#remember to feel the heat or the cold of your drink and think think think about it all!!!! all of it!!!

[rainc0at]

FEBRUARY IS NEARLY OVER GUYS!! HOLD THIS LAST WEEK IN YOUR HANDS AND MAKE IT MAGIC!!! READ!!! DANCE!!! SING!!! SURROUND YOURSELF WITH BEAUTIFUL THINGS - SUCH AS: LAUGHTER (EVEN IF IT'S YOUR OWN) AND ART AND GOOD FOOD!! INJECT SO MUCH LOVE AND BEAUTY INTO THIS FINAL WEEK!! WE WILL NEVER GET IT BACK!! MAKE IT BEAUTIFUL!!

[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. 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

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❤︎

[soapcloth]

CW: 18+ MDNI, soap x reader, semi-forced proximity, domestic reliance, pushy soap - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

Johnny who, much to your dismay, loves having the windows open when winter rolls around.

Just at his core, he definitely prefers the bite of the sharp, fresh air swirling around his head opposed to whatever the stuffy heater had spit out. Ask him to dig deeper, though...

He all but gets off on feeling useful- your big work horse through and through. All you need do is open that mouth of yours and he's shovelling the driveway, salting the steps, warming up the car, going into town, running your baths, making you warm drinks- he's properly addicted to the reverence in your eyes when you're all comfortable in your tangle of blankets and he gets the chance to show you that he can provide. Cannae have ye' freezin' up when he's more than capable.

If you do manage to get around his stupidly bulky body and into the cold, he’s a sucker for the way your nose and cheeks take to it. Loves this fact even more the times he remembers the way his big calloused mitts can cover them up when he takes your face in his hands if only to coo at you about how yer’ just not built for it like he is.

Attention is attention, and admittedly this man is a glutton for your ire. He knows you can get a bit stressed when your environment isn't comfortable- it's not your fault, and he's more than happy to take the brunt of it. He absolutely loves when you get on his ass for the 50th time that you can’t run the heat if the windows are open, your pointed glare when he just grins and nods. Hand to heart, he’ll keep that in mind this time.

He’s utterly pleased with himself when you remember that he runs as hot in the winter as a wild animal like him needs to in order to survive. Suddenly you’re quietly hovering around him more, you let him hang onto you without the usual protest, you even stick close enough for him to pull your freezing hands into the pockets of his thick sweatpants- sometimes his waistband if he thinks he can get away with it. He loves the cuddles and all, but even better is how pliant he can get you when you’re under your covers, clinging to him like he's got a hearth tucked snug into the cavity where his heart should be. What better way to warm up than sharing body heat, after all?

[chronically-ghosted]

i'm empty without you, so come grow within me

AO3 Link | main masterlist | Joel Miller Masterlist

rating: explicit (18+)

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

word count: 9K

summary: with winter approaching, joel takes stock of what he wants and what he has in his life. he wants you, but he's not quite sure he has you, not in a way that only a life in Jackson can afford. joel's an old-fashioned guy, so he's looking for an old-fashioned love . . . if he can only remember how to do it right.

inspired by the songs 'why don't we just dance' by Josh Turner and 'the kind of love we make' by Luke Combs, this fulfills a request from @handsomehelmet for my 1k celebration (creativity struck and now i'm going to make it everyone's problem)

warnings: the nastiest thing i can possibly imagine which is romance and sincerity, some willie nelson lyrics, established situationship, no age of reader specified, body insecurity, feelings of unworthiness/shame, survivor's guilt, blatant disregard for old man knees by eating pussy on the floor, unprotected piv, a teenager bullying fully grown adult to quit being stupid.

a/n: i know everyone gets into a tizzy when Joel doesn’t name what Tess is to him in front of Bill and while there probably was a heaping amount of guilt that accompanied that omission, i wonder if it might be a bit more complicated: he simply couldn’t name one thing because she was all things to him. A friend, a lover, a guide, a support system, a protector, a partner. So he says it the best way he can: “she’s mine.”

come see what else we've done to celebrate 1K followers

By the fourth bag, all you can think about is a warm shower. 

