived. Someone knowing you weren’t home. Someone stepping into your space, your life. It was about knowing someone was inside your home, touching your things, knowing exactly where you sleep.

Your skin crawled.

It was Monaco. It was supposed to be safe.

The plane had already landed, so you had to move somewhere. You and Lando grabbed your bags and got off, walking into the clean, cold light of the airport building.

You were upset, but he looked straight up fallen apart. He was fidgeting with the string of his hoodie, staring into the distance, spacing out. Of course, because his whole life was broadcast all the time. His home was the only place that was fully, totally private. And now somebody invaded it.

 “Hey,” you said softly, reaching out for his hand. “Come here.”

He let you hug him, wrapping his hands around your waist. For a moment, you just held each other tightly, not saying a word.

 “I hate this,” he whispered into your shoulder after a long period of silence.

 “I know,” you replied, tightening your hold around him.

 “Someone went through our stuff,” he continued. “Went through our bedroom.”

You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting. You hated it, too.

 “You don’t have to think about it right now,” you said quietly. “You came here to race. Try to focus on that, I’ll handle the rest.”

He laughed, bitter and humourless as he pulled away from your hug. “Yeah. Great. I’ll just forget about it.”

 “You don’t have to forget about it,” you corrected him immediately. “I’m just saying that your job now is to concentrate on the race weekend and perform well. I will handle the apartment while we are here. Right now, there is nothing much we can do from afar anyway.”

He frowned again, running his fingers through his curls. He let out a long sigh. “Y/N, on paper, it’s my place. It’s my responsibility.”

His gaze wandered away from you to the huge windows, aimlessly staring at the airplanes outside. You could see the frustration building in him. You stepped forward, pulling his focus back to you.

 “Yes, legally you own it, but it’s our place. You always say that.” This time, there was no hesitation in your voice. “We share it. We’re a team. It’s not just your responsibility.”

His jaw clenched, and he dug his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “But I’m the one who…”

 “Lando,” you cut in. “We both live there. Do you really expect me to just sit and watch you manage a race weekend and the break-in simultaneously? You see how that sounds? Cause that’s just craziness.”

He looked at you, eyes searching, not sure if he could trust himself to let go of the weight.

 "I get it," you added. "You feel like it’s on you. But it’s not just you. We’ll deal with this together.”

There was a long pause, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. He didn’t speak right away, but you could see it in his eyes that the storm was quieting, just a little. The tension in his shoulders was easing ever so slightly.

 “Okay,” he said finally, the word reluctant, but there. "Okay. We can handle it together. You’re right. I’m just… I don’t know what to do anymore.”

You nodded. You felt it, too. Back in Monaco, everything was supposed to be solid, but right now it was all slipping through your fingertips. The loss of privacy and safety was maddening.

 “I don’t know either,” you replied quietly, your voice honest. “But we’ll figure it out somehow.”

His mouth twitched into something that almost resembled a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, alright.”

 “Let’s go back to the hotel, and there we’ll call the police station. How about that?” you offered. “We can even call Max. You know he is right by your side in everything. Maybe he has an idea of what to do as well.”

Lando nodded again. He pulled you closer by your waist and kissed your cheek. Even if it didn’t feel like it right now, everything was going to be alright.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Even When It Hurts to Hope

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Chronically ill!Reader

Summary: After yet another devastating medical appointment leaves you drained and spiraling, Bucky is there and shows you that you don’t have to face this alone.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: chronic illness themes; emotional distress; crying; medical gaslighting; ableism (via doctors); implications of long-term suffering and fatigue; comfort

Author’s Note: This request is from a lovely anon!! I really hope this brings you some softness and healing, and that it feels like a hug on the days you need it most. I did mention chronic illness themes to make it more personal for you, but I do not wish to trigger you in any kind. Hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The hallway buzzes like a hive of fluorescent bees. White walls. White noise. White lies folded in lab coats.

Your limbs don’t belong to you. Your feet are distant. You feel like you’re swimming through honey, like someone filled your bones with cement and told you to smile through it.

You can feel your soul fraying like the sleeves of your oldest shirt, the one you wore in High school when you thought maybe one day it would get better. It’s not getting better.

The doctor’s voice still echoes in your head like a bullet ricocheting against bone.

“Try harder.”

Ten years. Then years and that’s all she had to say. As if you’ve been twiddling your thumbs. As if survival had been optional. As if your pain didn’t cost you friendships, years, entire versions of yourself you’ll never meet again.

You step out of the examination room with your fists clenched and your teeth grinding against the scream you won’t let out. Your body feels too loud. Your heart is a fault line. You want to disappear.

“Hey.”

His voice is quiet. But it splits the storm inside you like light through a crack in the door.

You look up.

Bucky is on his feet already, as if he’s been counting down the seconds for you. As if he could feel you falling apart behind that door.

And when he sees your face - your red-rimmed eyes, the tremble in your jaw, the shattered dignity - you don’t have to say anything. He knows.

You can see it in his eyes. They’re made of storm clouds too full for this world. There’s this kind of anger that’s boiling and dangerous, the kind that burns slow and insistent, like molten steel behind ice.

He looks like he wants to wrap you in his arms right here, but you feel the tears in a perfect line across your waterline, each one holding hands, begging to let go. You press your fingers into your own palms as if pain might keep you grounded.

Bucky steps closer, doesn’t touch you yet. He waits. Always waits for you to come to him.

But you don’t. Not yet. Because you know you would crumble right here on the empty and cold floor.

So he says, “Let’s get out of here,” with a voice so soft, with a voice so understanding.

You don’t say a word. You just walk.

And he follows.

You walk in silence through the parking lot.

The world is pressing in. The sun is too bright. The air is too sharp. You think you might shatter if someone looks at you wrong.

He opens the car door for you without a word.

You sit. You try to breathe. You stare at the dashboard, eyes unfocused.

Bucky slides in beside you, starts the engine, but doesn’t drive.

You don’t look at him. You look out the window and hate that your eyes sting.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. You don’t know why. Maybe because you feel pathetic. Maybe because you let someone break you again. Maybe because you dragged him into it.

Bucky turns the engine off.

“I’m not,” he says, almost lowly, but gentle. “And you shouldn’t be either, sweetheart. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

You glance at him. He’s staring at the steering wheel like it’s the doctor’s face. And he wasn’t even there to hear what she said.

The car is too small for this moment. Your chest is too full of feelings you don’t want to let out just yet. So you just reach for him, and he doesn’t wait. He leans across the center console and pulls you into his arms. You melt into him as if you were meant to be there, as if he’s the cure to all the things the world can’t fix.

“Take me home?” you ask, voice barely audible.

“Yours or mine?” he murmurs into your hair.

“Yours, please?” you breathe out. Because you only ever feel at home when surrounded by him.

He presses a kiss the the crown of your head and starts driving.

You don’t remember much of the drive. All you remember is that Bucky took your hand in his and traced circles over your skin with his thumb.

You remember the way he walked you into his apartment as if you were glass and he was gravity.

Now you’re curled up on the couch, legs drawn in, a blanket over your shoulders. Bucky gently brings you a cup of tea, made exactly how you like it. He always remembers the smallest things.

He hasn’t stopped watching you. Not in a creepy way. In a tethering way. As though he only has to take his eyes off you and you’ll slip between the cracks in the floor.

“I- I thought this time might be different,” you say, voice shaky, voice weak. “I thought maybe - finally - we had something. An answer. A direction. And she didn’t even listen. Didn’t even check the labs or ask me any questions. She just looked at me like I was wasting her time. She told me to try harder. What the hell does that even mean, Bucky?”

There is silence. A rupture.

“She said what?”

You flinch. Not at him. Not because of him. Because of the heat in his voice. The anger he tries to bite down for your sake. But his fists are clenched. His jaw is locked shut. You feel the way he wants to break something. Burn something. Destroy a world that keeps failing you.

You shake your head. “It’s the same story again. Every time. Every year. A new face. A new god playing doctor. And they all say the same thing. Like they’ve only read the same textbook written in 1985.”

You blink. The tears spill anyway. Hot.

And Bucky doesn’t waste any time. He kneels in front of you. Not as if you’re broken. Not as if you’re a child. But as if trying to anchor you to earth.

“I’ve been trying, Bucky,” you whisper wetly. “I’ve been trying so hard for so long.”

You’re crying now. Ugly, breathless crying. The kind that doesn’t make a sound but leaves your whole body shaking.

He takes your hands and brings them to his chest, shifting closer and caging you in.

“I know,” he croaks, voice trembling, but he’s trying to be strong for you. “I know, doll. You don’t have to prove anything to me. You’ve already been doing the impossible.”

You close your eyes and let the tears fall, let Bucky’s shirt catch them. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t try to fix it. He just holds onto you as if you’re sacred.

“I’m so tired,” you cry breathlessly into his chest.

He exhales as if he’s been holding that breath for hours. It comes as a shudder. “You don’t have to be strong with me, baby. I'm here for you, alright? Always here. Not gonna leave you. Not gonna let you go through this alone.”

You pull back slightly, just to meet his eyes.

And there’s something there. Something that’s been building quietly between you for months. A kind of love that doesn’t need to be said out loud to be felt. A kind of love that exists in every small action - every drive, every cup of tea, every waiting room seat he’s ever taken beside you.

But this time he says it anyway.

“I love you.”

He says it while wiping your tears. He says it while brushing your hair back. He says it while kissing your forehead, your temples, your nose, your cheekbones, your chin.

His eyes are glossy, red just like yours and he is staring at you so intently, you stop breathing, stop thinking, stop moving.

“And I see you,” he continues, voice so quiet, but you feel the breath, the truth of every word brush your skin. “Every win. Every loss. Every time you get out of bed when you’re not sure how. Every time when you keep breathing even when it hurts to exist. I see you. I love you.” His voice catches. Falters. Tumbles. But he fights to keep going. “I don’t need a doctor to confirm that you’re fighting something real. I’ve been here. I’ve seen what this has taken from you. What it’s still taking. And I swear-” He looks at you, full and raw and wild. “I swear, I’ll never let them make you feel like this again.”

You forget how to breathe. Forget how to exist in a body that’s suddenly too small for what he just gave you.

He kisses your forehead again, gradually, carefully, so slowly. “You don’t gotta say it back, sweetheart. You don’t gotta say anything right now. Just feel me, yeah? I’m right here.”

You think you’ve been numb for years. You think this is what it feels like when love becomes shelter. When it becomes a soft place to land after a decade of falling.

You let your body sink into him, muscles finally remembering what it means to rest. Your hands fist his shirt. Your head presses against his chest and you can feel his heartbeat. It’s always there.

You’ve been seen before. But never like this. Never with reverence. Never without conditions. Never by someone who watched the worst parts of you unfold and stayed. Held them. Named them beautiful just for surviving.

You want to say thank you. You want to say I love you back. You want to say a thousand things but none of them fit in your mouth. None of them could come close to what he’s done with just a few words and arms wide enough to carry all of you - even the shattered pieces.

So you hold him tighter. You press your face into his chest and you weep. For every year you spent trying. For every dismissal. For every night you wondered if you were imagining your pain, if maybe the world was right and you were just weak. Lazy. Failing.

But you’re none of that. You never were.

Because Bucky said so.

And Bucky Barnes is a man of his word.

[wildestdreamsblog]

Latibule Spinoff: Saudade 1.1

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Wife!Reader

Summary: A marriage of convenience, you would say. A marriage of love, he would say. You thought you would marry an old and rich man. It turned out you would be marrying the Jeon Jungkook who turned out to be the kindest and sweetest man you had ever known, one who showered you with love and anything your heart desired. You lived in a fairytale, well- until you saw him unalived a man. And of course, you did the normal thing and ran.

A/N: The meet up of JK and his wife…and the arranged marriage (that was arranged?) ♡ ̆̈

Masterlist, Prologue

Sneakpeak

No, you weren’t done. You nodded to yourself, you could do this. You had to.

You took a deep breath, and kicked off your heels.

You scrambled onto the counter, steadying yourself on shaky hands. The marble was cold and unforgiving against your palms. You didn’t think. You didn’t look back. You threw your heels out of the window and heard it clattered down somewhere.

Feet first, you wedged yourself into the narrow window frame. It was tighter than you thought—your hips scraped against the edges—but you forced yourself through, awkward and desperate.

A gust of fresh air hit your face, sweet and bracing. Freedom was just a few feet away.

You dangled for a breathless second, heart hammering so loud you could barely hear the guard shouting from inside.

Then—you let go.

You were anticipating the pain, you knew it would come.

But instead of the excuriating pain and instead of the sound of your bones probably breaking, what you heard instead was a soft oompf and before you knew it, you landed softly.

Muscular arms caught you mid-fall, wrapping around your waist with a solid, instinctive strength. The impact forced a grunt out of both of you, but somehow—somehow—he absorbed most of it. Your heart was hammering in your ears, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts, when you heard a low, slightly amused voice rumble near your ear.

You peeled your eyes open, blinking down at the man beneath you—broad-shouldered, solid as a wall, with a face that would have been almost peaceful if not for the tiny crease between his brows. His eyes were still closed, as if he were savoring a moment of quiet, utterly unfazed by the chaos you had just quite literally dropped onto him.

“I don’t know what hurts more—your shoes falling on my head, heels first, or you falling on me from the second floor.”

Read more in Kofi

[sirxaibs]

BLACK BUTLER IDEA!!!

I still will probably write this but I want to know if there is a demand at all for black butler content. Please like and reply if you’re up for a new fic!!!! here is a sample of what I was thinking

݁ᛪ༙The clock ticked steadily in the dim sitting room. Moonlight spilled through the large windows, catching the sharp gleam of Y/n’s eyes as she stood by the fireplace, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Sebastian entered soundlessly, like a shadow come to life. He bowed with his usual mockery of politeness.

“You wished to speak with me, Lady Y/n?”

Y/n said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch and coil between them.

She studied him the impeccable suit, the flawless manners, the thin smile that never reached his eyes. Everything about him felt wrong.

Finally, she spoke, voice low and edged with steel.

“I know what you are,” she said. “Maybe not the name for it, but I know you are not human.”

Sebastian’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew.

“How very observant,” he mused, clasping his hands neatly behind his back. “And what, may I ask, do you intend to do with this knowledge?”

Y/n stepped closer, her boots whispering against the rug. She tilted her head slightly, the fire casting half her face in shadow.

“Nothing,” she said. “Because Ciel trusts you. For now.”

Her eyes hardened.

“But know this, Sebastian Michaelis: if you harm him if you let him slip further into whatever darkness is trying to swallow him I will tear you apart myself. Piece by piece.”

Sebastian chuckled, the sound low and amused, like a cat toying with a mouse.

“You are quite ferocious for someone so…fragile.”

Y/n didn’t flinch. She stepped even closer, close enough to smell the unnatural, cold clean scent of him.

“You think I’m fragile?” she whispered. “Try me. You’ll find out exactly how far a sister will go for her brother.”

For the first time, something flickered in Sebastian’s gaze interest, perhaps. Amusement tinged with a thread of caution.

“Noted,” he said smoothly, bowing his head slightly. “I shall continue to serve the Young Master with the utmost…care.”

Y/n stared him down a moment longer before turning away, her heart pounding.

“See that you do,” she said coldly. “Because if you don’t hell won’t be the only place you’ll answer to.”

As she left the room, Sebastian stood still, a gloved hand resting lightly on his chest where, for a brief, strange moment, he thought he might have felt something almost human: respect.

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙ The hem of your dress swirled around your ankles as you hurried through the entrance hall, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and new paint.

The rebuilt Phantomhive Manor loomed above you, so pristine it almost mocked the memory of ashes and ruin still seared into your heart.

You clutched the sides of your gown an elegant deep navy silk dress with delicate lace sleeves, a gift from Aunt Angelina. But you hardly noticed its weight now.

All you could hear was the hammering of your heart.

Ciel.

Your little brother your baby was alive.

You had been staying with Aunt Angelina ever since the fire, trapped in a haze of grief and guilt, believing there was nothing left. When the letter arrived, hastily penned with shaking hands by your aunt herself, you thought it a cruel dream. But now standing here the heavy doors of the manor open, the world spinning in your ears he was truly here.

A butler you didn’t recognize bowed you inside. His voice was smooth.

“Welcome home, Lady Y/n. The Young Master is awaiting you in the drawing room.”

You barely heard him. Your body moved of its own accord, feet flying across the marble, ignoring decorum, ignoring appearances. You needed to see him.The door to the drawing room creaked as you pushed it open.

And there he was. Ciel stood by the window, framed in silver light. He was wearing a black velvet suit, a rich blue eye staring outward only one eye. The other hidden behind a black eyepatch.

His posture was perfect, his chin tilted up in practiced nobility.

But he was still so small.

Still just a boy.

Your throat closed. A sob broke free before you could contain it. He turned at the sound and his eye widened, just barely.

“Y/n,” he said, voice smooth and measured, as if tasting the word for the first time in years.

Your vision blurred with tears.

Before you knew it, your knees buckled beneath you. You fell. Not out of weakness out of relief. You crashed to the carpeted floor, arms flinging around him, dragging his tiny, stiff body against yours. You pressed your forehead to his stomach, clutching him as if he might vanish again if you let go.

“My Ciel,” you gasped out, voice cracking. “My sweet boy, my precious ”

For a long, breathless moment, he said nothing. You felt the way he tensed, the way he hesitated awkward, uncertain, like a child who no longer knew how to receive love. Then slowly one small, gloved hand touched your head. Not like he used to not with the easy affection of the boy you remembered.

It was a stiff, careful gesture.

“…You’re wrinkling your dress,” he muttered, trying for irritation but failing miserably. His voice shook ever so slightly.

You let out a watery laugh, pulling back just enough to look up at him. He was trying so hard to be composed. To be grown. But you could see it the glimmer of your little brother beneath the armor. The scared, exhausted boy who had come home. You reached up, cupping his cheek gently with your gloved hand.

“You’re home,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re home, and I will never, ever leave you again.”

His eye softened so quick, you might have missed it if you hadn’t known him so well.

“You’re being dramatic,” he said, brushing a hand down his jacket, pretending indifference.

You smiled through your tears, standing finally and straightening your dress. You took a deep, trembling breath, smoothing his hair back with motherly care.

“You’ll have to get used to it,” you said, voice steadying. “Because I plan to be dramatic for the rest of your life, Ciel Phantomhive.”

The corners of his mouth twitched just slightly. A ghost of a smile. And you felt it you knew that somewhere deep inside, he was still your brother. you would love him with every fiber of your soul, no matter how cold he tried to be.

You linked your arm through his before he could protest, guiding him further into the room like you used to when he was a shy toddler hiding behind your skirts.

“Now,” you said brightly, “you’re going to sit with me and tell me everything.”

He sighed, a sound of long suffering patience far too old for his little body.

“…I suppose I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” he said.

You smiled, squeezing his arm gently.

“Not when it comes to me, dear heart. Never.”

You hadn’t felt this complete in so long.