A chance to scrub away the dirt smeared on your arms, your neck, probably your face. You’d brought your own work gloves to bag fresh dirt for the greenhouse, but the longer you work, more sprinkles of dirt find their way down the lip of your gloves. You can feel it against your palms, under your nails. The cold winter air lurks beneath the crack of the door, stifled from invading by the artificial heat provided by the generator just outside, and it stifles you too with its oppressive weight. You’re fairly sure the dirt on your forehead has turned to mud, sweat and damp earth encrusted on your dry skin. 

By the sixth, you doubt your shoulders will ever move again without popping. 

You know Joel’s already do. 

Never a particularly chatty man even in his best moods, the greenhouse had become stuffy with heat and silence, both you and Joel too lost in the work to find the energy to even fake idle chatter. But, knowing this about Joel and a certain degree yourself, silences with him were never a bad thing. That was one of the things you enjoyed most about being with him; you two could do your own things together. Many snowy days were spent with him stretched out on the couch, reading, and you working on writing your sheet music on the floor, his knee hovering over your shoulder with your back to the cushions – spent in total silence, and they are some of the fondest memories you had since coming to Jackson and falling into the third and final piece of the Miller-Williams household. 

Like with the end of the world, you weren’t sure how you got there until everything had fallen into place around you; Joel and his adoptive daughter had been just another group who were taken in by the town of Jackson . . . until they weren’t. Ellie was just another foul-mouthed kid who had seen too much and had too much taken from her . . . until she wasn’t. Joel was your occasional patrol partner and a fellow Willie Nelson fan. . . until he wasn’t.

Until that unmistakable line, one that seemed to be lost on a global scale beneath the blood and the gore and the grief, had been crossed when he asked you out for drinks and the both of you knew the evening wasn’t going to end in a nightcap. 

And then you were partners, even outside of patrol. Partners in re-enforcing a weakened part of Jackson’s outer walls. Partners in cooking, attempting to recreate an enchilada recipe Joel only vaguely remembered from a Tex-Mex hole-in-the-wall fifteen minutes from where he used to live in Austin. Partners when it’s snowing heavily outside and there’s not much to do except to read and, well . . . Joel was a fantastic partner in that.

Joel Miller was a great partner for a lot of things. He worked diligently, quickly and, unless the conversation was started by someone else, silently. 

He, in short, was not someone who was easily distracted.

Which, in combination with your own exhaustion and a desire to scrub the first layer of your skin off with a loofah, is why you feel a flare of annoyance when you look up and see him staring off into the distance. His fingers loosely grip the handle of the shovel, his palm resting over the curved point, Joel’s expression is nearly unreadable, except for the small crevice between his eyebrows. He stands, fixated on the greenhouse wall, as if watching the blurry Christmas lights from the town square, suddenly oblivious to the work you two have been doing for the past hour and a half. 

“Joel.” Nothing. “Joel!” 

You raise your hand to smack him on the leg when, without looking down, he asks:

“When was the last time I took you out?” 

“What?”

His weight shifts, holds the shovel by one hand now. You catch a sliver of frustration in those deep brown eyes as he looks at you. He wears what you and Ellie secretly refer to as his “pouty-mouth”, a classic expression when he isn’t getting his way about something but won’t draw attention to the fact that it annoys him.

“Tell me about the last date I took you on.”

You huff, standing up with a pop in your hips. Your knees are aching from kneeling on the cold winter ground and your skin fluxes between overheating under your jacket and stiffly frozen on your extremities. 

“Joel, c’mon, be serious. We’ve got three more –,”

“I am being serious.” Dumb-founded, you watch as he digs the tip of the shovel into the ground with a hollow chunk. Crosses his arms and continues to frown at you like you just suggested doing away with the Christmas holiday entirely. “We’ll get to this, but I want you to tell me right now what we did on our last date.”

You roll your eyes, humoring him. “Fine, I don’t know what crawled up your ass, but okay. On our last date, we . . . we did . . . you took me to . . .”

It’s your turn to frown. He raises a petulant eyebrow and it’s eerie how many times you’ve seen that exact expression on Ellie. 

“Okay, fine, so it’s been a while. We’ve been busy – we’ve all been busy with the winter season coming. All of Jackson has been out battening down the hatches. What does it matter if we’ve let things slide a bit?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, quiet in his Joel way. He glances out through the blurred greenhouse glass and maybe he was actually staring at the string lights hung over Jackson’s square. Normally, you didn’t mind being unable to dissect his every expression, every sigh, every carefully wielded silence, but when it came to you and his feelings about you – feelings that were always implied in those silences – you wished you had a little window, some hint, as to what rumbled on behind those earth-dark eyes. 

Joel drums his fingers on the handle of the shovel, unease rolling through his body as he shifts his weight. 

“Matters some,” he tells the ground. “With the holidays comin’ around . . . matters for Ellie – her first winter here in Jackson. Matters for Tommy, with that new baby of his . . .”

“Your nephew,” you supply as much as prod. Sometimes the only way to get an honest answer out of him was when he was just a bit pissed off and less guarded. Instead he just nods, gloved hand on his hip, thick jacket widening his already confounding broadness.

“It matters because it’s important. To me. It’s important to me.”

He meets your gaze and you’re struck full force again with that feeling like you drank too much of the Tipsy Bison’s shitty whiskey too fast. Same feeling that couldn’t be drowned even with the Tipsy Bison’s shitty whiskey when you shared a drink with him for the first time. When you managed to laugh when he bet you a whole day of stable cleaning duties that Willie Nelson and Chris Stapleton survived the apocalypse somewhere in a shack in Tennessee. Joel Miller was disarmingly funny when he wanted to be.

And even worse, disarmingly sincere.

You take his gloved hand in yours. You feel the sensation of his fingers threading through yours but not the heat you’ve grown so accustomed to. 

“Alright, then. What do you want to do about it?” You ask quietly, to the upturned collar around his neck, his green flannel peeking out from behind the zipper of his jacket. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but there’s a lot of snow on the ground so that makes our options for date night kinda limited.” You scrunch your nose at him because you like to see the light in his eyes bloom when you do.

He chuckles, a rumbling sound, and he drops his forehead against yours, fingers tightening their grip around yours. Suddenly in your throat, your heart pounds. He’s never this affectionate in public. Maybe it’s those miraculously blurred greenhouse glass walls. 

His breath smells like that peppermint toothpaste that came in last week, infused with the warming-coil smell from the greenhouse. 

“Dunno yet.” He admits. “I’ll think of somethin’.”

“No ideas yet?” You raise your eyebrows against his forehead and he grins, shaking his head.

“Not yet.” 

“Then can I make a suggestion?”

“‘Course.”

“We finish bagging this dirt, then head home for a shower. In a really sexy way, obviously.” 

He huffs, smothering a laugh, and quick as lightning he kisses you on the cheek. But in the same movement, steps away and grabs the shovel again. You don’t have time to react to the fact he just kissed you for the first time outside of the four walls of his house before he’s scooping up dirt. You drop to your knees to pick up the bag again, your legs already weak.

“We both know you’re going to pass out on the couch the second we’re home.”

Your voice is steadier than you feel, as you look up at him. His face is flushed and that worry line between his eyes is gone. 

“You got me pegged, Miller. You got me pegged.”

Two days later, he stands in the middle of his living room, hands on his hips, surveying his handiwork. All of the furniture has been pushed to the far ends of the room, up against the walls or against the staircase out in the hallway. He’s kept the overhead lights off and put the standing lamps in the corners, bathing the room in a despondent glow. He thinks, after a quarter of a century never even entertaining something like this, it might be interpreted as romantic. He hopes you’ll see it that way at least. 

He hears it now, in his head, even though she’s out in the disconnected garage, snug and warm as he could have possibly made it – you worry too much, old man. 

Ellie knows there’s something going on between you two. Hell, the entire town has cottoned onto whatever this is; you’re often seen leaving his house early in the morning, and he’s been seen on occasion strolling up to your house with flowers. It’s not new, it’s not a secret, but it is . . . it just is and that’s about as far as he’s gotten. 

He hasn’t had you over for dinner with Ellie in that very specific way that very much needs to happen, as it often does when there is a new presence added to an established dynamic – as Maria often reminds him. But that almost feels like presenting your head on a silver plate to Ellie to either sniff with disinterest or tear into – both terrifying scenarios, even though they seem unlikely. Ellie does in fact seem to like you very much, as her riding teacher and occasional greenhouse buddy. But would she continue to like you in the context of you being one half of “You and Him” as a pair? Together. As a couple . . . of people who are seeing each other, whatever that means in a world filled with the most aggressive form of fungus imaginable. 

This life in Jackson, this fragile second chance to remember and rekindle his own natural instincts, is too precious to bet on a question like that. 