But then a presence. You felt it like a prickle at the back of your neck, a gentle tug in the air, a ripple where everything should have been still. Your eyes drifted, pulled by instinct toward the doorway.

There he stood. The butler. Tall, impossibly composed, crimson eyes gleaming like molten garnets in the low light. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

The sight of him sent a strange chill along your spine not fear exactly, but something close to wrongness.

And something else, too something painfully familiar. For just a moment, your heart squeezed. He looks like Father.

Not exactly your father’s features had been warmer, his smiles real. there was something in the way this man carried himself, the precise way he tilted his head, the quiet strength wrapped in civility.

You tore your gaze away and turned to Ciel, lowering your voice.

“Who is that?” you asked, smoothing your skirts with trembling hands to hide your nerves.

Ciel followed your gaze casually, as if he hadn’t noticed the butler lingering nearby until now.

“Sebastian Michaelis,” Ciel said. His tone was clipped but neutral. “My butler. He’s been serving me since… I returned.”

You nodded slowly, lips pressing together.

You wanted to ask more but Ciel’s body language warned you off.

The stiff shoulders, the slight narrowing of his eye. He trusted this man. you had just gotten your brother back. You would not push. Not yet. You turned back toward the butler, offering a polite, practiced smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Thank you,” you said softly, inclining your head just slightly, as a lady should. “For taking care of my brother.”

Sebastian’s crimson gaze flickered briefly curiosity, perhaps but his bow was perfect.

“It is my duty and my pleasure, Lady Y/n,” he said smoothly.

[yan-lorkai]

Request: I was rereading your Platonic yan Lillia as Father figure and I had an idea. Feel free to ignore if you think its too redundant. How do you think the Main story would playout differently with Plat Yan Lillia being in the story? basically, he just decides to adopt you like in your initial HC, and how that might alter the main story.

also as some optional caveats/ questions to add the scenario, if your interested.

Since book 7 isn't done yet (as of this writing, at least) you can feel free to ignore it if you wish. Or at least, Lillia is still at full power and completely fine. (trying to avoid b7 spoilers if you haven't read it yet, but if your their, you'll know what I mean).

With Plat Yan Lillia being who he is, do you think he would pass those traits on to the other Diasomnia boys?

Alot of Malleus HC's (yan or otherwise) involve him using his magic to turn reader/MC into a fey or finding a way to prolong their life, so they won't lose them. Do you think Lillia would do similar for silver or Reader, if he could? He's probably more knowledgeable on magic than Malleus would be to begin with.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ a/n: ngl when I first received this request, I was so excited to write it but had way too many ideas so I kept going back and forth about how to write it, in fact. And well, one thing led to another and a long time had passed, diasomnia chapter even ended recently lmao. Regardless, anon, I hope you're still lurking here and like this. Sorry for such tardiness in answering this request, though. This post is long btw >:D

Lilia Vanrouge is a simple fae, really. He sees a helpless, anxious kid, and he adopt them, no questions asked, no what ifs or buts. This is literally how you two met. He was floating around looking for Malleus when he noticed Crowley leading you, sweet, anxious you, through the corridors, speaking about this and that without particularly caring of what you were feeling, the way you were shaking and gasping for air, the way you were biting your lips and gnawing at your cuticles.

Normally he would go away, as he have nothing to do with it, but his fae instincts kicked in and he stayed there, watching, curious.

Maybe it was your pitiful, sad appearance, your fear so alluring and funny to him. Maybe it was the little tears trickling down your face as you heard that there was no known way to go back to your world - you were from another world, how interesting, he had never met someone from another world.

Yet, he chose to act.

So softly and gently as when he used to soothe Silver after a nightmare, approaching you casually, voice smooth promising you that everything would be fine and that you could trust him, that you could lean on him. It was alright to cry, be anxious and fearful, and it was alright because the situation was stressful.

And you did.

You trusted him enough to let him deal with Crowley, as you were too busy trying to calm your anxious heart down, trying to pay attention to your surroundings, to what they were talking. And this changed everything, first of all:

Your dorm.

"Is this one to your liking?" Lilia asks you, tilting his head to look up to you. In front of you, a simple but comfortable room was offered to you, a much better option than the inhospitable, dusty, broken dorm that Crowley was going to force put you and that strange raccoon.

There you would either shiver in the cold, surrounded by dust and cobwebs and nosy ghosts, or sweat in the excessive heat, without the option of a working air conditioner. Here, you had warm blankets and spells that would allow you to sleep perfectly regardless of the weather.

You wander inside it, opening the windows and the empty cabinets, still unsure that you deserved such kindness from a stranger like him. He had done so much in so little time. You turn to look at Lilia again. "Can I really stay here? I can't repay you, you know. I don't have magic, what if-"

He shushes you quickly, patting your head gently as he would with a crying child. It didn’t matter to him that you were magicless - he would dare say that add to the charm. You were just like a fawn surrounded by wolves. A sheep among dragons.

You were nothing.

Yet, there was something to you that made Lilia protective.

"You don't have magic, so what? Many humans don't. In fact, the mages are a small portion of humans that still have magic on their veins. This doesn't make you any different to me and you deserve a good room, and good people to support in these trying times." Lilia nodded to his own words, a little proud that you were slowly coming around as the reality seemed to be dawning on you.

There was a knot at your throat, a sting on your eyes. He seemed to know as his voice turned even more gentler.

"If the mirror had chosen you, stay and study, no need to repay me anything." He concluded before pulling you to your feet with his soft hands, smoothing down your wrinkled clothes. "Now come, let's get some food on that belly of yours, kiddo. I can't have you starving now, can I?"

As if to embarrassing you further, your stomach growls right at the moment and your whole face got hot while Lilia laughed. You made him feel much younger than he truly is; he missed that feeling.

He missed having someone he can protect and take care of, after all, his children are all grown up and strong, and don't need him that much anymore.

"Oh, that's right" you heard him saying. "I want to introduce you to Malleus, Silver and Sebek. Come, come."

Your academics.

"Hm... Lilia?" You call him, searching for him among the sea of other students. There's tons of books that you're holding in for dear life; some are introductory books on concepts of magic and others on magical symbols, in general, they are complementary books that you should read to understand the subject covered in the first year, even more because you don't have magic nor are you from this world.

Suddenly, tons of books are lifted from your hands with great ease. "Don't be stupid, human. Your fragile arms can't handle this weight."

It's Sebek. Then another pair of hands come to rest over your shoulders and you turn your neck to see who it is; Malleus, his expression much reminding you of a puppy by his pout.

"We have our own space to study, beastie, come." He tells you, all the while he is forcing you to walk as he guides you to their secret, shared place. Sebek is carrying most of your books as you ponder where they had come from.

Since day one, they seemed so fond of you, treating you with such care that almost made you cry late at night for how fortunate you are to have them in this world. It was way too early to say that but you loved having them around as they helped you with all your doubts and never forgot to include you in their plans, even if they were a little forceful while they fought a little for your attention.

It was cute, in a way.

Almost as if suddenly you had three brothers. And an eccentric father, as well.

Silver was sleeping over his book, oh so serenely, his hair spilling over his cheeks as he was biting his lips - probably due to some strange dream. You occupied the empty seat by Malleus side, finally releasing all that height that you had been fighting to hold.

"Lilia said he would help study these books. Do you know if he is nearby?" You asked him and Malleus sighed.

Hos eyes skim over those titles, almost as if they don't hold any value to him. Coming from a prince, perhaps all this knowlegment isn't pertinent.

You remember hearing Lilia's ramblings about how spoiled Malleus was when he was a child, how his tantrums were cute - yet dangerous -, how he liked to put bows on his tiny little horns. Lilia lived to ramble about his sons.

"Some of them are outdated, wrong or a waste of your time." Sebek separated the good books from the bad with a single wave of his hand. He was showing off just to see your eyes shining, as always happened when they used magic - yet he would never admit that.

And this time it wasn't different.

There was just a fascination that settled on your eyes as you stared starstruck at any and all display of magic.

"I can explain the core values of magic to you." Suddenly, Silver was awoken. His voice was hoarse and his eyes were almost closing again due to drowsiness, but he seemed to be fighting it just till he could hear your answer.

Touched yet again by their eagerness, you agreed.

"Very well, Silver will explain the basics, and then you had to read this book." Malleus pointed it to you.

You thanked them, hearing attentively Silver's explanation, writing down the things you understand and asking the things you can't seem to grasp the concept. Overall, your study session is amazing and goes really well.

Now, if only you looked up, you would see Lilia hanging on the ceiling like a bat. He is watching over you, over your progress, as he seems really proud of himself for having you make friends with his children.

He knew you would get along well with them. And he made sure to explain to them that they had to welcome you really well into the family, that you were a little skittish and fearful of this new world and that they couldn't tease too much. Lilia is glad they heard him.

They seemed to have taken a liking to you, just as he did. This is great because he is inserting himself even more on your life, and he will manipulate each and every opportunity just so your schedule lines up with your brothers or his.

Your friendships.

You are surrounded by them whether you realize it or not. Normally, Lilia wakes you up, soft voice and funny words as he rubbed your sides to make you laugh or get a reaction out of you. Even if you lock your windows or door, Lilia still finds a way into your room and you guess you don't really know how he is doing that.

If you try to dissuade him from doing it, Lilia acts all cutesy while babying you because, of course, you're grumpy and fuzzy. The day just started!

As morning goes on, you have breakfast with your little family, hearing Sevek praising Malleus and Silver's soft snores as Lilia laugh at his face. It's chaotic and fun, and you feel really good at being there.

Though, it does get a little overbearing after a while. Malleus likes to walk you to your classes, having memorized them the very first day he met you - but the students like to whisper about you.

About how strange you are from associating with someone like him. How it must be dangerous to associate with you, as Malleus has quite the reputation, despite being an absolute sweetheart.

It's quite isolating. Lonely.

There's tons of lively people you want to meet and be friends with, but they don't seem to reciprocate the feeling even more when they realize that that by associating themselves with you, Malleus and his guards would come as a package deal. Most can't deal with that thought alone and so, they ignore you.

And when you cry about it to your dad Lilia, he just sighs and collects you into a big, warm hug. He let's you vent about how futile your attempts to make friends are all the while instilling in you some very questionable thoughts about other people. Because surely they are in the wrong here, right? They are so judgmental, so prejudiced.... He makes you question yourself. After all, do you really want to make friends with people like these?

Perhaps it'd be better to stick around with them and Lilia.

Your life in general.

With no place to run, with no other people to accept you for who you really are, you pass your days studying with Malleus and training with Sebek - it's funny in a way, plus he is so fearful of harming you. Silver is the one responsible for walking you to your classes and taking you to eat lunch with them, if Malleus doesn't notice the passage of time.

He likes to hold you and float with you in his arms. Mostly, when you don't even realize he is in the same room, he just appears, making you have a heart attack while he laughs at your scared face, holding you against his chest as if you're just a kitten. Or, he tries to make you his cute taste tester while he cooks and bakes, and your brothers have to save you - one of these days, he'll still get you to try his muffin. His very cursed muffin.

It's rather a dull routine, waking up, studying, eating and sleeping, but Lilia keeps it funny with his shenanigans, plus he doesn't let you linger too much on your memories about your old world, so as to not let you be saddened that Crowley - who was certainly not coerced to by the diamsonia - hadn't found a way to open another portal yet.

The weekends are your favorite days. You can sleep till midday, read something, or watch Silver and Sebek bickering - the latter is always funny.

Overall, they consume much of your time.

And it stays like this as the years pass. Sometimes, you still miss the old world, as Lilia calls it, but you had to get over it as there was no way to find a way back.

Lilia isn't fazed by this. But perhaps an accident had happened to you or Silver took a bad fall, and this makes Malleus think about how fragile humans are. How easy it is for them to break bones or die from the flu. He hates the thought. He loathes it.

Your mortality isn't something to be missed. The way you continue to grow, to change, as you graduate, you turn into a very beautiful adult. Silver does too, of course, as he too is a human.

He too will disappear as the wind. Gone forever, just in a few years.

He doesn't want to wake up someday and notice that both you and Silver are gone. He won't have you two dying, not on his watch, so as the king of Thorn Valley, he spends an awful amount of time searching about ways to turn you immortal, to stop the natural cycle of life. If someone can do that, it's him.

And Sebek is right there being his right hand man, helping him, instilling even more these thoughts on him, because even if he is a little prideful, he too would hate to lose both you and Silver.

Their research is futile, though. Maybe because of lack of sources or the books had some torn pages and they couldn't reach any conclusion. Not one that matters, that is.

So Malleus asked to meet Lilia. His father continues with his wolfish smile and sweet eyes. Even as the years passed, his vitality was at fullest. And his knowing eyes pronounced that knew what that meeting was about.

Of course, he knew.

Silver is also part of the guard, he must have noticed how strange was Malleus and Sebek's behavior.

And Malleus tells him. About the researches, the inconclusive answers, how they didn't know how to proceed now. How they were lost. How he didn't want to lose both you and Silver. You were just starting to live and in 50 or more years, you would be gone. Lost forever. Never to return.

"Tell me, boy, what you found." His tone is soft, teasing. It sounds like music to Malleus ears, a smooth song he plans to hear for a long time yet.

He would do the same for Lilia. Wouldn't stop at nothing to find a way to save him if he was dying.

Malleus doesn't bear well the thought that he would see your casket being lowered to the ground, that worms would eat your body until only bones remained. He couldn't live a life knowing he could never again hear you call him "tsunotaro" or how your hands felt when you wrapped cute little bows on his horns. Or how you sang when you thought you were alone.

He couldn't bear to lose Silver. He held that boy on his arms, cuddled him in his sleep, sang him to sleep, and watched him grow. Only to lose him to time? Not happening.

So he begged - unfitting as it was for a king -, he begged his father for help. Almost pleaded, as Lilia lived a very long life and knew a lot. He knew a lot about ancient magic, about lost cultures, about history. He was in so many books. He saw so many empires rise and fall.

"It won't be easy." Lilia says but there's something on his voice that tells Malleus that he knows something. He can do it; stop them from aging. "It will be painful for them in the next year. They may hate you for this too."

"I do not care about this." It's his answer, almost instantly as he looked his father in his eyes. "If you can do it, then please."

Lilia feels good. Of course he was the one passing down those traits for his children - though, you were a little different, sweeter, nicer than your brothers. You would hate the change, Lilia was sure. And he also didn't cared. He too has lost a lot.

He lost Lavern and Maleanor. The two fae he loved the most in the entire world.

And when he lost them, his world had ended. The air was stagnant and polluted. Everything had lost its warmth, its colors. The meaning of everything he had fought for was gone. But then, he found Malleus, a tiny stubborn egg, and then Silver, a lost baby, finally Sebek who was always blabbering about something.

And his heart was healed.

And you too had come to him, the last addition to the family. You had fitted in just like he thought years ago.

"Call Sebek, we might need to discuss a few things."

And Malleus signs for the guard that stands outside to call for Sebek. And as he does so, Lilia glances at the window, enjoying the soft breeze and the sun shining happily. He can see you playing in the river, laughing, with some fae children.

You looks ethereal as human.

And you'll look as much ethereal as a fae, he is sure.

If he tells Malleus he had similar plans or no, to turn both you and Silver, that will depend on his mood. But Lilia knows that by the end of the week, he'll have you both turned into faes.

[ladsrants]

“Friend” is an umbrella term

Caleb x Non MC reader, slight smut, yearnyearnyearn, annoyingly cute Caleb, a little angsty.

🍎* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *✈️

𝔰𝔥𝔢’𝔰 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡

𝔰𝔥𝔢’𝔰 𝔰𝔬 𝔲𝔫𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔩 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢.

A hot, sticky, summer day. The kind with cherry popsicle juice dripping down your chin, music playing softly; a persistent beat that relays joy. The sidewalk burning the pads of your feet, the smell of sweat and sunscreen painting the air. The lingering ache on your warm cheeks from grinning too much. It feels like a guitar riff that makes your stomach churn, painfully beautiful. Your hair blowing in the wind as you lean your head out of the car window in a desperate attempt at some coolness.

Thats what Caleb felt like. That scent of sandalwood and vanilla haunted your dreams. Whether he was in Skyhaven, or visiting in Linkon. His smile burned behind my retinas, replaying the exact moment I told a shitty joke and he laughed like I were the first person to ever make a joke. His head dipping down as he doubled over, clutching his stomach while his shoulders shook.

It was never that funny. But he still lifted his head, warring that devastatingly infectious smile, catching his breath and swiping a tear away from the corner of his eye. Your own smile reflecting back at you in the aster glow of his gaze. Like you were the only thing that existed. Tunnel visioned on you. Your heart beat a little quicker.

Childhood friends. Friends.

But not once in your life would you find another friend who looked at you like that. Who made you feel so individualized under their touch. Not once did you feel so seen.

They were dull, like a dreary day in late fall. The leaves are dead. Color gone. Your joints ache from the cold, and your nose burns. Jackets that are never thick enough, toes throbbing from the poor circulation. The wind biting, mean, brutal. The sky dimmed of that bright, warm beauty. Not a plane in sight. Clouds. Thick. Brooding.

They couldn’t compare to a warm summer day. To the taste of a fresh, golden crisp apple. The juice drowning out everything in its wake as it splashed on your tastebuds. The perfect bite.

Then.

A snap of my screen, and my laptop closed. Journaling done for the day. Or at least for now.

Eyes drifting to the opened window of my bedroom, curtains flowing effortlessly in the light breeze that poured through. Goosebumps birthed onto my arms and legs despite the suffocatingly hot air.

The soft buzz of music pouring out of his headphones. Caleb. Sat across from me, a book in hand. His eyes flickering up to me as a small smile crept onto his lips.

Fuck.

His hair was flattened down to his head in an endearing way, the summer heat gluing some sweat slackened strands to his forehead. His cheeks flushed a warm pink, his freckles enhanced from the sun that continued to beat down on everyone who dared to step outdoors. And all that ran through my mind?

Why is he so stupid fucking hot. Why do I feel like this. Fuck. Fuck. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-

“You okay pips? Wanna go out? It’s kinda stuffy in here.”

His voice smooth and tinted with hints of concern at my spaciness snapped me out of my own head. I blinked. Before nodding my head, my posture straightening as a quiet crack could be heard from my back.

“Actually yeah. You have to pick where though since I did yesterday. It’s your vacation ya know.”

He had been visiting home from the academy. I was on a summer break from college, and he had some time as well. So naturally, he came home. This was the first time we weren’t at Grans, with me now being stable enough to have my own apartment.

“Gotcha, gotcha. Meet me outside in 20?”

🍎* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *✈️

“Okay but hypothetically, if you really think about it, the apple juice would add a tang to the chocolate, and thin out the shake!”

He had decided on getting lunch at one of our favorite mom and pop diners, which then resulted in a walk to the lake nearby. He was sporting a white tank top that hugged too tightly to his chest, accentuating his muscular frame in a borderline illegal manner. I mean shit, the shirt looked painted. And there was no chance he didn’t realize it as he put it on.