So he doesn’t ask it. At least not out loud. 

That’s one of the things he likes so much about you: his silences aren’t entirely indecipherable and often are encouraged by your own. Except this silence about this particular thing doesn’t feel like one of your shared, comfortable moments and instead it’s encroaching rapidly into avoidance. 

Standing in that greenhouse and seeing the string lights over the town square reminded him of a long ago Christmas, dancing with his favorite person under a Christmas tree, and how good it made him feel. How special it made him feel. All these years later, safe in a way his body has almost forgotten, there’s an urge he has to share that feeling, to recreate it under entirely different circumstances, with someone new. Someone else. To not try and fight the smile that constantly threatens to buoy up every time he’s around you. 

It’s foreign, that feeling in his chest, but it’s not entirely alien, at least not of late. 

He knows he’s white-knuckling it because he knows firsthand how painfully quick it can all be gone. Taken away. Left and buried by a black river while the world burns.

But he’s worried he’ll crush it with how tightly he holds on. How hard he begs a silent universe for it to last just a little bit longer. 

His knees ache, his left shoulder goes tight when it rains, his body is not what it once was, but his mind is still there, still clear, and he remembers how romance used to feel, where it used to reside in his younger body, and as he stares out at the cleared room, listening to your footsteps overhead as you attempt to follow his vague instructions to “make yourself feel pretty” (because you already were to him, even covered in dirt and sawdust), he thinks this feels like the old world. An old world romance. It’s foreign, that feeling, but for the first time in a long time he doesn’t want to hold it at arm’s length.

“Joel?” You call from the top of the stairs, your voice tentative and cautious. But not cautious like you peeking around a corner to look for clickers. But cautious as in unsure, doubtful. You are a woman made up of a lot of things, with foundations unlike he’d ever seen before, but doubt is not a part of you. You never doubt him. 

“Yeah, baby?” Your nerves make him nervous and he futzes with a lampshade while waiting for you.

“Are you done down there?” 

He has to breathe slowly through the fluttering beneath his breastbone before he can answer. “Yeah, baby, all finished. You can come down now.”

“Okay . . . but you can’t laugh.” Him, laugh at you? There’s the instinct to smother the faint grin that spreads out across his mouth, but he told himself he wasn’t going to fight whatever came across his face tonight. If you see it, then you see it and he’s come to accept that. 

(Maybe even want that.)

He shakes his head, his only pair of nice boots (a thank you from a former rancher when Joel fixed his family’s heater) clicking on the hardwood floor as he stands at the bottom of the stairs. You must be hiding behind the wall because he can’t see you. 

“I’m not gonna laugh, sweetheart. Why d’ya think I’d laugh?” 

Silence faces him at the top of the stairs, and then:

“Because quite frankly I forgot my tits could look like this and I don’t know how to feel about it.” 

The snort that comes out of him is a poor attempt to muffle the chuckle. He thumbs the wood finial at the top of the bannister. 

“Can’t remember ever having any complaints before and I don’t think I’ll have ‘em now, no matter how they look.” 

“Whatever, Miller, you’re just a horn dog.” 

He rolls his eyes, fingers rubbing anxiously together at his side, as if he could tug the fluttering out of his chest. He leans on the other foot, the one with the bad knee, to adjust the slightly uncomfortable tightness in his jeans. A dark swirl in the second step of the stairs has become wildly interesting.

“Baby, just come down here. I’m not gonna laugh. Promise.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” you grumble, still out of sight. “I know where you keep your feral child and I will not hesitate to let her loose on you.”

Joel nods, grinning faintly, still focused resolutely on the whorl in the floor. “That’s a real big threat from someone who –,”

The words die in his throat.

In fact, he’s quite sure he won’t be capable of speech for a very long time. 

That foreign feeling – that feeling he’s worked for twenty years to suppress – is ignited in his chest. 

You walk, no, maybe you float down the stairs in the most stunning red dress he’s ever seen. It’s definitely not yours – he knows every inch of your closet because he had inspected it studiously when you offered to keep some of his clothes at your place and he was trying very hard to delay putting a handful of his belongings beside a woman’s things in a move that felt heart-stoppingly domestic. 

No, he has never, ever seen you in this dress. 