I held the remainder of our shared milkshake, the cup gathering condensation on the exterior, sweating into my palm. My hand cold as a result as I sipped from the red straw that sat too high up from the rim. I had grabbed the straw for the large rather than the small, mindlessly gaping at Caleb instead of paying attention as we rushed out.

“Caleb. You’re disgusting. That idea alone deserves actual federal prison time.”

The air around the both of us was filled with a soft laughter. That summer day I talked about in my journal? We were walking in it. He reached out and took the nearly empty cup from my grasp, effortlessly tossing it into a passing garbage can.

I could feel the sun beginning to leave a burn on my shoulders, a tan line forming where my tank top and bathing suit met.

The sound of his footsteps pausing quickly caught my attention, my own ceasing on the pavement as I turned to look at him.

Without a moment to think, the world was upside down. My hair falling in my line of sight, firm hands resting on the backs of my bare thighs, the skin sticky with sweat. All I could do was kick my legs and yell, pounding my fists onto his solid back. The sound of his laughter filling the air as the ground I stared at moved beneath me. The pebbled “beach” that led to the lake following soon after.

“Caleb! I will murder you if you throw me in! I still have my clothes on!”

Louder laughter. And then water at his feet. Then the world spun again as he pulled my body over his back and effortlessly adjusted me to bridal style.

It felt like the breath had been stolen from my lungs the second I saw his grin. That shit eating, idiotic, beautifully warm grin. His eyes sparkling as he started to wade into the water, seemingly unbothered by his shorts getting wet.

“You looked like you needed to cool off pipsqueak. I’m simply…being helpful.”

“Evil, you’re being a mena-“

Splash, water, blinding my vision, and then the sun doing the same. Of course he would dunk me and bring me back up. My hair stuck to my face as I tried my hardest to glare up at him. Biting back the painful grin on my lips. It was a loosing battle though when he flew backwards, water cascading around both of us as he brought me down with him.

The resounding noise of laughter leaving the water as we both resurfaced again. My hands thinking before my mind as I splashed him, only to be met by his hands around my waist, playfully tossing me further into the water.

Even so, in the moment I couldn’t help but think about that white tank top being anywhere but on him.

🍎* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *✈️

The evening sun slowly turned the sky above us pink and purple. The clouds rolling in and creating a shelter from the miserable UV rays above us both. Water dripped at our feet. His eyes straight ahead as I held mine down.

Right, left, right, left, right-

fuck.

Left, right, left, right, left, right-

“Are you matching my footsteps Caleb?”

Gaze flickering up, I examined his smile that crept onto his lips. He still never looked at me as he removed his hands from his pockets and let them loosely swing at his hips.

“I couldn’t match your footsteps if I tried pipsqueak. Your feet never grew past mini.”

A harmless smack to the shoulder, paired with an eye-roll as the comfortable silence resumed around us both. Cicadas crying in the greenery bordering the path home. The sound of children laughing a distant music to our personal movie scene.

My gaze flickered back down, eerily aware of how each time his hand brushed past own, they never actually touched.

I wanted that. God I wanted that so badly. But not from the point of view of a childhood best friend. Not in the tender, ‘platonic’ way it always had been.

It must be the heat making me act like this. Feral. He just happens to be here for it.

But right as the thought for an explanation passes, my mind is filled with static when he effortlessly reaches for my hand. Intertwining our fingers and squeezing not once, not twice, but three times. He sighs a little bit from above. My heart fucking stutters.

What. The fuck.

My throats dry, and not from the weather. My fingers twitching slightly as I suddenly become painfully aware of how tightly I’m holding his own. I can feel every crease, the sweat building between our palms. My legs are barely carrying me at this point. My limbs numb.

It wasn’t the heat. I wanted this.

🍎* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *✈️

𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔞𝔶 𝔪𝔶 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢,

𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔪𝔶 𝔰𝔨𝔦𝔫,

𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔦𝔱’𝔰 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔡

𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔦 𝔨𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫

Cocktails were probably the worst idea to end our night together given my. Problem.

But I agreed. Of course I did. How could I not when he smiled at me and shot me a look that said ‘Please let me take care of you.’

So now, after three Apple Crisp’s, a borderline overwhelming tickle fight on the couch (he won), and some teasing over my flushed cheeks, the soft buzz of the shower running filled my ears while I stared at the ceiling.

Out of my head, get OUT of my head.

He was in my shower, using my soap. Singing one of my favorite songs.

Friend. My friend. My childhood friend.

“What the fuuuuck..” I groaned softly as I pressed my face into my hands. My face was hot, the alcohol making my mind even hazier than it had been as a result of the summer heat. The hot air now replaced by a comfortable night breezed that pushed in through my balcony doors. My stomach swirled with what I could call unease as a cop out, but what was definitely an insatiable craving to be in that shower with him. Running my hands down his abs with the water droplets, pushing shampoo through his dark locks, drinking in that expression on his face when my hand moves a little too far down-

Silence. No water running. No humming. I looked up, only to met with his b o d y. My face turned beet red on impact. Water dripping down his stomach, disappearing into the light grey fabric of his loosely fitting sweatpants. His eyebrow quirked up as a shitty smirk blew over his lips. His tone condescending, smug, borderline predatory.

“You look like you’re gonna eat me, or like you’re gonna explode.”

No words, lips sealed shut, teeth gritted together like that cocktail was infused with fucking cement.

Speak. Say anything. Defend your honor. Oh god he’s getting closer. His abs..No. Focus. Words.

“I…You…You’re naked.”

Oh my god.

A dry chuckled, deep, almost dark. Apparently being drunk turned me into a blubbering idiot, and him into a terrifyingly hot brick wall.

The couch dips, his eyes never once leaving my face, flickering towards my lips, blatantly at that.

“Hm. I’m pretty sure I’m wearing sweatpants. You got X-ray vision or somethin’?”

My eyes went wide, instinct kicking in as I reached over and smacked him. Or at least tried to. I moved too quickly, landing with a thud on his bare chest, my cheek now damp with the water than fell from his hair. And before I could scramble away, I was imprisoned by his vice like embrace. One that was familiar, but suddenly felt different. My eyes flying up to his as he seemingly examined me. Like a plane engine in need of fixing. Interest. Want. Need. All melded into one glance.

I could barely breath when his fingers brushed over the apple of my cheek, pushing some hair back behind my ear.

So close. He’s so close.

Then. 6 little words. Spoken low, slow, and smooth. Cool like steel, but detrimental in delivery like a pipe smacking my skull.

“Friends can be an umbrella term…”

🍎* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *✈️

Heavy breathing, apple and vodka mixed with toothpaste painting my tastebuds. Cologne, shampoo, sweat.

Skin. Skin on skin on what felt like fucking miles of skin. His calloused fingers tenderly snapping my bra strap against the faint sunburn that kissed my shoulders. I gasp.

“Caleb…” His name slips past my lips like a prayer, breathless, trembling. And mine slips past his like a promise, an oath to some sort of pledge. Breathless, yet steady.

Sloppy alcohol infused kisses, ones that meant more than just a drunken moment. Kisses that spoke for years of unspoken emotions. His hips grind against my own.

He’s rock hard.

My stomach backflips. My shorts feeling as if they were suffocating me once his hand confidently slides under the fabric. Eliciting a groan from him as he starts to examine my underwear blindly. Like he’s committing the fabric to memory or studying for a test. Then a huff of air against my cheek.

“God you’re perfect…Like…Like a great song…Better than that…I could touch you for the rest of my life…Please just…Fuck..Let me make you feel good pips…please let me do this for you…”

His intention while spoke selflessly, is completely selfish as his fingers start to roll circles across my clit. A breathless, broken moan of his name leaves my lips instantaneously. My back arching up into him. His next words sending a flood into my already soaked panties.

“Just…Friends helping each other out…Just a fa-hah…favor…”

Maybe friends is an umbrella term.

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: haunted-the band CAMINO

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ ▁ ▂ ▃ ▄ ▅ ▆ █ 100 %

A/N : So sorry if that felt a little rushed at the end, I’m not a smut writer, so. Yeah. I do hope you enjoyed tho. :P thanks for reading.

[chaconnehoon]

⟢ Matcha date

— Yang Jungwon x Reader ( fem )

Genre: fluff!

( 📝 ) note. from chaconnehoon

Enjoy!

© All rights reserved chaconnehoon do not copy.

It was a sunny day, something that rarely happens in your hometown. So what better thing to do to call your sweet boyfriend of 5 months to do something? The phone rang, and stopped, an angelic voice responding at the other side of the phone.

" Hey babe, how are you? " you heard him say. Your heart skipped a bit, even tho it’s been a while, Jungwon still had the power to make you feel shy when you talk to him.

" I’m fine wony, but I was thinking… ,you started and trailed for a little bit, do you want to go get matcha? " you waited and was met with silence. You got scared " since it’s getting sunny you know? But you don’t have to-

You got cut off by a chuckle, Jungwon’s chuckle to be exact. " Of course baby, I’ll pick you up at 5 " you chuckled too and hung up not forgetting the 3 magic words ( I love you )

You got up from your bed and got dressed, you wore a white ruffled skirt a white top and a baby pink cardigan who matched your pink shoes too.

An hour later you found yourself standing in front of the café, your favorite since they started selling the matcha café. Once you entered the smell of coffee and pastries hit you like never before and then you saw him.

He wore dark blue jeans and a grey hoodie. His ear had silver earrings and his neck was decorated with a silver necklace. He looked so cute!

Sitting in a chair by a table and close to the window with the tiny potted plants on it. He was already smiling at your direction and your heart felt full. Just from seeing him smile but something was different about him. When you sat down.

" Wony did you color your hair? "

He smiled guiltily, with a small lip bite, he continued. " You don’t like it? " his boba eyes staring right back at yours.

" I don’t like it?! I love it, it suits you a lot won! " you truthfully said. He looked a prince with his hair. Jungwon always looked good to you.

" I was scared you wouldn’t like it. " he said while running a hand through it. His soft golden locks sitting back at their place, prettily.

" Are you kidding? You look like a prince in the movies or k-dramas. I mean it, Jungwon, it’s very pretty. " Jungwon grinned, he smiled and hid his face a lil by looking down. Clearly pleased with the compliments.

Soon a waiter approached your table with a handbook in his left hand, a pen in his right hand a polite smile. " Hello! Ready to order? "

You glanced at Jungwon, this was your way to tell him to go first, and he did after nodding with a smile.

" so for me it’s going to be an iced matcha latte and for her matcha with strawberry cold foam. "

You were taken aback that about the fact that he remembered all of this information from the last time. " Yang, are you spying on me? "

Jungwon chuckled. " Five months of dating, I obviously did pick up a lot of things. "

With the waiter now long gone, it was only you,Jungwon and this café. You looked around taking in the background music and the people.

" so ", Jungwon said. Resting his head on his arms and looking at you, " how’s everything been? School, family, friends and all? "

You smiled at him, now also resting your hand on the table. " My parents are alright and Mochi ( your cat ) has been knocking my plants off my dresser, two of them broke and she’s probably breaking a third one at the moment we’re speaking. "

He laughed and you followed too. " Maybe she wants your attention, like I do too. " he pouted and looked at you with pleading eyes.

" Jealous of a cat? Not like you Yang. " you rolled your eyes playfully while crossing your arms. Acting mad.

" What can I say? I miss my girl when she’s not around. I wished I could be with you 24/7, any time and any day. " he shrugged.

And just like that, the air felt warmer and your heart fuller. The one to blame? Jungwon and his ridiculously amazing new hair.

" So blondie what are we going to do next? " I said cutting off the silent. Jungwon gave you a " wtf " face. " Blondie? " he questioned.

" Yes! Blondie, your new nickname. What are we going to do next? " he cut you off. " I don’t like the new nickname. I prefer Ken " he said crossing his arms and acting sassy.

I laughed.

" Okay whatever you want, but what are we going to do? It’s only 2PM " I said while looking at both,our now, empty glasses.

" I think there’s an arcade nearby, maybe we could go? " my eyes widened and shined out of excitement. I got up and grabbed his wrist.

" What are we waiting for? Let’s go-let’s go!! " I urged him. " wait princess, I need to pay the drinks first. " he left some set of cash and we dashed out to go to the arcade.

[leaf4e]

thats the last speed classification for storm. which is "seldom experienced inland". and the next one is violent storm. the second last group on the beufort scale

[tonycries]

Unmistakably Yours - G.S.

Synopsis. In which the strongest bends space and time - literally - after coming back from deatḣ, to do what he’s always wanted to do - you.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, best friends to lovers, Satoru goes a little (very) INSANE, oral (fem receiving), fíngering, manga spoilers, use of jujutsu powers, unprotected, créampie, spitting, overstim, féral Satoru, heinous things, happy ending, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.5k

A/N. Yeahhh that poll was cooking up something devious heheh. Gege give me back my man.

Gojo Satoru was going to kill someone.

He was going to kill someone and it didn’t matter who. It didn’t matter how. It didn’t even matter if he had to haul his broken body - scarred and barely-healed - out of this stiff infirmary bed, because the great Gojo Satoru awoke and the world shook.

Because you weren’t here.

“Ah. The oh-so deadest one, I see you’re awake.” Satoru flinches at the sharp, exhausted drawl from his left. 

Slowly, he blinks away the haze in his aching eyes, desperately trying to adjust to the cold room. Shoko’s voice was too loud. The lights too bright. His waiting arms too empty - where were you? 

With a low hiss, Satoru’s body is moving before his mind, sitting up like a man possessed. Goosebumps prickle his skin as the thin blanket falls off his shoulders. Temples throbbing because the world was spinning and spinning and you-

“Calm down, Satoru.” Shoko sounds almost panicked now - as much as she could, anyway. Uselessly trying to push him back onto the mattress. “I don’t care if you’re the ‘strongest’. Sukuna did a number on you and you have to rest-”

“Where is she?”

---

It was the final nail on your coffin - that slight, steady rumble beneath your feet. So fleeting that you’d written it off as your weary brain, too goddamn tired from today. Heaving out a sigh, you rub your eyes in frustration, so fucking alone in this too-large penthouse. 

Fingers jittery, you rifle through your best friend’s closet for his box of blindfolds, because you knew he’d be complaining about the sensory overload at the infirmary if- when he woke up. Though, you think that was more an excuse for Shoko to send your wrecked self away than anything. 

Grabbing a few more than necessary, your heart lurches as you eye that dusty framed photo by his bedside. A much younger Satoru, Suguru, Shoko, and you - probably the last time any of you smiled so carelessly. 

One dead and the other just on the cusp of it.

He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He’s the strongest, right?

Swallowing heavily, you try to put your mind to something - anything - other than the memory of that battlefield and the blood. So much blood. Everywhere. 

God, you should’ve stayed. What if Satoru-

That was when you felt it. 

The tight, uncomfortable feeling of atoms standing at attention all around you. The air was so stagnant and heavy that it was almost hard to breathe. 

You don’t know how you realize what it is - but you don’t get the chance to wonder about it either. Because the thought has barely even crossed your mind before everything else is thrown at the window at those two words. 

Hoarse, and whispered, voice ever-so-slightly cracking at the end. One you recognized, one you knew you always would.

“My love?”

Satoru.

It was a miracle that you didn’t get whiplash from how fast you whirled around to face the doorway - and it was an even bigger miracle that you didn’t trip at how your legs were carrying you to that tall, familiar flash of white hair without a second thought. 

Hell, you don’t think you’ve ever run this fast in your life, and it still wasn’t quick enough when Satoru engulfed you in his arms. Letting out a soft sigh as he hugs you tight enough that it hurt, like he never wanted to let go. 

All familiar warmth and a rapid heartbeat that matched your own. 

A shiver runs down your spine at that scent of the infirmary, tinged with something so dangerously metallic, miles away from the usual hints of pine and candy. But you only pull Satoru closer - not even realizing the tears staining his snug t-shirt, nails digging into his sculpted back. 

“S-Satoru?” you murmur wetly, as if you still couldn’t believe it - even when you were in his strong arms. 

It killed you to pull away, and Satoru wasn’t any better, pulling you firmly to his heated body with a guttural grunt as soon as you showed any signs of shifting away. Grip almost bruising, fingers tight on your hips. But you didn’t mind, why would you? 

Because the strongest was nothing under your will - he always was. And it’s only once you break the embrace just a fraction of an inch that you confirm that this actually was Satoru - your Satoru. 

“You’re here.” you breathe out unsteadily, not knowing where to look first - his heaving chest, as if he’d run all the way here, or those faint scars along his exposed skin. Jagged, running down his pale skin like he was too impatient - too distracted - to let them heal properly. Satoru’s face was scarily blank, pretty lips set in a tight grimace like every second you weren’t locked in his arms killed him. 

He doesn’t answer - like he didn’t know himself. Nervously, you raise your eyes to meet his and-

Oh, Satoru, he was here. Alive.

Looking like he was ready to make sure that no one else was.

You just wondered where they’d pile all the casualties. Too many to bury at Jujutsu High if those tiny blue flickers of lightning at the corners of Satoru’s eyes were anything to go by. 

Gaze hooded, pupils blown, he didn’t look at you with that usual warmth. No, he looked at you like a man that had crawled back from death just to rip you apart. And you had half the mind to wonder whether this was some special grade curse that had just come disguised as your best friend. 

“Are you okay?” you try again, raising a hand to cup his cheek. “Toru?”

Oh, you might as well have just signed your own will, because no sooner are the words out of your mouth before Satoru’s jolting. Like the mere sound of that stupid little nickname from high school was enough to shock him to his very core. 

Electrify him just enough to finally look at you like it was the first time. Like he was seeing you after a thousand years. “My love.”

There it was again, that quiet, strained little mantra. 

Followed very closely by the deafening slam! of the door behind him, so hard that you spy one of the hinges rattling off. Startled, you look over Satoru’s broad shoulders just to catch a glimpse of the single, large handprint charred into the wood, slight steam wafting from his hand.

Shit. He’s lost it.

Almost like the strongest has forgotten his restraint - or didn’t care about it either way. Heated, you wondered what this boded for you. 

Will you be lucky number one on his kill list? You wonder, as Satoru presses his mouth right above your pulse. Racing. Dangerous. Feeling the rapid thump! thump! thump! under his lips.

Breathing you in, dragging his nose up, up, up- He mutters into your skin, “Y’can kill me if you don’t want this.” Will you go down - if there’s anyone left to remember, that is - as the casualty that surely and officially signaled the honored one’s descent into madness? Only the second best friend he had to kill?

Or, Satoru pulls away slowly from his little haven, breath ghosting your lips as he gasps out a shaky, “No God can take me away without doing this.” Will it be something else entirely?

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. 

Because fuck, how could you not? This is Satoru, and this is all you’ve ever wanted since those late night convenience store runs in high school, hand-in-hand and teleporting away from a furious Yaga.

The same Satoru that had cockily winked at you goodbye before facing Sukuna - leaving you crying with nothing to hold onto but those cold, cold hands and wishes that you’d have just fucking kissed him before. Maybe even put aside your pride to just tell him.