Come to think of it, he’s never seen you in any dress and you were entirely correct that your tits look wildly different. Fantastically different, but –

“Maria didn’t have any heels that fit me to go with the dress,” you announce airily, your chin up. But your eyes dart over his face as if looking for something you need to find. “But it’s fourteen degrees outside, Joel, and I’m not doing whatever this is in just socks because that’s ridiculous so you’re just going to have to deal with the boots.”

The Boots. The ones you wear while crushing clicker skulls and tending the stables. They still bear damp spots from where you tried to clean the blood and dirt from the leather.

It’s rather incapacitating how arousing he finds this particular combination.

So much so, he doesn’t realize he hasn’t said anything in a full minute until you bark at him, a cold tinge of panic in your voice.

“Joel!” His eyes snap to yours. Of course, you’re fucking beautiful – your eyes seem bigger, cheeks pinker, mouth wet – fucking Christ, where did you get make up? 

“Say something!” Those rosy lips drop down and to his horror, you’re upset. “Please!”

“B-baby, you look . . .” He doesn’t mean to grab your entire ass in one hand; he just wants to feel as much of that velvet on your skin as possible. You stumble into his arms, another something that is so unlike you, as he tugs you forward. Bends his lips to your ear to discover how fast you’re breathing. How fast your pulse races in your neck. The shudder that breaks the rigidity of your body when he brushes his mouth, the short bristles of his beard, against your skin is no surprise; you told him exactly what that sensation does to you in no uncertain terms the first night he ate you out on the table of your kitchen. “You look incredible.”

Your fingers bite into his biceps. Push back out of his arms, despite the obvious warmth in your cheeks. You level his arousal in a single glare. “Joel, I asked you not to tease.” 

Tommy once told him he was a pain in the ass to be around sometimes because he displays every negative emotion as anger and so it’s damn near impossible to figure out whatever it was he was so bent out of shape about.

Sadness as anger.

Shame as anger.

Guilt as anger.

Fear as anger.

With your fingers balled up, it's the tremor in your fists that gives you away. 

He had genuinely intended this to be a quiet night away from the cafeteria, away from the Tipsy Bison, away from anyone else. He wanted you all to himself and in his greed, he didn’t see it until he saw it in your eyes. 

How vulnerable being pretty made you. How vulnerable privacy made you. 

How being vulnerable made you so deeply, deeply afraid. 

Almost as afraid as he was. 

Without a word, he turns to the record player, strategically hidden behind the couch and puts on the carefully selected record. The silent scratches for a moment before –

Your eyes widen as Nelson begins to sing his most beautiful love song (in Joel’s humble opinion). Your shoulders slacken, hands lose their grip, you blink up at him in total bewilderment. You aren’t an indecisive person, you’re quick as a whip, rarely confused – so this befuddled look on your face is kinda cute. 

Tucking that rare look on your face away for another time, Joel wanders to the center of the room, in the heat of the light from the fireplace, his good boots clicking over the wood. He opens his arms, hand out to you.

“Let’s try something new tonight.”

I'll always be with you for as long as you please

For I am the forest but you are the trees

The decision you make is a visible one. 

Your palm is warm, weighted as it slides over his. This time his hand respectably settles on your waist, then on your low back when (to his surprise) you come closer. He’s delighted to watch you smile at him, distantly aware of the stretch of his own on his face. 

Willie strums on his guitar, crooning softly, the sound warm and deep. With the weight of you against his chest, that feeling crackles like the flames over the wood logs in the fireplace. You drop your head, turn your cheek, and just before you come to rest on his shoulder, he sees your smile slide into a smirk.

“New, huh? What’s new look like for a sixty-five-year-old man at the end of the world?” Even with teasing, your voice is soft and sweet, the soft powder of cinnamon. Slowly, as if not to startle either one of you, he leans his chin against your forehead.

“You n’ I’ve been burning both ends, keepin’ the lights on. New to us is having a goddamn break.” His voice is low, meant only for you, and in the tremble of his deep bass, the words elongate in his mouth. He brings your intertwined hands just under his chin and when that goes well, he tightens his grip around your back, drawing you flush against him. It reduces the dancing to more of a sway but Joel can’t find a single thing to complain about. You gently tap the pad of your middle finger in the hollow of his collarbone to the beat of the song.

I'm empty without you so come grow within me

For I am the forest and you are the trees

And the heavens need romance so love never dies

“‘N ‘m only fifty-six, jackass.” 

You grin, twisting in his grasp, rub your nose on his chest to wrap your arms around his neck. He clutches to your back like a key finding its lock. 

You'll be the stars dear and I'll be the sky

And should any of this find us let them all be forewarned

That you are the thunder and I am the storm

“This is nice, Joel,” you murmur in his ear. The backs of his arms are growing warm by the fire. He presses his lips to your exposed shoulder, unsure of what to say, or what not to say, only nodding. He closes his eyes, trying to hold this moment forever in his memory. The soft flare of your waist, the winged-spread of your ribs, beneath his hands brings him back into your arms.

"Yeah?" Quiet, into your skin as if to muffle the question entirely, to muffle the unsure wobble in his voice. "It's good?"

He feels you nod beneath his chin, the smell of fresh soap escaping from the back of your neck, and the clamp around his throat loosens. He breathes, unimpeded for the first time all night, a low exhale taking the tension from his body as the air leaves his lungs.

Relief. A sinking down into the moment, into your arms.

You chuckle with your cheek against his chest and he feels the vibrations down to his stomach.

"Yeah, Joel, you did good. Really good." With the hand he holds in the air, you rub your thumb over the knuckle of his thumb, soothing. It used to bother him you could read the lines of his emotions as well as you read a book, as well as you write your own name, effortlessly, as if you had been given a guide no one ever thought to show him. But now, now that you understand how much this means to him, that you know he needs to be told he made you happy, it's more than relief. It's an unburying – a resuscitation of pieces of himself (seed-like bone fragments) that he thought had long since died in the soil of his ribs. "Thank you. I needed this."

He wants you to see the whole of him. Lift up an antiquated silver plate and show you the dents and scratches in his reflection. When you kiss his cheek gently, the hope floating in his chest flares, a solar explosion with tendrils that reach into the blackness of space and it asks him, what would you do to keep her?

Everything. Anything.

He shuffles closer, feels the warmth of your body lined up against his, the clean scent beneath the edge of your jaw blooming in his nose and throat. The hope hums, pitches dark like the forest floor in the rain, and grows teeth. His want for you digs into his skin and evolves into a needy, unsatisfied thing.

“Where’d you get this dress, hm?” He asks, lips half an inch from your shoulder. It falls and rises, never catching on your skin as he plays with the fabric. He runs his palm up your spine, the velvet coming with him, and watches as the swell of your thighs and the tease of your ass is revealed. Dirty old man. “‘N who do I have to kill to get you to keep it?”

You laugh into his neck. He wonders if you’re intentionally twisting his curls at the base of his neck to send sparks of arousal down his spine or if you are completely unaware of the cause of his insanity. Your hands are littered with scars and calluses and every time you touch him, he could melt through the floorboards.

“They found it in some strip mall and were actually going to strip it down for material. But Aaron at the sewing center owed me a favor and you said wear something nice, so . . .” You thumb the lip of his collar, your fingertips brushing the knot of his spine every time you drag your fingers back and forth. 

And I'll always be with you for as long as you please

For I am the forest and you are the trees

He knows you well enough to know that something lingers in your mind, but even after all this time, even after what he’s seen with you, been through with you, the things he’s done to you – he isn’t quite sure if he has the right to ask. 

Instead, he squeezes you. He means to do it just with his hands, but ends up swallowing you in his arms. 

Your mouth is pressed up against his chest when you finally go on. 

“It just seems silly to keep, Joel.” 

The high he’s been riding on all night falters, since you first walked down those stairs to him. Your eyes are wet when he pulls back and cups you by your cheek. He stops swaying with you.

“Why’s that?” 

There it is, that all too familiar flicker of fear. You can’t look at him, despite his every touch, his every glance pulling you into him, to be near him. 

“Because other people should have it. They should have a chance to . . .” 

You withdraw your head from his hands, his thumb brushing your jaw as you retreat. He might actually lose a piece of himself if you let go now, but instead you clasp his wrists in your fingers. You stare at your hands and his between you, as if this whole thing between you could solidify at your feet, finally real. 

Willie has stopped singing, only that musky drone on an empty track.