But none of that mattered now, because Satoru was so desperate - drinking you in like you were the last breath of air on Earth. Like it hurt more to part with your lips than it was to be cleaved in half.

Such a mess of teeth and saliva, and you were addicted. Drunk off his sweet taste - like candy, almost, and those cheap mochi he always got from downtown - and the electricity pricking at you each time your skin grazed against his.

It almost hurt - but it hurt so good.

Gasping, you pull away for air - impossible with the way Satoru was like a madman, kissing your swollen lips again and again and-

“Toru!” you squeal, muffled through his lips. “Aren’t you-” His mouth drops into a soft oh! at the delicate strings of saliva snapping in the non-existent space between you two. Surging forward like he couldn’t help himself. “Battlefield- mmpf- now?”

With a pained grunt, Satoru finally halts, just a hair’s breadth from your lips. And if you were in any better state of mind, maybe you’d have noticed the brief flicker of blue lightning all over his body. The way the lights flicker. 

“Special curtain.” he pants against your open mouth, a muscled thigh shoving between your weakening legs. “Time barely passes in here.”

You don’t know what your head is reeling more from his words or his hands - hands that kill - caressing you like a lover everywhere. Unable to decide between your hips, to your ass, to your pretty pretty face. Kiss-bitten lips uttering, “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

“So?” Satoru lets out a humorless laugh. About an octave higher than usual, like he was at the end of his rope now. Eyes hazy and glowing, looking as if it took everything in him to not just tear off that uniform and take you right now. 

“But-”

“Shut up and let me ruin you, my love.”

Your back is hitting the mattress before you can even start to wonder what the fuck is happening. One second standing at the doorway and the other all sprawled out on Satoru’s bed.

Besides yourself, you blurt out, trying to make sense of the situation to both of you two. “Did- did you just teleport us?”

“Don’t know.” he answers. And Satoru sounded like he genuinely didn’t know, as bewildered as you were. Powers acting before him - way, way before he can think - as he fists your shirt in his hands. “Don’t care.”

And you half wondered whether Satoru was even aware of what he was doing as he pulls, down, down down. 

Rip!

It tears through the air - both the sound, and the way he’s just pulling your shirt to shreds. All depravity and no repentance as Satoru throws it behind God-knows-where. Buttons hitting the floor at a maddening little rhythm to which he was slowly losing his sanity. 

He was kissing you like he was angry - taking it out on your poor clothes. Because before you know it, he’s pulling your bra off. Fingers searing on your skin, skirt just tatters on the floor. 

“Waited too long.” he groans, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “Always wanted to do this.” And once he started, it was like Satoru just couldn’t stop, rambling into the valley of your breasts, “Ever since I first saw you and oh-”

That was it - only one look at your panties, all flimsy and drenched - and you’re back to wondering what Satoru’s kill count would be. You shudder as his eyes widen, letting out a strangled gasp from some deep, primal part of himself. Voice so broken and starved as he muses, “-can’t believe I waited this long.”

Shit. You weren’t making it out alive.

Immediately, Satoru’s dropping further down the mattress, easily pushing your knees up all the way till they were at your breasts. 

And it was so unfair. 

Unhair how he was still fully clothed, while you were spread so shamefully. Unfair how he was sliding his underneath your panties up and down, grazing your swollen folds. Up and down, up and down up and- Pooling your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips before pulling, marveling at how sinfully soaked they were. 

And it was like something snapped - maybe his whatever restraint he had left, probably you by the end of this. Because just a split-second later, Satoru’s tearing right through your panties. Not even taking a second to breathe before burying his pretty face into your dripping cunt. 

Unfair how you were liking it so dangerously. Being so used. 

And Satoru knows - he thinks, with whatever rationality he has left intact - that he wants to admire your pretty lil’ cunt. To finally drink in what he’s been dreaming about for years all these lonely nights. But, no, that’s for later - for a different Satoru, one that didn’t feel like he was going to fucking die if he didn’t taste you right now. 

“Ah! Hngh- T-Toru-” you arch into his hot tongue, as he licks erratically up your folds, long, sloppy movements of his tongue all the way from your base to your swollen clit. Lapping at your juices like he couldn’t stop.

“Tha’s right.” words muffled into your cunt. Throwing your legs over his sculpted shoulders. “Gimme more, use me. Use me- fuck fuck fuck- yeah.”

He sounded as delirious as you were already, flinching with each word spat into your sensitive cunt. Drunk off your pussy and so messy, like he was well and fully intent on ruining you. 

And it’s all you can do to sob so needily as he swirls his tongue around your sensitive clit. Seemingly unable to decide between sucking on it harshly and dipping into your sloppy hole. In and out. Wanting everything. Anything. 

“Fuck. S’too deep. Sh-shit.”

“Oh yeah?” he’s grinning, a cruel, cold little grin. You can feel it as he rolls his tongue against your clit over and over. “S’not deep enough.”

You pathetically try to close your legs around his head in shock, as the tips of his long fingers spread open your pussy further, teasing your entrance. 

But who were you against the strongest? The one that got everything handed to him on a silver platter since birth? Except you - until now, that is.

Because Satoru’s swatting thighs back open like it was a mere inconvenience, and feel your cunt clench in- fear? Anticipation? as you realize how gently he was throwing you around like a ragdoll, in comparison to that door from earlier. 

“No.” he sounds absolutely wrecked, babbling around your throbbing clit. “Need this- need you.”

And then he’s plunging knuckle-deep in your plushy pussy, so greedily that your slick is trailing down his wrist. Drinking in your pretty gasps of his name as he roams for that one spot he knows will have you seeing stars - only the best for his girl, right? The only thing on his mind right now, like a predator starved.

You can only tug on his hair and buck wildly underneath him, inching Satoru closer to where he was desperately searching for. Close - so close. 

“Toru-” you moan, like a prayer. 

But it wasn’t fast enough. 

Not for Satoru, at least.

Even through the haze in your eyes, you could make out that brief flash of electric blue in-between your legs, eyes widening as ah-

That cheat. 

You wondered if he even knew he was using his powers right now. Or whether Satoru was too far gone at this point. Way too smug with the way he hits that one spot. Hard. 

Ah, you quiver as something so dark sparks in his eyes. Looking like a man starved, that had finally come across his favorite meal. Moving with frightening accuracy as he pumps his fingers in and out, hitting it each and every time. 

“Shit, ngh-” you let out a shrill moan, “It’s too good. You’re so fucking-” 

One hand was so messy toying with your dripping entrance - the other digging into your hips. Dragging your sloppy pussy senselessly all over his mouth. 

Hard enough that you were sure it’d leave marks for tomorrow. If you even made it that long, that is, if the tiny shocks of electricity at his fingertips told you anything. 

Desperate. Violent, even.

So it only makes sense that your orgasm was the same. “Fuck- m’cumming m’cumming, fuck fuck fuck-” You’re shaking as you cum, crying out Satoru’s name and delirious little moans that you’d otherwise be embarrassed of. 

And he doesn’t stop. Not when you’re blinking your vision back. Not when you’re shying away from his tongue, the stars behind your eyes too much with each flick of his tongue. 

“S’too much- too- fuck, sensitive, Toru.” you whine, big fat tears clinging to your lashes. 

Ah, there it was again. Just when Satoru was beginning to think that he might just be veering into a state of mind that could be considered sane - you have to call him that goddamn nickname again. And it’s only driving him wild. 

Well, he muses, fumbling with the hem of his t-shirt, it’s really on you then. 

You let out a fucked-out little whine as Satoru finally takes his shirt off, revealing such milky, toned skin. All sharp curves and dips like he was sculpted so meticulously, going down, down, down and- Your breath hitches at the large, pink scar standing out of his torso, so uneven and fresh that you feel a fresh wave of tears - different ones, this time. 

You take a steadying breath, eyes unmoving from the injury. “Satoru-”

“No.” Satoru’s tone is firm, so different from the metallic tinkling of his belt. He was moving now, shifting in between your legs to kiss those tears away. “Need this. Need you. Need you need you need you so bad-”

“But your…” you trail off. The words catch in your throat as he finally unbuckles his belt, pulling down his pants just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, hitting his sculpted abdomen. Red, and so so angry, soaked in precum. 

He was so…massive. Now, you expected your best friend to have a big dick, but this was ridiculous. He was so intimidatingly long, thick enough that you could feel the slick beading out of your sloppy hole already.

Yeah, you definitely weren’t making it out alive. 

Satoru sees it too, of course, because his cock twitches furiously. A low hiss leaving those pretty pink lips before he’s spitting on your quivering cunt. Once. Twice. 

And you know that if this shameless bastard could use six eyes to find your g-spot, then he could’ve done the same for this. But, no, he lets some of it miss, splattering against your inner thigh, smearing all over as Satoru thumbs in his saliva with your slick. 

God, he was treating you like some object. Wordlessly throwing your legs over his shoulders, dragging his weeping tip down your swollen folds. So fucking filthy. 

And then you feel like you’re been split apart - because Gojo Satoru was unforgiving. As was his aching cock. He’s barely even pressing through the first ring of muscle, and you already feel like he’s pushing all the way into your lungs. 

“T-Toru.” you yelp, glancing down at the way your pussy was stretched so lewdly around his thick cock. Quivering as he keeps pushing and pushing and- no mercy. Absolutely none at all. “Can feel you so deep inside ngh- I don’t think I can…” 

“No no no no no-” he’s panting into your open mouth. Fucking into your heavenly cunt in mindless, shallow little thrusts just to squeeze deeper inside. “Need this. Want this. Always did. God, fuck fuck fuck, you can do it-”

“But-”

God, Satoru can’t help but kiss you - to shut those cute lil’ whines up more than anything, he’s sure he’ll cum right there and right now if he didn’t. 

Because Satoru wasn’t any better. Body bowing into yours, eyes rolling to the back of his head, mouth falling into a delirious oh! as he finally bottoms out. Balls smacking your ass too hard, your pussy too tight, you too beautiful underneath him. 

Blindly, he reaches for the headboard - white-knuckling it so hard that it’s a wonder it doesn’t break. 

It does - and later you’ll find a pile of splinters behind the bed. It’s just that neither of you notice. Too high off the feeling of Satoru’s cock pushing inside you. You’re clawing at his back now, gasping for air. Letting him fold you in half to filthily lick away the tears pooling at your cheeks. 

“Shit- y’got this, my love. You gotta- ah- Breathe-” he can’t even speak properly, sharp tongue so heavy. Eyes glowing with such insanity as he rocks his hips harder into yours.

He was right - you needed to breathe. To finally wrap your head around the fact that this was Satoru - your best friend - the same one that binge-watches sappy rom-coms with you after every breakup. Every. Single. One. Somehow, you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Both of you were barely-lucid at this point. And he was out of control now.

Funny, how in all his dreams when you were screaming his name - Satoru was always suave, methodical, playing with your pretty pussy like a fine instrument. Right now, he was anything but. Sloppy - like he didn’t have enough time, never would, even in this room where time slowed.

“Don’t you run away.” he grunts at the way you’re so adorably torn between running away from his cock and bucking for more more more- “Waited twelve fucking years for this. N’ m’gonna take it.”

You almost sob at the pressure as he laces his fingers on top of your head to slide you impossibly deeper. Down, down, down. “S’too good, Toru. Wan’ more-”

“More.” Satoru breathes, more to himself than anything. Eyes widening almost comically, a fucked-out smile spreading all over his face. “Y’want more even when you’re filled to-” He traces an invisible line halfway down your tummy. “Here?”

“Yes.” you gasp as he reaches down to toy with your throbbing clit, drawing tight, frenzied little circles. Balls smacking your ass so painfully, thumb pressing down right where his tip was hitting your cervix - as if he used six eyes to see. “Always wanted more. Always have, Toru.”

And you swear you could see something physically snap inside Satoru. Because his eyes glaze over, grin dropping instantly from his face. 

If you weren’t so cockdrunk maybe you’d have caught the way the bedroom lights flicker, the one down the hallway bursting. 

“Always, huh?” he’s muttering, grip on your body tightening like a vice. “Wanted more like me?” Rocking into you so sloppily, cock twitching so painfully as he speeds up. Fingers just as desperate - as depraved as his hips.

And this time, he doesn’t even have to use six eyes to find that one spot. Knowing your body well enough to hit it over and over until you were sobbing. “More more more more- fuckin’ take it then.”

At this point you didn’t know whether Satoru was always this ruthless in bed or you’d just broken him. It felt so good that it was almost scary. And your delirious mind wandered into the thought that maybe the bed would break - and your bones to follow. 

Well, they would have if Satoru hadn’t been using reversed cursed technique. But you didn’t need to know that just yet. 

“Satoru-” you squeal as he only gets more erratic.  “I’m…”

“Close?” Satoru’s grunting, smacking his lips against your own.

It’s laughable, really, that muffled question - because Satoru knew you were close. Losing his fucking mind, actually, at how you were squeezing so hard around him. Balls squeezing so painfully right now, but he wanted you to cum first - needed you to cum first.

“Yeah, so close. Wan’ cum- Ah! Please-”

“Then cum. Fucking cum, wan’ed this so bad.” he’s babbling deliriously. Little sparks of lightning visible even to your glassy eyes, fingers humming with a dangerous little energy that stimulated you so good. “Yeah, yeah yeah yeah fucking cum, wanna hngh-”

And then you are. So sudden and hard that you don’t even realize it at first. Just that you’re seeing stars behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears. Rocking your hips into Satoru’s like such a slut. 

Oh, if heaven was really then the part of Satoru that can still form coherent thoughts thinks this just might be it. 

Because only the sight of you creaming all around his swollen cock and he’s cumming and cumming so hard that it hurts. Thick, hot ropes of cum that he can’t seem to stop. Doesn’t want to stop, and God he thinks he could cum until you beg and beg and beg it’s too much. Until you’re yelling for-

“Mercy!” you moan, head spinning with how fucking overfilled your pussy was. “Please, Toru-”

Satoru lets out a slight gasp, “Mercy?” Chuckling so cruelly at your dazed nod, “No mercy, my love. None at all.”

And God, it was so fucking hard to look at him too - eyes half-lidded and miles away, flushed and looking like he was anywhere but laid out on a hospital bed just a few minutes ago. In fact, Satoru looked like he was in heaven on Earth as he only milked his painfully hard cock on your snug pussy.

Pretty. Always so fucking pretty. 

And he kept whispering that, over and over in your ear as you both ride out your highs. Oh how he loved you.

Your eyes fly open, and Satoru knew he’d said that out loud. Shit. But, well, with the way you were immediately pulling him to collapse into your arms, he thinks he really doesn’t mind.

“Love you, love you. Love you so much. Always did, always wanted to love you- to fuck you.” You barely even notice him marking down your neck, sharp canines digging into the flesh like he wanted to break something. Hard enough that you distinctly wondered whether he was out for blood. “To ruin you.”

It was oozing out of you, both Satoru’s cum - dribbling down your legs in thick globs, pooling on the overpriced sheets below - and his power. Jolts of electricity running down all the way from your poor, abused cunt to your hazy mind. 

“So do it.” The air was crackling - crackling with intensity and the smell of jujutsu. It was in your veins, in your words as you whisper, “Ruin me. You’re the- ngh- only- one f’me, Toru. Always was.”

The lights go out. All of them - all across Tokyo, in fact. Shining so bright that it was blinding, until they burst. The last thing you see are his eyes - electrified with blue lightning, burning into your brain. 

And then it’s black. 

---

“I’ll be back before ya know it, my love.” he whispers against your forehead, cooing at the way you stir sleepily. “Gotta pest to take care of.”

Taking down that curtain wasn’t the hard part, the hard part was actually fucking regaining his senses enough to do so. 

And now, all cleaned up and fucked to sleep on his bed, you were looking so unbearably delectable that it made some part of Satoru just want to stay behind this curtain. To forget the waiting sorcerers on the battlefield. Saving the world be damned.

Well, no matter, Satoru had time. He was the strongest, right? After all, how could he give you the world if there was no world to give?

“N’ when I’m back, m’gonna kiss ya to death till you go out with me. Till everyone knows you’re unmistakably mine.”

A/N. GET IT - that unmistakable bit from the panel? 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[bunnis-monsters]

Becoming the Queen

Bee hybrids x Fem!Reader

warning: oviposition, orgy, breeding, oral

WK: 5k

A/N: I hope this is alright for a Valentine’s Day special… this is a commission, hehe. The lovely members on kofi got to see this 2 weeks early ><

It was early, the grass you trudged through to get to work still wet with the morning dew. You never truly enjoyed waking up before the sun rose, but you loved what you did and could never give it up.

You were a florist, owning the only flower shop in the county. People from all over would come to buy a bouquet, and you were up to your head in flower arrangements by the late afternoon.

Some customers were kind, tipping you well and making sure their flowers were well taken care of. Others got on your very last nerve, daring to say your flowers seemed old or wilted.

It took everything in you not to leap over the counters. You could take people insulting you, but no one could insinuate that your flowers weren’t perfect. You grew them yourself, preening and watering them to perfection.

As you neared your flower shop, you noticed there were more customers than usual waiting outside. Usually most of your sales happened after 10 am, not so early in the day.

But as you took out your keys and looked up, you realized that not all of them were there for flowers.

One of your windows was broken, shards of glass covering the floor and a bit of blood staining the windowsill. Something has smashed through the glass!

And from taking one look into your shop, you realized that they hadn’t just broken your window.

Bouquets lay strewn across the cool tiles, petals blowing in the wind as you opened the door. Someone or something had been in your shop and had ruined your carefully arranged bouquets.

A shard of one of your potted plants crunched under your foot as you took in all the damage that had been done. It would set you back several weeks.

“Damn it…”

Although it frustrated you to no end, you brushed off your skirt and set off to the back, grabbing a broom and getting to work.

After getting the mess up and opening up the shop, you tried your best not to think about what destroyed your inventory. You focused on your work instead. It was always easy to lose yourself in a good book while waiting on your next customer, but today your mind kept wandering back to potential culprits.

There were a group of teenagers that vandalized a restaurant a block away last week. At the local boba place, someone had been stealing the boba and straws. It wasn’t unthinkable that the other incidents may be related to what happened earlier that morning.

You closed the shop for the night, sighing as you zipped up your hoodie. It was way too cold, you’d have to bring your coat tomorrow if you planned on being out this late.

It couldn’t be helped, you had to stay after closing to contact clients and refer them to other florists that could get their arrangements done now that the ones you prepared were ruined.

Thankfully, most of your clients were kind enough to overlook it, but you received a few earfuls that you couldn’t complain about. At least they weren’t leaving a bad review…

The night air made you shiver. You rubbed your arms and continued on home, dreading tomorrow. There was so much work you’d have to redo, and money you would lose out on.

‘I hope there’s going to be enough money left over for me to pay my bills this month…’

You were stirred from your thoughts when you felt a chill go down your spine. For a moment you just assumed it was the frigid temperatures making you feel this way, but something was off.

The world around you was quiet. The way home had sparse light, and before that night you had never been afraid of the dark. It comforted you, in fact.

But as you froze in the middle of the path, your heart thumping against your chest, you realized that there was a sound that drowned out everything else. You hadn’t noticed it at first, and now it was almost unbearably loud.

A buzzing filled the air, and you quickly had to cover your ears as it only increased in volume.

You picked up something else, the smell of honey. Slowly, you opened your eyes.

It took a moment to fully comprehend what was before you. There were several humanoid silhouettes surrounding you, and their outlines were… fluffy?

“Is this really her?”

“Yes, I told you she was soft!”

“And she makes the flowers bloom?”

“Yes, yes!”

A hand reached out to tilt your chin up, and you were face to face with some kind of insect-like creature. It was taller than any man you had ever seen, with big black eyes and yellow… fluff? Fuzz? You weren’t sure, but these things didn’t have normal human skin.

“Ah, she’s just as pretty as you said.”

The other creatures let out a satisfied buzz, encircling you. They all seemed rather curious and excited, lifting up parts of your clothing and examining you.

“H-hey!”

When you yelped, they all backed off, seeming confused and a little hurt. “Wh… what the hell are you… things? Why are you following me!?”

The leader stepped forward again, a bit sheepish but understanding. “Sorry… we saw how upset you were about the mess we made and-“

“You all caused that mess!?”

They all let out whines and upset buzzes as you groaned. The entire day had been a nightmare you’d wake up from soon. It had to be.

“I’m going to bed…”

You moved past the group, but they followed after you, seeming concerned and nervous.

“But you’re coming with u-“

His mouth was covered by another’s hand. “We’re sorry for the mess. Please, we’ll help repay you tomorrow. So… don’t be too angry.”

It was hard to stay too angry with them, they sounded genuinely remorseful and a touch sad. “… alright, but you’ll need to be here early tomorrow.”

You went to bed, figuring that this would all be over once you had a good night of sleep. There were no strange bee-like creatures in your front yard, no difficult messes to deal with, just a bad dream.

Unfortunately you were very wrong.

Walking outside with your hot coffee and sporting your pajamas, you were met with several expectant faces.

“You’re awake!”

You stood there for a moment, blinking sluggishly before staring down at your coffee. After blinking a few times, you breathed in and out.

“So… you are real then.”

The creatures were bee hybrids, a species you heard about before. Hybrids weren’t exactly uncommon, but it was rare for insect based hybrids to leave their hives or nests to interact with humans.

They did keep their promise and help you prepare bouquets the entire day, pollinating your flowers and following after you baby ducklings with their mother.

Unbeknownst to you, the bees had been watching you for a while.

It started when they lost their queen.

For months she had been bedridden, and no eggs were laid. Of course, the bee hybrids were much more concerned about their beloved queen than eggs, but she was beside herself with worry.

“Who will take care of you when I’m gone?”

The queen knew she was well past her egg bearing years and was going to die soon. After all, what purpose did a queen have when she couldn’t expand the hive?

“Don’t say things like that, your majesty. You won’t leave us…”

They were stricken with grief after her passing, nearly a year went by before they even considered a new queen.

Their last one had been a bee hybrid born in that very hive. Wanting to keep the tradition of raising a new queen wasn’t possible since she had only ever birthed sons.

Not wanting to take the chance of foreign bee hives trying to spy on them by giving them a female, the bee hybrids looked elsewhere for their next queen.

You happened to be a perfect match.

Not only were you beautiful and plump as a good queen should be, your kind nature and gentle heart told them you would be an amazing mother to the little ones.

The only problem was getting you to the hive.

“She’s so pretty, I love her…” said one of the bee hybrids, his wings fluttering as he watched you remove the thorns from some roses.

“She is. I want to stuff her full of my e-“

The others turned red and buzzed at the horny bee. “H-hey, don’t talk about the queen like that!”

“But that’s what everyone’s thinking…”

The worker bees pouted, flying around you and offering pollen or honey. The guards watched from afar.

Most of the bee hybrids were not what you would call… intelligent. But there were some that ran the show and made all of the important decisions.

“We’ll take her soon. Our hive needs a queen, and if we don’t get one soon, everyone will go mad. We need a queen to mate and protect, it’s what keeps us calm,” said one of the guards, his stinger twitching and ready to attack.

“But she loves working with the flowers. What if we put a strain on her mind? If she is unwell, our hive will suffer with her.”

That was true, the bee hybrids’ productivity and mental well being depended on you. If you were depressed, they would be as well. Not only that, they’d be constantly trying to cheer you up and become worse if you remained in that state for too long.

“I think I know what we can do to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

~

You had never felt so tired in your entire life. The day hadn’t been so tough, but as you closed your eyes to go to bed, suddenly your body felt so heavy that you weren’t sure if you’d ever be able to get up.

Sleep took you, and when you woke up everything seemed… different.

Your usually stiff bed felt incredibly soft, your body melting into the plush material.

“Ugh…”

The moment you let out a groan, you heard the sound of buzzing and frantic voices.

“The queen is awake!”

“Oh, my queen are you alright?”

“Hurry, prepare her breakfast and bring the towels for the bath!”

You rubbed your eyes as you listened to the bustling around you. When your vision was no longer blurry, you could hardly believe what you were seeing.

No longer were you in your small bedroom in your modest home by the forest. The walls of your room were shaped like a honeycomb… no, they were a honeycomb. You could even see the amber colored liquid pooling at the bottom as some bee hybrids scooped it up.

You were laid out on a king sized bed, with thick blankets and plush pillows surrounding you like some kind of nest.

Surrounding you was a swarm of bee hybrids. Some were teeming with excitement and giddy energy, while others peeked around their fellow hybrids with curiosity. The ones closest to you, though, seemed a mix of concerned and nervous, fretting over you.

“Oh, what if she isn’t feeling well? Should we give her some honey?”

“Breakfast first, she can have honey on toast or biscuits.”

“Humans really eat honey in that way?”

While you struggled to get your bearings, they continued to flit about the room doing various things to acclimate you.

“Where… am I?”

Every single one of the bee hybrids paused, their attention solely on you. Several whispered among themselves as their gaze stayed on your plump figure.

“You’re home, my queen.”

A taller, less fluffy bee hybrid walked forward, his expression neutral. He kneeled before you, taking your hand and raising it to his mouth for a kiss.

“Q-queen? What do you-“

All at once they all rushed forward to dote on you. Your body was covered in kisses, and you could feel their soft fluff almost everywhere.

“My queen, we’re so happy!”

“We promise you’ll have a good life here, no more stress or worry!”

Gentle nips and bites were pressed into your sensitive neck and thighs, hands moving to caress and grope all of your body.

You were still groggy, and immediately began to warm up when one hand found its way to your inner thigh. When you let out a startled moan, the bees on the bed began to buzz and focus on that spot.

“Our queen is sensitive!”

A few of them pried your thighs open, inspecting your bare cunt and giving it a few experimental touches and licks. Had they undressed you beforehand?

Their tongues were long and thin, delicate against your slowly hardening clit. You could tell they were all excited by the way their buzzing increased and their bodies shook.

Your scent filled the air, attracting more bee hybrids from the hall. The ones on the bed touched and fondled your sleepy body as the others watched from the sidelines.

Your face heated up when you realized they were stroking their cocks, their eyes glued on your body and the way it was being played with by their peers.

There was no chance to react or cry out in protest, you were being too overwhelmed by pleasure. One of their tongues entered your cunt, making your eyes widen and your fists clench the silk bed sheet underneath you.

“She likes that, don’t stop.”

You felt one of them latch onto your breasts, their long tongue swirling around your nipple. Their antennae tickled your face, and you felt completely overstimulated.

Every touch made you twist and buck your hips, it was hard to control yourself. Never before had you felt such intense pleasure, and it was making you see stars.

‘This has to be some sort of wet dream…’ you thought to yourself, squishing your plush thighs together. ‘Might as well enjoy it…’

“Is she ready yet?” one of them cooed, nuzzling their fluffy face against your neck.

“Not for eggs, but…”

The others backed off, and a smaller, more feminine looking bee hybrid climbed on top of you. He was still at least half a foot taller than you, but tiny compared to the others.

“H-hello, my queen…” he chirped shyly, giving your cheek an affectionate nuzzle. “I’ll be the one to mate with you first…”

He was even fluffier than the others, and his cock was already twitching against your thigh. It was more long than thick, and had a pinkish, orange color.

You reached out to touch it, your fingers wrapping around his length. This made the smaller bee hybrid gasp, his hips bucking wildly in surprise.

The other hybrids stepped closer, buzzing with both excitement and jealousy. Already, the single male was receiving all of your attention… they all wanted a turn!

Fortunately for you, they had been ordered to give you space. This would be your first time with a bee hybrid, and if they weren’t careful, they could end up hurting their precious queen.

Your health and well being meant more to them than anything else.

“M-my queen, ahh!”

His eyes glistened with flustered tears as you stroked his cock, honey colored precum seeping out of the tip. You couldn’t remember the last time you had pleasured yourself.

If this was a dream, you were going to have fun.

You laid on your back, pulling the hybrid in by his hips. It was clear out of the two of you, he was the one lacking experience.

“Oh, you’re so pretty my queen-“ he blubbered out, his hips rutting against yours as his cock settled between your pussy lips. You could feel his tip kissing your clit, and it was enough to have you both let out a shuddering moan.

“Mmph…”

You kissed him, letting his long tongue slip down your throat as you moved your hand to guide his cock towards your entrance.

The moan he let out in your mouth as he sunk into your fat cunt was sinful, and out of the corner of your eye you noticed several of the bees were fucking their fists to the sight of you being fucked by one of their own.

“T-too good! I’m gonna-“

His cum spurted into your womb, he was finishing before he could even properly thrust in and out of you. You were going to whine about it, but something caused you to pause your complaints.

While his cock twitched inside of you, it swelled up, and before you could question what was happening, eggs began to pool into your womb along with his cum.

The feeling of them being fucked into you, stretching your pussy out as the eggs were laid inside of you made your head spin.

Your pussy clenched around the eggs, and before you knew it you were cumming harder than you ever had before. You arched your back, tears running down your cheeks as you rode out your high.

By the end of it, you were a mess. Cum from both you and the bee hybrid pooled around your thighs, soaking into the expensive feeling sheets.

“This… isn’t a dream, is it?”

The hybrid gathered around you, some cooing over your spent, naked body while others were desperate to have their hands on you.

“It’s no dream, my queen!”

“We all love you!”

“Let’s get you to the bath, you deserve to relax!”

You let out a tired sigh as you were carried away. The tub was nearly as big as your bedroom back home, and several of the bees joined you in the warm, pleasantly scented water.

You could smell fresh flowers and honey, and you let out a sigh of relief when several pairs of hands went to work massaging your sore muscles. A pair of two slipped between your thighs, toying with your sensitive clit and feeling around to make sure all of the eggs were safe and sound inside of you.

“Is the water warm enough, my queen?”

Hands cupped your breasts, giving them a playful squeeze before rubbing honey scented soap into them. “Mmph, yes, it’s good…”

You glanced down at your belly, noticing it poked out slightly. The memory of how the eggs felt being pushed inside of you made your cheeks heat up.

This was all a lot to process. If this wasn’t a dream like you had originally assumed, then that meant you had been taken away to a bee hybrid hive and made into a queen.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions…” another bee said, giving you a sympathetic look. “But you don’t have to worry, we’ll cater to your every want and need. You’ll never want for anything.”

Deciding a fight wasn’t worth it, you sunk back into the warm water, letting yourself be pampered and taken care of for now.

“… I want to talk to whoever is in charge here.”

The two hybrid bathing you shared a look before speaking.

“That would be you, my queen.”

You placed a hand on your temple, rubbing it before replying. “I mean, who decided that I would be queen? Surely someone here has been making decisions regarding the hive while there was no queen.”

A silence fell over the room, the only sound being the water droplets falling from your skin.

“Well… I guess that would be the council. Are you requesting a meeting with the council, my queen?”

You nodded, and the two stood before getting you dried off and dressed. They were obedient, doing exactly as you asked. “Are you sure, my queen? You still need your breakfast and-“

“I’m sure, take me to the council.”

The walls of the hive were made of honeycomb, unsurprisingly. Each section contained a bee hybrid that was hard at work, making honey while chattering amongst themselves.

“Haven’t you heard, Bumble? There’s a new queen, and she’s a pretty one too!”

“Yeah, she’s already had her first batch of eggs too!”

“That’s not fair, I wanted to give the queen my eggs first!”

You avoided making eye contact with them, your cheeks hot with embarrassment again. It flustered you to know their words were causing your panties to grow wet.

Hiding was useless, though. The scent of your arousal caused the bee hybrids near you to react. Their antennas twitched while their cocks hardened the second your scent reached them. It was an immediate reaction that had you hiding within the safety of your guards as you were escorted to the council.

“My queen, what brings you here?”

You stood before the council, looking up at their pleasantly surprised faces. There were around 30 of them, all sitting in a half circle. Papers were piled next to each bee, and even while their full attention was on you, their hands still moved to work on the papers in front of them.

‘Busy and a bee’ was a phrase you heard a lot growing up, and as you watched them flit about the room, writing and shouting orders all while keeping their eyes on you, it finally dawned on you how accurate it was.

“I came here with questions. My first one is why am I here?”

They paused their work for a moment, and some shooed away any bees that weren’t in the council before shutting the doors.

“… as you may know, bee hybrid hives consist mainly of males,” one of the council members began, standing and walking towards you.

“Female bees are not born often, meaning that we cannot run a hive without… taking a female on as our queen,” another finished, setting aside a stack of finished papers.

“It’s also a great way to diversify the hive and prevent… inbreeding.”

You raised an eyebrow as the bee hybrid stood in front of you. He was nearly 10 feet tall, and crouched down in front of you, taking your hand before kissing the back of it.

When he looked into your eyes, they sparkled with devotion. “Our undercover agents have been watching you for months. You’re kind, and you love nature. You must know that without a queen, our hive will die out within a year.”

It was hard to look away from his dark orbs. The way he looked at you made your heart race.

“I know that we took you away without asking, but we cannot let you go. Please know that you will be treated with the utmost care, and you will be pampered beyond belief.”

For a moment you stayed quiet, your expression softening. “… what would be expected of me as queen?”

The entire council perked up, some leaping out of their seats in excitement without warning. They quickly returned to their work when the leader gave them a warning glance.

“You only have a handful of responsibilities each day. You greet the public, bond with the children, attend diplomatic meetings, and… breed with your loyal subjects to create your children.”

Your face heated up at the memory of your morning session with the pretty bee hybrid.

“And… I do these every day?”

They nodded. “Diplomatic meetings are less frequent, but everything else is daily.”

Daily… you’d get fucked like that daily?

‘Am I really going to abandon the life I’ve been living for the past few years just to get a good fuck and some pampering?’

Yes. Yes you were.

“Alright… I’m in. Not like I have much of a choice in the matter anyways…”

The bees surrounding you let out happy whines and buzzes. You were surrounded once again, being nuzzled and pulled into fluffy chests. They were all scenting you, obviously happy you were going to be their queen of your own free will.

“Then let’s get you some breakfast, my queen. You have much to do!”

Breakfast was filled with lots of chattering among your current attendants. They were fluffy, jealous things that lounged about in your quarters, burying their faces into your soft body and gossiping amongst themselves.

Once you were done eating, you were escorted to your first duty as queen.

“I hope your royal attendants behaved well. They are just excited to have a queen to dote on again. If you have any sexual needs or desires, they will perform them for you. And do not worry, they cannot produce eggs, so they exist purely for your pleasure and entertainment.”

It seemed strange, but your attendants seemed quite happy and spoiled, so you continued to follow the councilman in charge or guiding you.

“This is the nursery.”

The walls had the same honeycombs as the rest of the hive, but in each one was a crib and a sleeping babe. On the carpeted floor, toddlers waddled and crawled about, playing with toys as they got in their daily exercise.

Almost like a switch had been flipped, their tiny heads turned towards you. The closest baby bee tears up, their tiny, chubby legs struggling to carry them forward as they toddled their way over.

“M-mama!”

Every child within hearing range made their way over, clinging to your legs and fussing as they attempted to crawl up. They held onto your clothing, suckling on any bare skin they could find in an attempt to nurse.

“H-hey, I’m not your-“

The bee hybrid next to you sighed softly. “They won’t listen. You have the scent of their mother now, they want you to hold and feed them.”

Their little eyes were getting red and puffy from crying, they couldn’t understand why their mama wasn’t holding or feeding them.

It was really tugging at your heartstrings. They were just so little, you couldn’t imagine having a baby and how their innocent minds would try to process your death.

“Hey… it’s okay, mama is right here.”

You sat down, letting them climb into your lap and arms. A team of bee hybrids joined you, helping to bottle feed and soothe them.

“Once the eggs in you begin to grow, you’ll start lactating and will be able to feed hordes of the baby bees,” the councilman said, watching how the young ones bonded with you instantly.

“For now, though… you just need to give them your attention and care. They need it.”

As the little ones were laid down for a nap, you were able to sneak out and leave for your next appointment.

“The entire hive knows there is a new queen, gossip gets out fast,” the councilman said as you ate some lunch. Your attendants were playing with your clit, all cooing over how sensitive and hard it was getting under their touch.

There seemed to be no shame with them. You were sitting in the middle of the cafeteria and no one batted an eye as your fat pussy lips were pulled apart so they could lick and fuck your hole with their long tongues.

“However, you’ll still need to make an official appearance in front of the hive… that, and we’ll need to start the breeding ceremony.”

You were having trouble focusing, your fingers tugging on the hair of the bee between your legs. “C-ceremony?”

“Yes, my queen. It is customary for every bee hybrid to take a few days off of work to come and greet the queen. They all get their turns to mate and fill you with some of their own eggs.”

The ceremony began later in the evening. You were brought out before your loyal subjects, dressed in lacy lingerie and placed on a bed.

You felt less like a beloved ruler, and more like a breeding cow being brought out to be sold to the highest bidder.

Every bee bowed before you, dropping to one knee as they waited for you to speak.

“My loyal subjects…”

Just the sound of your voice sent a shiver of excitement through the crowd. You could see them shaking, few already hard and struggling to keep their hands off their pink, throbbing cocks.

“You have all been gathered here for the… breeding ceremony. As thanks for working as hard as you do, you all get a turn to…”

Again, your cheeks began to warm up. You couldn’t believe you were saying this. “… you all get a turn to breed me, your queen. I will take your eggs and incubate them, ensuring your bloodline will continue.”

With that, you laid down. The councilmen ushered forward a group of bee hybrids, and the breeding commenced.

They didn’t want to hurt you, that much was for sure.

Most of the bee hybrids were several feet taller than you, though some stopped at only a few inches above your head. No matter how much they towered over you, their touch was still gentle and hesitant.

None of them had ever touched a human before, much less mated with one. Your body was so sensitive, responding to every nudge and movement of their hands.