“Someone else should have a chance to feel pretty, to feel this way, because it shouldn’t be wasted and I’m afraid – I wonder if –,”

He knows he’s being a bit too rough when he takes your jaw and straightens your gaze to him, but his heart might fly out of his chest before he has a chance to say anything. His stomach turns, not knowing he’s not at the peak of a roller coaster drop, that he’s standing on solid ground, even if it swims under his feet.

“What you feel is not wasted.” A murmur, stern, as steadily and as serious as he possibly can be.

That feeling aches in his chest and you haven’t even gone anywhere. You haven’t left . . . yet. “What this is, is not wasted time. I spent twenty years wasting time, looking for something that wasn’t there, and with you . . . I can’t say I’ve found it –,”

“Why? Why can’t you say you’ve found it?” Your grip around his wrists tightens, eyes hard. “Why can’t you name it, Joel?”

“Can you?” He pulls his hands out of your grip and you let him go. “How can you ask for what you want when you can’t even ask to keep this dress?” 

“Because I don’t deserve it!” It’s not silence that follows; it’s emptiness. You face away from him, pressing the heel of your hand into your brow bone, teeth slightly bared. Your arm bars across your stomach like you are literally holding in your guts. Finally, you lift your head, the few scant tears on your face sparkling in the firelight. “I don’t deserve you, Joel. I don’t deserve any of this. Ellie, the way she . . . I’m here, warm and happy, acting like the fucking world hasn’t ended. Playing house, playing pretend. Pretending like I’m your –,”

You swallow the words caught in your throat, gaze leaping away from him. At your side, your hand trembles again. 

Oh, honey, the shit I’ve done . . . 

With wide, wet eyes, you watch him approach. He doesn’t look at you, instead seeing exactly where he’d like to put his lips on your stomach beneath the fabric. 

“Then what do you want, hm?” There’s a fold in the front of the dress and he runs his fingers along the edge of it. “We can’t fix it. Can’t go back ‘cause there’s nothin' to go back to. I don’t care what you had to do to get here, right here, with me because I’m so fuckin’ glad you are. I’m not pretending, not wasting my time, never was. ‘Cause you’re right.” 

Your hand over his stills his endless roving and then it stays, scarred hand over scarred hand. Your gesture says something to him, something so meaningful he has no idea how to put it into words. He swallows his attempt and instead, slowly, drags both hands over your hips, where they stay. Heavy against the velvet. 

You rest your own against his forearms, neither pulling him in or pushing him back. 

“I was right about what?”

His eyes flick to yours and maybe it’s presumptuous, maybe he really is an old man afraid of his feelings, or maybe living this long – despite everything that ever tried to make it otherwise – living this long has granted him the privilege of knowing with perfect clarity what you’re thinking when you look at him like that. How he wants to whisper it back to you and he decides he will the next time your skin is warm and tacky, body helpless beneath his. 

Your eyes shamelessly track the brush of his tongue against his bottom lip.

“That you’re mine. Just like I’m yours.” 

The hands at his forearms glide up to his chest. The rims of your irises have gone a bit blurred, a bit unstable, and you can’t decide whether to look at his mouth or his eyes.

“Joel?” Suddenly breathy, all begging, pleading.

“Hm?”

“Get me out of this fucking dress.” 

When your lips crash into his, his entire world narrows down to where on his body, yours touches: 

your rough hand cradling his cheek, the other fisting the collar of his shirt. His fingers digging into your skirt, the heat from your thigh nearly driving him to tear straight through the fabric to get to you. Your sweet, perfect mouth smeared against his, lips puffed pink, nose to your cheek. 

That warm, wet cunt he thinks he can feel through his boxers, jeans, the dress and your underwear. 

It’s not enough. 

The cry you let out is some mangled mix of a moan and his name when he licks the soft supple skin behind your ear and nips your earlobe.

“Baby, please – please – bedroom, we have to–,”

He grunts his disapproval at your words, overwhelmed by the scent that makes his mouth water as he stains the column of your throat with wet, humid kisses. 

“Joel, c’mon, honey, just upstairs –,” 

The last flickering tiny speckle of logic in his brain fights with itself; take your right here or haul you over his shoulder – which isn’t great for his back and, quite frankly, he intends to spend most of the night on his knees. 

First option it is. 

You mumble in confusion, eyes shut, chin brushing the thread of gray curls on the top of his head as he purposefully sucks a bright hickey into your collarbone, one hand cupping your breast, the other pushing you backwards. You go willingly, of course. 