One of them sunk their fingers into your cunt, another offering you their cock. You took it into your mouth, causing them to buck their hips.

Your pussy gushed around their fingers.

“S-she’s getting all wet… my queen, is this good for you?”

“Yes, that means she’s excited! You can mate with her now!”

Each cock that entered you was different. Some were short and thick, others thin and long, but a few were both so girthy and long that you felt like you were being split in two.

At one point you were being fucked while jerking off two other bee hybrid and blowing another, trying to please as many as your subjects at once as possible.

The first creampie was almost soothing, the feeling of eggs filling your needy cunt was… mind blowing. You felt so fulfilled, you wanted to be fucked like this forever.

After the tenth bee hybrid though… you were so stuffed full you could barely think. Your tummy was stretched out, looking just about ready to burst.

“Oh, so pretty…” a bee chittered, rubbing your distended belly. “Our queen is doing so well…”

After another five bees had their way with you, the councilmen stepped forward. “That's enough for now, she needs her rest.”

Your attendants were quick to descend upon the bed, buzzing threateningly at every other hybrid that dared to even look at their exhausted queen.

“You truly did do well…” one of them cooed, kissing your temple after they bathed you then tucked you into bed.

“Sleep, you’ll need your rest. Tomorrow will bring even more eggs.”

As you laid down, curled up with a bee hybrid cuddle pile, you couldn’t help but look forward to tomorrow.

You were already becoming an amazing queen… and it had only been a day.

————————

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[muntitled]

Protecting His Investment

Pairings: The Salesman x Fem!Reader

Summary: No one gets to hurt you except him.

Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Language, Implied Violence, Age gap, God Complex, Brainwashing, Psychopathy, Murder, Blood, Gore, Codependency, Yandere!Salesman, Stalking, Smut (+18) mdni, Voyeurism, Blood Kink, Sadomasocism, Dom!Salesman, Sub!Reader, Choking, Rough Sex, Oral Sex, Blood Play, fingering, Massive Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Sadism, Punishments, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Squirting, Overstimulation

A/n: I'm not responsible for the media you consume.

This can be read as a continuation of this fic but not strictly

“Shouldn't I be blindfolded?"

If it weren't for the silence simmering between you both, in this monotonous taxi drive, he might’ve not heard you at all and perhaps you should have been more careful with your choice of wording but you were feeling a tiny bit reckless this Wednesday afternoon. He hadn't ever offered to personally fetch you from campus, and you felt incredibly juvenile when you spotted him standing there like a dad, in his grown-up suit while his briefcase hung in his hands in front of him. You'd almost convinced yourself that you were imagining things. That somehow your obsession with the man who kidnaps you every Wednesday to fulfill all his messed up fantasies was truly taking a toll on your mental health.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, he was real. And he had come to pick you up and you were feeling awfully giddy as he ushered you both into a taxi while a few of your peers stood and stared.

By now he would've blindfolded you. Keeping you completely clueless to the location he brings you to every Wednesday. See, your Salesman had myriad deep rooted issues. Mania. Sociopathy. Sadism. But the issue that irked you the very most was his inability to trust. Before you know it, you're pouting up a storm as you ask him. "Why aren't we using the blindfold today?"

He slowly removes his gaze from the window, where he had been pondering like the old man he is. He quirks up an eyebrow, letting the intensity of his attention wash completely over you.

"Would you like to be blindfolded?" He asks playfully. His eyes are sparkling with amusement and his lips are quirked up like it usually is when he's being sardonic. Still, you remain cautious as you lean forward. You send one quick glance to the taxi driver, wondering if you were being led in some kind of hearse on the road to your death.

"A-Are you going to kill me?" For the first time, cold, white fear ices the warm blood rushing through your veins. Come to think of it, he did seem far chirpier than usual. Perhaps that should have been your first warning. The flags were blood red but you were wearing rose-tinted glasses.

He only snickers before placing a heavy hand on your head, patting it down.

He doesn't answer you for the duration of the taxi drive, causing you to slip more and more into your thoughts of morbidity and despair. Why else wouldn't he blindfold you if not to end your life once you got there? It seemed dreadfully logical and so on-brand for him. He'd get bored of you sooner or later and then he'd dispose of you. There'd be no need to blindfold you any longer while he took you to his place because you'd soon become a corpse and-

"Doll." The voice cuts through the chatter filling your brain. All at once, the car has stopped, and warm air rushes into the interior as he holds the door open for you. "Get out of the nice man's car." He jests politely, quickly prompting you to unbuckle your seatbelt and scramble out of the taxi.

The second you're out he walks ahead of you. The building that comes into focus before you have your brows crinkling.

You quickly catch up to him, gazing up at his monotonous face. "Why are we here? You never come to my house."

He doesn't respond as you both walk into the foyer. He walks briskly and powerfully, like a man on the move while you send a small wave to the security manning the front desk. You both enter an empty elevator and he presses a button without you ever having to tell him which floor.

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

He lowers his gaze to you, one eyebrow quirked up.

"You only die when you disappoint me and as of late," he stares directly ahead, "You haven't disappointed me."

The elevator dings and he steps out. You follow him like a puppy without a leash. "In fact I'd say your work ethic as of late has been-" he blows out a long sigh as he makes it your apartment door- recalling all the weeks you two have spent together in vivid kaleidoscopic images. All the pain you let him inflict on you and pleasure he'd offer as a reward.

"-nothing short of stellar. I'm proud of you." He punches in the code to your apartment and you both enter. The curtains are drawn shut because your roommate hates sunlight. You preferred it but there was no communicating with something like her.

He kicks off his shoes at the door.

"What are we doing here?" You ask nervously, "My roommate will be back soon and she isn't very nice."

"We won't be playing at my place today." He says finally meeting your wild and nervous eyes. He seems so lax and so in control. "We'll be playing here."

"B-But my roommate."

"Is that why you were crying?" His gaze keeps you rooted to the floors, unable to move even if you wanted to, "Because of your roommate?"

"Crying? I wasn't crying-"

"Back at the university," he says, casually removing a microscopic piece of lint from his grey blazer, "Your head was beant and you looked up at me with bloodshot eyes." His eyes shine with amusement as he says, "Usually with our sessions, the crying only comes later on." Then he quirks his head and asks, "What happened?" There's a bang somewhere in the apartment and your head snaps forward. Your eyes scan over the adjoining living room and kitchen but he seems unfazed.

"It's stupid-" you shake your head, "Like who even still gets bullied in uni?"

You laugh pitifully, leaning against the nearest wall. He stands tall before you. A brick wall.

"Your roommate's threatening to kick you out of this apartment to move her boyfriend in?" He asks before adding, "Again."

Your head snaps up to him, "H-How-"

In that moment, he turns rather robotically, making his way deeper into your home. It's clean. Thank God.

"You don't realize how chatty you get when you're about to orgasm." He says before stopping right outside your closed bedroom door.

"My roommate- she... decided last night that- well- she would really like her boyfriend to live here instead-"

"Without consulting you first?" He clarifies, staring blankly ahead at the door, listening very attentively.

"Y-Yes without consulting me." You bring your hand to the doorknob, on your way to open it but he stops you with an iron grip around your wrist. You wince.

“Continue talking.” He says and you do.

"This morning they both kinda sprung on me that they'd like to be living here now. She went behind my back and already placed the deposit down our landlord, well," you clear your throat. "I might be homeless soon." You laugh but then swallow very thickly as the gravity of the situation falls onto your shoulders.

"And still you decided to have our sessions today?"

"If you'll have me," you nod.

"Remarkable." He replies. "Well I've never been very fond of my things or my toys getting dirty." He begins mysteriously as he places his hand directly over yours on the doorknob.

"Pardon?"

"I can't have my favorite toy living out on the street. Who knows what kind of animals would try to rape you or drug you or fucking stick their slimey dicks inside you-" he turns the doorknob, clicking your room open.

You're not even sure when this started happening. These 'private sessions' with your Salesman that quickly bled into something much more concerning. Before you knew it, he was seeping into your brain, polluting you with obsession. There had never ever been anyone else involved.

"What the hell did you do?" You ask, slowly entering your room to find two chairs placed directly in front of your bed. As soon as you enter, you hear the blood curdling, muffled screams being ripped from the throat of the two people strapped to those chairs.

"I'm protecting my investment," Says your Salesman as he pushes the door closed behind you.

Your feet feel like lead as you watch them and their panic-stricken eyes. There in front of you, they sit opposite one another, both with a haggard countenance and tears streaming down their cheeks.

At the sight of you, your roommate screams something horrid but it's muffled by the gag placed in her mouth, a gag the shape of a dog bone.

He's there too. The boyfriend. He's not as loud or as frantic as she is but he's significantly startled. His eyes are wild and vacant. The same gag.

"Oh my god-" you begin but he cuts in front of you, making his way to the couple seated across from each other.

"We're all gonna play a game- a quick one," He says, "Can't play for too long because I've been dying to get inside you since I saw those pretty little bloodshot eyes."

"Sir- I"

If you knew his name you might've screamed it in this moment. 'Sir' is your only point of reference to address the manic man in front of you.

This isn't right.

Right?

You're so confused, you barely register than you've thought out loud. It hits you as he slowly shrugs his blazer off.

"What isn't right is them thinking they can rape this apartment from underneath you." He says, folding it and placing it meticulously over your desk.

"I- have neighbors!?" You begin but he has a plan for that too.

"I had your room soundproofed since our first session." You're pushed into even more confusion.

"WHAT!? When did you even-"

"While you were at school-" he says before uncovering a handgun from his briefcase. A handgun and a silencer.

"Point is, Doll, I'm going to need you to play a game for me, ok?"

"DOLL!?" Comes your roommates' mortified and muffled cries.

"I need you to make one tiny decision for me." He says, screwing on the silencer onto the barrel of the revolver. It strikes you then that even when the mask is off, and the worst workings of his personality are on display for all to gaze upon, you still find him breathtakingly attractive.

"If-" tears burn the back of your throat, "If this room is soundproof why-why do you need a silencer?"

"I'm nothing if not a cautious man, you know this." Then his expression turns very grave and very dark as he says. "Don't you?"

“Yes, Sir,” you reply almost automatically. Like your need to respond to him- to please him, greatly overpowered your moral compass. “You're extremely cautious.”

Your roommate releases a shrill noise from the very back of her throat, her eyes pleading with the humanity she desperately tries to find in yours.

“Out of these two, he's my least favourite,” Your Salesman says, standing beside you. Eyes wild as he points his gun to the boyfriend's head.

“But this isn't about me,” he turns to face you, slowly dragging you gaze away from the victims that had once been your tormentors. You look up at him with a broken sob slipping through your lips. “I need you to choose.”

There it is.

His words seem to detonate what little fate you had in his humanity. There is nothing in his eyes except hedonism and violence.

"I'm going to have you to choose very quickly, baby-”

You're already shaking your head as frazzled braids tickle your shoulders. Your eyes find theirs and you immediately say, “I'm not going to do it.”

When you look at him again, you're almost horrified to find the smile that had once been on his face, completely wiped away. His face is a shadow and it strikes you way more than anything ever has. Something in you scolds you. It gnaws at you to make things right.

“Don't do that.” He says darkly. “Don't disappoint me.”

His hands -one still holding a gun- moves to cup both your cheeks. He cranes your neck further back, gazing deeply. “I can't have you living on the street.”

“You don't have to kill anyone-”

His jaw ticks, “Pick.”

“Sir…”

“You're disappointing me.”

All it takes is those three words to have your world crashing to the floor. Tears blur your vision as you raise a trembling finger.

“Him. I pick him.”

It's the first time you realized that you were brimming with codependency

Or stupidity.

Or maybe both

“That's a good girl.” He coos, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The father you never had.

He lets his eyes meet that of the boyfriend who is shaking and writhing in seat.

“What a good fucking girl I have, wouldn't you agree?” He asks the boyfriend yet he only cries and cries and cries. Meanwhile, you're bathing in the warm, milky words of praise.

"I suppose you wouldn't be able to agree to much in a second-"

He raises the gun.

Wait-" but the trigger is already pulled, and the bullet slices through the air and the deed is done.

It's remarkable how fast it travels. The speed of the bullet. Like it's competing with light itself. One moment his head is there and his brain is inside it, functioning like usual and the next moment, it's splattered all across my bedroom wall, coating your stuffed animals and drenching your pink bedding.

“You killed someone…”

“We killed someone, and you did such a good job. Now we're real rich people-”

You shake your head.

“Oh my fucking god we killed someone-”

It's stupid, but the first thought that comes to mind is-

“How- How am I gonna get the stain out!?”

“I'll get you new sheets, Doll, I promise…”

Meanwhile the roommate is crying and screaming her throat hoarse. You watch gravely as vomit soaks her gag.

“That's fucking disgusting.” He says before turning back to you. A spray of blood scatters across the side of his handsome face. He'd just committed murder and yet you still describe him as handsome.

“You're not disgusting at all.” He says, “You're so clean and beautiful.” His large hands rub over your face. “And now this apartment's yours. Ours. Maybe.”

Ours.

That word somehow affects you more than the murder you'd just lay witness to. It has you staring up at him with grateful, love-filled eyes. You're still scared but, you were his. And that was a powerful feeling. You'd never belonged to anyone before. Certainly not any man as handsome or smart as this. This isn't rose-tinted glasses anymore, it's rose-tinted vision.

“We killed someone.” You say. Solidifying the fact that you were a couple.

Your heart rages in its cage when his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head.

“Fuck yes we did,” he moans before smashing his lips down onto yours. Confusion and discomfort wage a terrific and bloody war inside you as he kisses you absolutely dizzy. Your insides are swirling and your stomach is turning at the sight of the blood drenching your walls.

he tips your head up, forcing his tongue in and he moans when you let him. Your tongues touch and coax and he pulls you in close.

“You know how good you looked when I picked you up earlier, Doll? I loved seeing those bloodshot eyes of yours.” He mumbles, “I just hated not being the one to make you cry.”

You sob something awful. The sound escapes you while your lips are still plastered to his.

“But this is all me,” he says proudly, gazing down at your watery eyes as he pins you up against the wall. “This is all me.”

Your roommate sits in a daze. Over his wide shoulder, her eyes stare blankly into yours and you almost find yourself mouthing the words 'I'm sorry'.

Almost. But you never do.

Your brain is too clouded by feelings of fear, regret, pleasure and… satisfaction. In your defense her boyfriend really fucking sucked.

"Take this off." He groans, lowering his large build to the floor to shove your shorts and underwear down. Undressing you almost formally as he lifts your one leg out followed by the other.

Your eyes are still on her.

Every vile word she's said to you. Every occasion she'd bring her equally cruel friends over and they'd gossip about you loud enough for their words to carry through the walls.

You realize very gravely that your care is waning.

That humanity that was still left inside you is thinning.

And he's pressing wet kisses against your legs, worshipping the soft cellulite at your thighs.

A man in a suit at his knees for you and she's forced to watch.

It makes you feel so-

"Fucking beautiful, fuck." He groans.

The more riled up he is, the less care he gives to how crass his language becomes. As if trapped in a daze, with your eyes still on your tormentor -your bully- you hook your fingers into his hair. Parting your legs you lead his mouth to your exposed cunt and he slurps you up for all your worth.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as he eats you out with vigor. He flattens his tongue and suctions his mouth against your clit, causing a deep and guttural moan to spill from your lips.

He pulls back, breathing raggedly, "Fuck my face," he commands, before placing both hands on your ass, enough to have your cunt riding his open mouth. It feels so fucking good your eyes are stinging with tears. You let them fall because you'd know he'd appreciate it. He appreciates every tear in your confidence. Every waver in your air-tight judgement. It undoes him completely to see you so fucking pathetic.

He looks up at you while you're riding him. Those morally black eyes are urging you to hump his face and you do.

At the sight of your tears falling his nails dig into your ass and you moan more. All the sounds you're able to make are in intelligible sounds of pleasure. But you force yourself to come to your senses. Just long enough to whisper

"Th-Thank you, Sir,"

He stills. Completely stunned.

You come. It crashes down on you all while your roommate tries to squeeze her crying eyes shut, shaking her head as if trying to delude herself into believing none of this is real.

"You are fucking fire, you know that?" He croaks, slowly rising. You're breathing oh so quickly and it only speeds up at the sight of your arousal casting his jaw.

“I wanna fucking hurt you so bad. I wanna eat you. I wanna fuck you. I wanna do so many unspeakable things to you- you're so perfect.”

He throws one more gaze over his shoulder. His almond eyes scan over the body, then the girl and he groans, furiously undoing his belt.

"How the fuck did I get so lucky?” he says, almost to himself.

"Answer me." He presses his body firmly against yours, until your spine is straight against the wall. "Fucking answer me when I talk to you."

He growls before bringing a hand up to your chin. It's painful the way he grabs you, but you're so used to pain. It lives here now. Between you both.

"I-I- don't know-" you really don't know and he melts at that.

"I'll tell you how, Princess. " he wraps your leg around his waist, "People like me- people we call crazy and evil-” His eyes are so wide, his smile too. -we get nice things. And people like that-" he quirks his head backwards, “The weak? Those people on the streets, they die.” He says, grinding his cock agaisnt your cunt, “And we don't die, yeah?"

"Oh fuck." You're seeing stars when his cock sinks into your cunt. It's hard and raging and he's already doing multiple shallow thrusts to force it deeper. "S-So big-" you can't talk, you hardly ever can when he's like this. Fucking you into an absolute frenzy.

"You gonna squirt for me, Doll?” he grits his teeth, hips stuttering as he ravages you against the wall. "F-Fuck." Some

“She's a really good squirter-” he turns his head to watch your roommate over his shoulder. Her head is slumped forward, she's fainted perhaps.

After weeks of trying to impress him, to show him that you were not the weak little thing he had first kidnapped- you realize it's paid off. He caveman grunts as he fucks you deeper and harder and a cry rips itself from your throat.

“Y-You want me?” You ask with trembling lips.

“Baby,” he breathes directly into your mouth. “I need you.”

"F-Fuck-" your orgasm sneaks up on you and he watches with immense gratification as you come undone on his cock.

“You're making a mess on my cock-” clear liquid streams out of hou, threatinging tk lush his cock out but he fucks you through it.

“Gonna fucking cum inside you, baby. You're gonna take it, aren't you? My good girl's gonna fucking take it,” he throws his head back as his eyes flutter closed and soon he's fucking spurts of warm cum into you.

It fills you completely until the mess is coating your thighs. Through your wave of endless euphoria you see stars, the planets and him in the very centre of it all, guiding you and coaxing you through the bountiful high.

Even when he's done, his cock is still nestled deep inside you, pushing you over the brink of stimulation.

"You're very promising.” He admits, “Always have been.”

© to @muntitled on tumblr; do not repost

[chososcutie]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡ HONEYMOON OR BUST ⸝⸝ .ᐟ⋆

pairing ── satoru gojo x reader

teaser ── after being forced into an arranged marriage, you're expected to have heirs, with a husband who hates you! will a honeymoon that leaves you stuck with him in a snowy cabin for a week filled with awkward moments and charged tension change that? or will it reveal the harsh reality of the cold, loveless marriage you've been forced into?

content ── fem!reader, angsty ending, spitting, degrading, rough fucking, hate sex, forced proximity, masturbation, fingering, breeding kink, oral (fem!recieving), teasing, pregnancy, mention of cheating, thigh fucking, pussy slapping, slight misogyny, name-calling, one bed troupe, accidental indecency, enemies-to-lovers

count ── 8k

PART I

heirs.

the word lingers in your mind as the banquet ends, as you walk out in your too-tight wedding dress, even as the carriage comes that was to take you to your honeymoon.

it wasn't fair.

they had never told you that this was expectation.

not only had the monarchy stolen your life, your future, your dreams, but now they were forcing you into a mother?

your face darkens, shadowed by the veil, as you walk beside your husband, the send-off for the honeymoon commencing.

"long live the king!"

"may the crown forever be bound upon your brows!"

"may god bless you with a fruitful womb!"

next to you, satoru's jaw tightens ever so slightly, his haunting silence, coupled with his formal white robes sweeping behind him giving him a ghost-like illusion.

you didn't know what he was thinking, but at least you knew he had been out of the loop too, judging by his cold expression.

from the sounds and looks everyone around you were giving however, you knew that they were assuming you were both just itching to rip off each other's clothes and consummate the marriage, but you didn't even know if you could stomach to look at him let alone touch him, and from the storm brewing in his cerulean blue eyes, glinting with something dangerous that warned not to be messed with, you sensed he felt much of the same.

you're snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of hoofbeats and a heavy, latched door creaking open halfway, revealing the mode of transportation you were to take.

and oh, was it a sight to behold.

fully decked out in lace, satiny curtains draping over the windows, it was painted a pinkish rose gold and pearly white hue, adorned with golden wheels that seemed to swell under the light of the fading twilight sky.

it was a love carriage, meant to bring feelings of romance and tension into the air, perfect for a couple heading to their honeymoon.

but unfortunately for you, however, this arrangement was anything but romantic.

the terse quietness between the two of you only thickens tenfold once the doors slam shut behind you, the loud clapping and cheering of the people watching you two abruptly cutting off as you're left alone together for the first time that night.

and for a long moment, no one speaks.

but just as you think you’re in the clear, starting to relax into the seat, you hear satoru's hollow voice, tinged with bitterness as he continues looking straight ahead. "did you know?"

you quickly turn to face him, shock creeping its way into your words. "how could i have known? i told you that i didn't want this either but you seem to believe it's all my fault."

“i never said that.” he says dryly.

you both lapse into silence once more, your hands curled into neat fists in your lap while satoru sits stiffly, back straight as a board.

the nerve of this man. for him to assume you wanted this marriage, that you wanted his kids, that you even wanted to be queen.

you shook slightly beside him, infuriated and wondering how you were ever going to get through this cursed honeymoon.

from the bits and pieces of this arrangement you had been made aware of, it was to take place in a distant, secluded cabin, decked out with a master suite and hot tub, in a mountainous taiga.

when you thought of an ideal honeymoon, you had always dreamed of going somewhere faraway and warm, a nice contrast to your own dreary kingdom with its blustery weather and snowcapped peaks. but that, along with everything else in your life, had been stolen from you, snatched out of your control and decided for you.

just like him.

you look over to satoru again, only to find him as far from you as possible, sulking while he stares out the window pointedly. his arms are folded across his silky white monarch robes, the contrast between his royal lineage and childish antics almost jolting.

finally, a couple hours later, you arrive at your secluded honeymoon estate: a big wooden framed cabin with high cobblestone chimneys, with a roof topped in powdery white, and heavy log walls awaiting you both.

the idea was to have a completely deserted, isolated cottage in the middle of the woods all to yourselves so you can focus on.. indulging in each other, and sealing the marriage forevermore so to speak.

and it was half working so far because the second the carriage set off again back the way it came, it was just you and satoru.

alone.

together.

"i.." you begin uncertainly, but he quickly interrupts, voice brisk and cold.

"you take the left side rooms, and i’ll remain on the right. over the duration of this week you are not to bother me, until i decide fit." he says crisply, before walking away from you toward the estate, his robes swishing behind him.

oh. so that was how it was going to be?

you stare after him for a moment, hurt creeping into your senses for a brief second before you shake it off. just when you had thought you two were finally getting to have an understanding of each other...

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ── DAY ONE ── ۫ ׅ ✧ ⊰

on first sight, the cabin looks large, at least enough to fit two people and still be spacious, but the truth was the inside was tiny. cramped, even.

the second you enter, you’re instantly slapped in the face with the heady scent of loud, sensual perfume and rose petals making a pathway across the planked wooden floor.

irritatedly, satoru ducks his head through the doorway. he was too tall to even fit!

“well.” his gaze sweeps around, making mental notes of what your arrangements would be. “it seems to be.. smaller than i imagined.”

it was a three-room cabin to be exact, with a bed, a bathroom, and a cramped kitchen. the only saving grace was the bubbling, frothing hot tub outside with more rose petals decorating the top along with two flutes of champagne set beside it romantically.

“let’s see how big the bed is..” his broad frame disappears into the room, with you following suit as you take in the obnoxiously overdone romantic setting.

there’s candles, dimmed lights, the works. it was like they were begging you to fuck each other.

the bedroom was even worse.

a king size, with curtains draping over everything dramatically, it was a sight in itself, maroon red covers highlighting the seductiveness of the room.

“looks like we’re sharing a bed again.” you come behind him, trying to suppress the scorn in your voice unsuccessfully, watching as his shoulders tense in agitation.

“they told me it was bigger..” he mumbles, eyebrows furrowing with a scowl.

with a small sigh, you flop onto the bed, your overly exuberant wedding dress you were still wearing billowing around you, and lifting up slightly.

you didn’t realize how much however, until you hear satoru’s soft inhale of breath and look down to see your delicate lace garter exposed, wrapped on your plush thigh with a pretty white bow.

you had forgotten your wedding dressers had made you wear one for the purposes of tradition, and you had relented solely because of the fact you were certain that, garter or no garter, satoru would not touch you either way.

noticing his visible reaction, you can’t help the urge to sling your leg further upward to reveal more of your tantalizing skin, his eyes devouring every inch you offer him.

before you can go any further however, he reaches for you, warm calloused hands skimming across your skin, and igniting a fire low in your stomach as he pulls the poofy tulle of your skirt down to cover you again. his hands linger for a moment longer than necessary before he draws back, a firm little scowl gracing his pink lips.

“it's not ladylike to showcase yourself off like a slut, princess. didn’t your kingdom teach you that?”

he spits 'kingdom' out like a foul tasting word, not giving you the chance to respond before departing again, the bathroom door slamming closed behind him.

the second he leaves, you let out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding, the ghost of his searing touch still fresh in your mind as you lay back against the covers, eyes wide.

later, as you're tucking yourself into bed after changing out of your stuffy wedding clothes, satoru finally reappears.

his hair is sticking up in wet little spikes, and he’s wearing a baggy shirt and sweatpants. leaning against the doorway with his hands folded across his chest, he's the epitome of effortless beauty.

"god, so eager to be in bed with me already, hm?" he tilts his head at you, sharp blue eyes boring into yours, his tone cruel and mocking.

you scoff, turning on your side to face away from him. "yeah, you wish."

he hums softly in disagreement, before the mattress dips under his weight as he slides in to bed next to you.

with all the lights off, and flickering candles casting the room in a warm glow, the moment becomes more intimate, the press of his body to your back causing you to become sleepy beneath the covers.

pathetic, you think to yourself ruefully.

you should hate the man for everything he had said and done, but all you seem to do is just let him have his way, complying like the good little wifey you’ve been reduced to.

but before you have time to further evaluate and let shame overwhelm you, you begin to drift off, the promise of dark surrender claiming you.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ── DAY TWO ── ۫ ׅ ✧ ⊰

when you wake up in the morning, the bed is empty with nothing but rumpled sheets left in satoru's place, and after eating some breakfast, you decide now is as good a time as any to take some time to yourself, and try out the hot, new bubbling jacuzzi in all its glory, before he gets back.

luckily, along with the cottage you were staying at, clothes and swimsuits had been provided, curtesy of the royal family, and should be in the drawer right.. there!

"aha!" triumphantly, your fingers feel the stretchy elastic texture of a bathing suit, pulling it out only for your eyes to practically pop out of your head at the sight before you; a matching white tiny tube bikini top, paired with minuscule thong bottoms.

"no no.." you murmur under your breath, quickly rifling through the drawer for other options, but of course, that's the only bikini there is.

you sigh to yourself. naturally, your tits were going to be popping out of this top, and your ass would be exposed, but you would just have to make it work.

squeezing into it proved to be a bit of a challenge as they obviously hadn't taken your sizing into consideration, but you manage to do it with minimal cleavage being pushed up though more than you would like.

and finally, finally, you get inside the jacuzzi, the water steaming hot and bubbling, your head lolling back with pleasure as the jets do their work.

"ughh, this is just what i needed after.. satoru?"

you startle as you see the familiar white-haired man standing in front of you, widened azure eyes taking in the way you're sprawled in the hot tub, foam surrounding you in your skimpy little bikini and leaving practically nothing to the imagination.

instinctively, you slink down into the water, hoping he can't see you too well.

"can’t a girl enjoy herself alone? i’m trying out the jacuzzi."

his eyes rove over you intensely, expression unreadable. "your tits are out."

after a moment of silence where you clear your throat awkwardly and shift, he doesn't get the hint, brazenly going on. "hah.. but you knew that, right? you probably want me to look at you, yeah? show off those pretty breasts because they're all you have to offer.."

"oh just shut up! leave for god's sake!" you growl, teeth gritted so tight you're surprised they don't crack.

but instead of relenting, his brows furrow, as if contemplating something.

“hold on, i think i have a swimsuit too..”

that led to a few minutes later when a very shirtless satoru, wearing swim trunks that look a size too tight, slides in beside you.

you try to look anywhere but his muscular chest, but it proves difficult with the way his arms reach up around his head, biceps prominent and pale pink nipples tantalizingly close to your face.

instantly as he gets in, his shorts plaster themselves like a second skin to his muscular thighs, revealing a very big bulge straining against the fabric, the sight so erotic your cheeks flush as you look away.

he sighs softly while the steaming hot water laps around his body, tilting his head to look at you. “so about that swimsuit.. is skimpy the look you're going for, or do you enjoy whoring yourself out..?"

you wave him off with a scoff. “yeah, yeah. you're the one wearing speedos.”

satoru moves slightly at that, shifting into a manspread, with his hips lifting up and his cock so noticeably outlined, you can’t help it when naturally your eyes are drawn toward him, mouth going dry at his pure size. you only manage to tear yourself away when you hear his soft hum of amusement next to you.

"well clearly you like it, you dirty little slut."

guiltily, you glance up, about to stutter for a response when his eyes search yours, heat swirling in them for a second as his lips hover over yours.

just a little closer and..

“are your nipples always this hard or is it just for me?” smugly, he glowers at you and with a horrified glance down, you find he’s right, your nipples pebbled and standing at attention, almost see-through in your flimsy excuse of a swimsuit.

you quickly get up, water rolling off your sheened body, glaring daggers at satoru. screaming out a “shut up perv!” before disappearing back into the house, satoru watching your ass jiggle in the tiny microthong you had on with curved lips and a growing boner.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ── DAY THREE ── ۫ ׅ ✧ ⊰

after yesterday’s disaster of a tranquil time in the jacuzzi, you decided today that you would take advantage of the wintry landscape you had become stranded in, and hike through the taiga trees alone.

it hadn’t seemed like a bad idea at first, it’d do you good to get out of the house and away from that royal pain-in-the ass, but now two miles in, frozen cold, shivering, and more than a little lost, the idea wasn’t as appealing.

"f-fuck.." you shudder, blowing on your hands and rubbing them together while peering around at the haze of trees, each so similar you can't tell if you've been walking in circles this whole time or not. "s-so c-cold.."

and then, just as you go to step, twigs cracking underfoot, your ankle twists, your heart dropping as you hear a snap! before pain washes over your entire leg, and you tumble down onto the icy ground, everything going black.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・

when you regain consciousness again, you feel yourself being jerked and jostled around, still heavily disoriented.

you're moving, you realize, and someone is holding you, a toned chest radiating heat pressed firmly against you, along with arms looped underneath your legs, carrying you bridal style.

he huffs softly in your ear, and instantly, you recognize his breathing patterns from the nights you had spent in the same bed.

satoru.

for a second, you let yourself slump into his tight grip, your leg aching, and eyes half-closed, but then the hand he's using to support underneath your legs tightens, squeezing you, and you feel your breath stutter.

“i know you’re awake.”

dropping the act, you blink your eyes open to stare at his looming figure. how did he find you? when you hadn’t returned, had he been worried about.. you?

“don’t read too much into it.” he says gruffly, shifting you in his arms as he opens the door to the cabin, and carries you to the bedroom to lay you gently down.

“now where does it hurt?”

you sniffle, trying to sit up to show him, but quickly he pushes you back to lay down, his hand splaying across your chest and shoving roughly, the action almost provocative.

“words.”

“m-my ankle. i think i twisted it, and when i fell, i heard a snap.”

his gaze is focused on your foot, and he nods, before holding it up to examine.

“it doesn’t look broken. i’ll get some ice and wrap it, but it’s probably just a sprain.”

he stands up, but before he can leave, you grip onto his sleeve, stopping him. he looks back, eyes raking over your face.

“hey. thank you, for saving me.”

his eyes linger on your lips for a second before he turns back around. “it was nothing.”

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ── DAY FOUR ── ۫ ׅ ✧ ⊰

with your sore ankle, you hadn’t been able to move around as much, and as a result, had been cooped up in the stuffy cabin with satoru, his habits getting increasingly more and more annoying as the hours went on.

"sa-toru! put the fuckin' toilet seat down, damnit!"

you hear his voice lilted with mockery as he calls back, "oh my, what a filthy mouth you’ve got on you.."

you want to slap him. you're going to slap him.

in an effort to calm yourself, and keep yourself occupied, you decide to take a bath, thinking the hot water will soothe your violent urges, and your achey ankle.

a few minutes pass, with you wallowing in tepid water, cold and wet, and with a frustrated groan, you get up, realizing this isn’t helping. silken droplets roll off you in beads, as you prepare to grab a towel when suddenly..

creeeeak!

"you wanna take a little longer? c’mon some of us gotta..”

satoru stops in his tracks, head poking through the door when he spots you, completely naked, your body dripping wet and glistening. his blue eyes immediately rake up n’ down, and you swear his pants grow bigger, heat rising to his cheeks.

“satoru! i’m.. get out!”

your hands fly to cover yourself, while he’s left checking you out shamelessly, practically drooling as he eyes you like a dog in heat.

“get! ouuuut!” you slam the door in his face before slumping down, staring in disbelief as your hands slowly fall to your sides.

oh. my. god.

this man really was going to kill you.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・

you realized that in your marriage, you would have to see each other intimately eventually, especially now that you were expected to have heirs, but it was still so unexpected for him to barge in on you like that..

you cover your face with your hands in embarrassment at the memory as you lie in bed, waiting for satoru to come to your shared room, and poke fun at you.

but.. the moment never comes as seconds stretch into minutes and then to hours, and darkness steadily overtakes the room.

maybe he had finally decided to sleep on the couch..

huh. you turn over, eyes beginning to droop in the quietness of night. oh well. at least you had the bed to yourself!

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ── DAY FIVE ── ۫ ׅ ✧ ⊰

two big, calloused hands come to your plush thighs, pushing them apart with a soft sigh, already fucked out just by the sight of your drenched pussy, glistening with strings of your slick arousal running down between your legs.

he murmurs something too low for you to hear, before two thick fingers come to glide over the slippery sheen of your cunt, causing your hips to buck up instinctively, the space between your thighs widening. he obediently lowers his head before nuzzling it between you, and staring up at you with big azure eyes that practically beg for you to let him eat your pussy.

“toru..” you manage to breathe out through small heaves, and that’s all it takes for his hot, slithery tongue to run up your folds before beginning to lap sloppily at your pulsing core, uncaring of the pools of spit and drool he’s leaving in his wake.

“hah.. s-shit, slow down..” you whine, eyes scrunched closed tightly at the foreign feeling, and building heat in your abdomen. no one had ever touched you like this before.

encouraged, his head presses further into you, soft mussed hair tickling you as his nose bumps your clit with every kitten lick on your throbbing nub, until you feel hot all over, and a weird sensation fluttering around in your stomach.

you feel satoru moan into you, hands coming to your hips to press you harder into his eager mouth as you grind your pussy sloppily on his face, chasing the feeling of the very tips of white pleasure starting to blacken the edges of your vision.

your walls clench as his tongue pushes in to you, before he pulls back, smacking his lips together and taking your puffy bud into his mouth and sucking hard, groaning out at your sweet candied taste.

your mouth drops open, a hoarse moan spilling out as your legs tighten around his head, and then you’re cumming harder than you ever have.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・

you tear your covers off, body covered in a glistening sheen of sweat, and panting heavily, your panties absolutely soaked through.

a wet dream. you had just had a wet dream about satoru.

fuck.

you slowly swing your feet from the bed, placing them down gingerly on the creaking floorboards, praying he wasn’t up.

you needed to clean yourself up after the embarrassing mess you had just made, so you head to the bathroom, being as quiet as possible.

and just when you think you're in the clear, pushing the slightly ajar bathroom door to open wider..

plap! plap! plap!

satoru, in all his glory stands before the mirror, head tilted back and panting softly with his tongue lolling out of his mouth and a hand wrapped tightly around his cock, stroking himself off furiously.

and the first thing you think is that he’s huung. absolutely enormous, his reddened length twitching and oozing with sheens of glossy precum dripping all over his hand and down his wrist, veins thump thumping! an erratic tempo as you watch his throat bob in a swallow.

he must already be close, judging by the soft grunts he's letting out and the increasingly filthy noises his hot, pulsing member makes as his hips thrust in and out of his hand, fat cock just weeping with syrupy slick.

schlick! schlick!

in fact, he's juuust about to cum, his breath picking up speed as his thrusts get sloppier, squeezing his veiny base hard when you finally speak.

“satoru.”

that single breath of his name is all it takes to finally snap his attention toward where you’re staring at him, his cerulean eyes widening as his hand instantly stills.

but it’s too late.

his drooling slit is already gushing ribbons n' ribbons of hot, sweltering seed, oozing out in creamy little pulses as he shudders, trying to fight it even as his eyes roll back and his hips twitch pathetically.

his half-lidded eyes make their way over to you, and the sight of him is almost pornographic: muscular hulking frame with splatterings of cum pooling all over his abdominals, and seemingly endless spurts of his load continuously spilling out of the reddish divot on his thickened tip.

it's then that you're finally able to make yourself move, tearing yourself out of your trance as you slam the door hard, sprinting away to anywhere but where he is.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・

you don’t see satoru for the whole rest of the day.

at least, not until it starts snowing, and snowing hard.

a blizzard, would be the only way to describe it, as flurries of icy white swirl around in frenzies, the snow on your door piling up inch by inch, until at least a foot blocks the doorway.

of course, satoru finally reappears right before the snowing worsens, and the weather condition becomes severe.

you swallow thickly, looking up at his impassable face, wondering what you're going to say to break the silent tension before suddenly..

BZZZT!

the lights flicker, before shutting off entirely, leaving you both in utter pitch-black with the snowfall steadily increasing outside, raging against your windows with growing intensity.

the electricity.

“shit..” you breathe, the darkness discombobulating you as you try to find yourself, hands waving around only to encounter something thick and hot, jumping beneath your touch, and an involuntary noise caught between a groan and a whimper leaving satoru’s mouth.

oh god.

“that was my-”

“yep got it..”

before he can say more, you start walking away, cheeks burning and glad that he at least couldn’t see your face in the dark.

you needed to fix the electricity before you could worry about satoru, and so you try to make your way toward where you knew the power box was located, stumbling and tripping as minimally as you could manage.

just as you think you’re about to make it though, your head knocks hard against someone else’s, practically rattling your teeth with the force of it.

“oh my god, try and be a little more careful, why don’t you? fuck.” comes a slightly raspy baritone, as familiar as it was infuriating.

“satoru? uungh ow..” you rub your head sorely for a few seconds, before starting to place your hands around to locate the circuit breaker.

“what do you think you're doing?” his hands brush yours for a second as he reaches across you to start fiddling with the panel you had just found.

“fixing our electricity, how about you?”

he chuckles, the sound condescending. “just back up, let me take care of this. it’s a man’s job after all. you probably don’t even know what a fuse looks like.”

your jaw drops open. “you misogynistic fucker. you’re saying that because i’m a woman, i can’t do it?”

“no, i’m saying that a prissy little bimbo like you can’t do it. that has nothing to do with women.” he opens the panel with ease, arms casually stretched around you as he works.

you’re practically shaking with anger now at his almost constant undermining remarks of your stature and capabilities. it was all getting to be too much.

unaware of your oncoming rage, his hand feels around inside before you hear the soft flick! of a switch, and the lights turn back on.

satoru turns to you, mouth smugly curved up as he mock-dusts his hands. “easy-peasy.”

you’re on him in a heartbeat, face inches from his as you curl your hand around the collar of his shirt, pushing him hard against the wiry boxes and circuits littering the walls. “why are you so determined to treat me like some commonplace whore who can’t even separate her right hand from her left? why can’t you treat me like a person? i’m your wife for god’s sake, you’re supposed to have heirs with me and lead this kingdom to prosperity at my side, and you can’t even let me flick a goddamn switch?!”

he pauses, and it surprises you when you feel his chest shaking beneath your palms, mouth wide and laughing, almost maniacally. “god. why does everyone keep talking about heirs?”

you swallow, watching him go on, giggling with hysterics, the sound almost chilling.

his head slowly falls back, looking at you then, crystalline eyes wide with something dangerous and rough glinting in his pupils.

“they want heirs, huh? let’s give it to them then, sweetheart.”

you gasp as in an instant, he has you against a table, flipping you effortlessly as his hot, pulsing cock presses up against your ass, his hips rolling forward with a small groan.

you can’t help the way you buck back into him, body begging for more as your breathing increases and your core pulses with need.

“you like that, huh? heh.. fighting so hard to say you’re not a whore yet you melt at the slightest touch..”

“oh s-shut up.” you grit out as his grinding increases, clearly getting more n’ more worked up by your arguing. “you’re the one who.. ah.. was jerking off.. ngh.”

he growls at that, forcing your head back with a sharp tug to your hair. “that’s just a natural physical form of release. was just a bit.. hnngh.. pent up, is all.”

you arch your back and tantalizingly begin to sway your ass against his throbbing boner, his head tipping back with a hoarse grunt. "you're sure it wasn't a coincidence that you just happened to see me naked before that?"

his hot breath huffs against you as he humps into you with fervor, grabby hands making their way to your hips to pull you harshly against him, forcing you to bend over more as his fat cock nestles into your clothed cunt. "j-just shut up, and take off your pants.."

without wasting another second, your fingers hook in the waistband, shoving them off you as you let clothing pool to the ground before shifting to widen your legs.

“fuck, you’re dripping princess..” he moans softly as his thick fingers come to dip inside your panties, smearing globs of your sloshing slick around.

you whine, trying to move yourself back into him for more but he quickly pulls his slender digits out, popping them into his mouth and sucking your essence off with a groan.

“oh c’mon, just fuck me already!” you pant, getting impatient as you curl your fists tightly around the edge of the table.

“stupid.. hah.. kingdom forcing me to marry a fuckin’ brat..”

you mewl then as you feel him coming to wedge his hot, weighty shaft pulsing and throbbing against you bare, his soft breaths becoming sharper in your ear as he slathers his oozing, slippery sheens of glossy precum on you.

“they wan’ a heir so bad, i’ll give ‘em a heir.. now, open those slutty legs..” he whispers roughly, sounding strained and desperate as his hand snakes between your thighs to part them enough to slide his cock in between, slowly fucking into your tantalizingly plush skin.

and then, you’re gasping for breath, your body feverish as his thickened, angry mushroom head is bumpin’ hard against your pussy, causing you to clench around nothing.

chuckling hoarsely, he grips his weeping length tightly before roughly slapping it against your cunt, again n’ again until you’re practically sobbing, “please, sa-toru! god, ngh.. put it in, put it in..!”

teasingly, he swipes his thickened cock head against your entrance, collecting your generous slick, before pushing juuust the tip in, enough for your walls to tighten harshly in an attempt to suck him in further but to no avail.

“you ready to give the crown a baby? yeah?” his hand comes to wrap tightly around your throat, almost choking you as he purrs into your ear. “gonna be all pregnant swollen up with my kid? these pretty tits filled with milk?”

for emphasis, his other hand roughly grabs at your breast, squeezing tightly, and making you cry out, bucking back into him.

"yes! just.. give it to me 'toru fuck!"

he snickers, and then, in one harsh, ruthless thrust, buries himself to the hilt deep inside you, until his tip is pressed up right against your cervix, and heavy, twitchy balls slap your ass with his sheer force.

your tight, gummy walls instantly clamp hard around him in welcome as you practically scream, clawing at the table desperately.

"yeahh sweetheart, milk me dry.. you want this fuckin' baby, don'tcha?" he reels back his hips, before harshly plowing into you, the slap! of skin against skin echoing as his brutal pace makes your mind go blank, eyes half-lidded and jaw slacken with drool seeping from the corners. you were already cock-drunk!

his nasty hips only grow rockier as you pant out a dazed, "toru.. hnngh!" and he quickly reaches a hand to pull back your head, tapping on your cheek meanly. "open."

you do, and his eyes flicker before he leans forward to spit a heavy wad of hot, pooling saliva into your awaiting mouth, watching with satisfaction as you swallow instinctively.

you feel his hands reach down, both of them curling around your stomach to hold you steady, as he heaves out a, "ohh-h, i'm.. ah.. allll the way in here."

his palm slides to your abdominals, just above your belly button, where the veiny outline of his girthy cock is barely visible, disappearing and reappearing obscenely with every punctuated thrust.

his curved dick hits directly into your cushy, sweet spot and you can't help but squeal, trying to both grind on him and move away from the huge, twitching member absolutely ruining your insides.

"stop.. hnngh.. squirming!" satoru's eyes are rolled all the way back in his head as he continues to hit even deeper into your poor, abused cunt, landing a sharp smack! on your twitchy clit, your pouty sheened lips opening in a small o'.

he rocks himself steadily into you, before you're sobbing out so brokenly, your tummy knotting tighter n' tighter until achingly you register the way you're cumming and cumming hard, so much slick gushing out of you, the force of it pushes satoru's cock back a few inches, small heaving gasps coming from you as your vision turns black and spotty.

he groans then, cerulean eyes peering so hazily at the messy sight laid before him as sloppily, his pace is increasing with an almost primal kind of need, his textured, washboard abs bumping against your back while he mashes his thickened tip into your cervix repeatedly.

and then, you feel him shudder behind you, dragging his hefty, swollen cock languidly deeper into your pulsating walls, as loads n' loads of sweltering hot, glossy white seed are oozing steadily into you, so much of it that it's pooling below you, your overspilling cunt gaping as it trickles down between your thighs.

"take it, take it all.." he's heaving out from behind you, hands coming to splay out on the table in front of you as he pushes his hips experimentally forward, watching the way more creamy filth instantly sloshes down your legs.

and then, he's spinning you around and lifting you by the hips to lay flat against the table, roughly shoving your legs up by your head, heavy cock still oh so hard and swollen inside of you.

growling a sultry, "damn kingdom wants me to fuck a baby into you so bad then that's what they're gonna get.."

⊱ ׅ ۫ ׅ✧ ── DAY SIX ── ۫ ׅ ✧ ⊰

the next morning, you wake up so sore and battered from the night before you can barely move.

after going for several rounds, satoru taking you in every position imaginable, you both had collapsed onto the bed in a tangled heap of arms and legs, your sweaty bodies molded together stickily, and now with morning sunlight filtering through the window to shine brightly onto your face, you open your hazy eyes to find satoru's face nuzzled into your neck, snoring softly.

because even after all that rough sex and hate-fucking as he spat on you, degraded you, and cooed at you mockingly while you struggled to take all of his monstrous cock on your own, he was still cuddled up to you like a sleepy puppy, his soft white hair tickling you as his arms wrap around you, holding you tighter.

"satoruu.." you poke his cheek, shifting in his arms.

he only lets out a small whine of protest before moving his pale freckled face away from you in irritation.

oh for fuck's sake. you manage to free both hands from where his heavy body has you pinned, before shoving on his chest as hard as you can.

thump!

he groans, cerulean blue eyes instantly opening to glare up at you as you peek over the edge of the bed at him.

"fuck was that for?" he demands, toned back and muscles rippling tantalizingly. he was still naked from last night.

you blink at him innocently, tender doe-eyed gaze growing even more sickly sweet. "need you to get up. i want a bath."

he grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face in annoyance. "yeah? why can't you do it yourself?"

you pout at him, glossy lips sticking out dramatically. "you were the one who made me all messy n' sticky! s' only fair!"

"well who said they wanted me to cum all over her t-"

he's cut off as a soft pillow comes sailing in the air toward him, hitting him straight in the head with a small "oomph!".

"shut up, and make me a bath." you say plainly.

he grabs you so quick you can only squeal as he stands and grips the soft skin of your hips tightly, pulling you toward him and pinning you while his mouth huffs above yours.

"wanna say that again? i don't take demands from naughty princesses like you." his eyes narrow, flickering with heat. "and what you did last night was naughty."

you try and push his broad frame off you, but when that doesn't work, decide to instead try another tactic. "yeah? help me remember, was it when i rode you just like this..?"

you make an effort to squirm and grind your body under him, adding a few overexaggerated moans for effect, watching as his eyes turn half-lidded, his breathing coming in faster pants.

"orrr was it when i sucked your cock so good, you were almost in tears..?" teasingly, you let your eyes roll back, mock-gagging while faintly bobbing your head.

he swallows thickly, and you look down to see his length, leaky and hard, pulsating to life right before you.

"oh oh! i know! was it when i.."

quickly, he slaps a hand over your mouth, groaning out a, "fuck just shut up!" before his mouth is on yours, and he's claiming your tongue in a hot, sloppy kiss, as his hands find their way dragging down your body lower n' lower until his heated kisses and rough touches are all you can remember, teasing and mocking long-forgotten.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ── DAY SEVEN ── ۫ ׅ ✧ ⊰

today was the day that you both would return to the kingdom, escorted by horse-drawn carriages, and royal banners waving in the air, welcomed to the palace as official monarchs.

it was a big day, and you tucked your lip between your teeth nervously as you laced your corset up, fluffy tulle skirt sweeping around you.

after today, you would be queen of the gojo clan, forever dutiful to the throne up until the day you died.

you swallow thickly, making some last minute adjustments to yourself in the mirror when suddenly you feel a sharp, stinging smack! to your ass.

before you can react, satoru is already sidling up behind you, pressing his front flush against you, thick girthy outline prodded into your back as he whispers, “that dress is so tight on you.”

“toru, you pervert!” you wheel around, scowling firmly as you push him back, trying not to reveal how dizzy his touch makes you, watching him stumble back with mouth curved in a smirk, his eyes heavy and lustful.

“quickie before we go?” he steps forward again to close the distance, hand wrapping around your waist as his hips roll forward temptingly, causing you to suck in a breath, restraining yourself.

“no! they’re close, i can see the carriages in the distance!”

it was true. faintly outlined in the horizon, a whole army of royal steeds were quickly approaching, trumpets distantly playing with the stamp of the gojo clan drawn up high.

“fine.” he huffs, dragging you to him to spin you around and catch you in a dip. “how ‘bout a kiss?”

your eyes narrow on him suspiciously but you relent nonetheless, his glossy, candied lips crashing onto yours in a craze as he takes much more than a kiss from you.

he sucks your top lip into his mouth loudly, groaning softly at your taste before his tongue lewdly tangles with yours, pools of hot saliva mixing together.

in fact, you’re so caught up in him, you don’t even realize he’s moving you both until he slams you against the wall, one hefty thigh slotting its way between your legs to hold all of your weight, never breaking the kiss.

“toru.. mmph!” you try to break away to speak but he doesn’t let you, fervent mouth sliding against yours as he slowly lifts his leg higher, until he’s applying pressure directly to your pulsating core, an instinctive moan drifting its way out of your mouth.

you drag yourself along his thigh urgently, grinding back n’ forth and letting out small whimpers into his mouth, but suddenly, he stops, breaking the kiss with strings of saliva stretching between your lips as he peers at you, panting softly.

the moment turns more intimate as he hesitates, hand coming to caress your cheek almost softly, his eyes studying you with something you can’t quite decipher. “you know things are going to be different once we return to the kingdom, right?”

you hesitate. “different..?”

at the furrow that appears between your eyebrows, your eyes drifting to the fast-approaching carriage, he kisses you on the lips, this time softer, gentler, as if he’s apologizing for something you don’t know about, his hands drifting around your waist to press you firmer into him. “come, my queen.”

and with that, his hand comes to curl at the small of your back like he hadn't said anything, ushering you out the door and toward the carriages awaiting you, leaving your mind to spin with a complicated mess of emotions.

a few weeks go by following you and satoru's arrival to the kingdom, and you had slowly begun to see him less and less, as the demand for his presence steadily increases, his duties causing him to be away from the palace almost constantly.

and though you hated to admit it to yourself, the times he would come home, hurried and barely sparing you a glance before being rushed away, something different and unexpectedly warm would blossom up into your chest at the sight of him.

sometimes, he would sneak away to find you in your room, his eyes heated and low as he quickly pinned down your plush body, his chubbed cock already grinding against the softness of your stomach while he would kiss you tenderly like there wasn't anyone else in the world but you.

and, in the deep, achey recesses of your heart, that longed for something resembling affection without ever truly receiving it before, it felt like making love.

always by the time you woke up in the morning though, he'd be gone, nothing but rumpled sheets left in his place and the clinging scent of his cologne.

and as time passes, he appears less and less, until you never saw him at all, stuck lording over a lonely castle with nothing but the servants to keep you company, as even then your mind was clouded with thoughts of that familiar, infuriating smirk and enchanting blue eyes.

until one fateful day, it happened.

you had woken up, your head pounding and more than a little dizzy, feeling acid rush to your throat and fill your mouth, running to the toilet to gag over it, before slumping back down defeatedly.

you had been feeling sick lately, a little out of sorts with your body, and had also noticed how you were beginning to grow softer in some parts, more plush and chubby where you had once been less so.

and as you sat, with your head in your hands, leaned over the ceramic toilet bowl, you felt it.

a kick.

just barely, but you knew then, that you were with child.

you felt tears beginning to prick at your lashes, the joy of life setting in as you imagined how satoru would react, hoping that this would at least mean he could stay home more frequently, caring for you and cooing over your belly with a fatherly smile on his lips.

as soon as you're done cleaning yourself up in fact, putting on a sheer silk gossamer that showed off your tummy's newfound plumpness, you're already sending the servants off to retrieve satoru at once, sitting primly on the bed as you wait, with thoughts of his face when he found out already running through your head fondly.

finally, you hear the tell-tale creak of the door, and then rapid footsteps approaching as a slightly rumpled satoru appears, running his hands through messy white hair, looking as beautiful as ever.

“sorry, was busy.” his eyes dip down to what you’re wearing before flicking away, seeming almost distracted and out of it. “did you need something?”

you shift, smile slightly dimming. “yes, actually, i was just going to tell you.. well.. i’m expecting.”

he doesn’t even react to your words, nodding briskly like this was planned all along as he turns to leave again. “good, now that we have the heir, it’ll make a lot of things easier.”

he’s halfway out the door when you pull him back by the sleeve, eyes searching his.

“you aren’t going to stay with me?”

he sighs, turning back as if talking to a confused child. “of course not, i have kingly duties that need immediate attending. you will stay with the child, until its of an independent age to be comfortable on its own.”

your eyes narrow on him. “why are you treating this like a business transaction? i’m your wife, your queen, and i’m carrying your future child. don’t you care about that more than your kingdom?”

he rolls bored, blue eyes, the conversation obviously too dull for his tastes.

“i told you this was never going to be anything more than a marriage of convenience.” he moves to leave again, but you block the door, tears starting to brim in your eyes.

“so all of this meant nothing?”

he stares at you hard then, his next words ones you would repeat to yourself for the rest of your life. “it never was something to begin with.”

in a final attempt to get him to stay, you whisper hoarsely, “i-i love you, doesn’t that mean something?”

his cold, mountainous eyes that have never been more distant from you turn mean then, into something harsh, something angry. “you don’t get to fucking say that. not after everything you’ve done to ruin my life.”

you shove him slightly then, tears starting to spill down your cheeks. “what have i ever done to you besides be your wife?”

he looks away, swallowing angrily. “before you came along, i had a wife. a very pregnant wife. she wasn’t royalty but she was mine. and then my stupid father found out about us, and arranged a marriage immediately in place of her, to avoid scandal and protect the gojo clan name. bringing you.”

you can do nothing but stare, eyes wide as your body seems to cower before him. “w-what? you have another woman?”

he rubs a hand over his face in frustration at his inability to get through to you. “don’t you get it? you’re the other woman. this..”he gestures between you wildly. “.. is nothing more than publicity and a cover-up.”

you sniffle softly, as he roughly pushes past you to get out the door.

that was the last time you ever saw him.

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[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k] 

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall 

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic. 

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand. 

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.” 

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?” 

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls. 

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work. 

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could. 

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily. 

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be. 

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds. 

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet. 

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip. 

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly. 

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. ���I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

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please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