Until the backs of your legs hit the couch and there’s nowhere else to go. In the stumble, your dress rides up even higher and those thighs he’s actually lost sleep over appear to him. He drops to his knees, hands like meat hooks as they squeeze your waist, pulling that warm cunt even closer to him over the edge of the couch. You groan when he pushes the skirt up even higher, practically to your tits, as he explores your outer, then inner thighs with soft strokes of the back of his hands. He presses his nose to the crevice between your thigh and hip and inhales. 

“B-baby, the windows,” you swallow thickly, slurring like you’re drunk, grabbing at his shoulders like you’re trying to steady yourself, or turn him towards the windows. “I mean – the curtains, baby, the curtains are –,”

“It’s a fucking blizzard outside,” he explains tersely with his eyes still closed, as if irritated to have a conversation instead of focusing every ounce of concentration he has to the heat and smell beneath your black panties. He drags his teeth over the elastic band around your hips and makes you whine his name for an entirely different reason. 

You don’t make him stop or wait when he tugs those panties down your hips. In fact, you help, lifting your hips, the irises of your eyes so wide and black, you look halfway out of your mind.

Good.

He gathers the skirt he was once so fond of and stuffs it into the cushions behind you. You watch him as he moves, eyes half-lidded, finger scraping your bottom lip. Around his ribs, your knees dip back and forth, moving targets, like he’s forgotten why he’s here and needs reminding. 

His big paw, the size of which makes you feel indescribably small, catches your knee and stills it, gaze dark and heavy. Do not test me right now. You try not to moan. 

“Can’t believe I’m going to let you fuck me with my boots on,” you whisper airly, watching with delirious fascination as he puts one of your slender legs over his shoulder. His mouth is actually watering at the sight of your damp curls. 

“Not gonna fuck you. Just gonna eat your pussy. You’ll know the difference.”

“Semantically, it’s the sa-a-me thi-ng, Jo-e – ah, Joel!” 

His tongue up inside you turns you into a whiny, high-pitched, feminine mess. He eats like he does everything else: diligently, quickly, and silently. 

Until you bury your fingers in his ash-flecked curls and tug. 

That first deep, loud moan ripples through his body, rolling him up just off his heels, his crotch seeking some kind – any kind – of friction. 

The feel of his mouth humming against your cunt has your eyes rolling back in your head. “Please, oh fuck, please –” 

You are a grown woman. You should not be making these noises. 

You also shouldn’t be using a man’s face to get off . . . but you do it anyway.

“Tha’s it, baby,” he mutters when your hips grind against his face. His nose catches your clit and around him, your thighs wobble. “Use me, fuckin’ use me.” 

His grip around your calf over his shoulder turns rough and he knows he’ll bruise you, but fuck, the thought of you walking around town with a mark in the shape of his hand where everyone can see —

He briefly lifts his grip from your thigh to adjust his iron-hot cock in his jeans. From his view over your cunt, it doesn't seem like you noticed, or even saw him leave your skin. He watches you writhe, try to capture your breath, eyes crammed shut as your hips rock almost without your control. He takes a chance to lick the musky dampness from his upper lip when your cunt rolls back from his face a fraction of an inch — and then he sinks in again.

Call it age or the fact that you both are here at the end of the world, but the first night he ate you out, you told him exactly how and where you like it, unabashed and in control and honestly it’s the hottest thing he can think of in recent memory. 

He would have written it down on the backs of his eyelids if he could. 

He follows it to the letter.

“Joel – Joel, baby, please don’t stop –,” You buck and moan beneath him as he spells out your instructions with his tongue along your cunt. He dots the i’s with a tap of his tongue or a lick on your clit. Just inches above his head, your chest heaves, your fingers locked into his curls, gently pushing him closer to your puffy pussy as if he’d ever waste a drop of what leaks out of you. 

With a flat-tongued brush against your suffering clit, you arch off the couch, your sighs now verging on desperate, high and whinging, because it’s just not fair how good he makes you feel. He can feel your foot curl against the planes of his back, the rubber heel heavy, your mouth open and wet, with your eyes locked on the ceiling as you try to ride out your humming orgasm with a semblance of control.

“Look at me.” 

No other man has ever been able to make you come with just his mouth, you told him once.

And no other man ever will. 

It’s sweet, the way your eyes soften briefly when you lock eyes with him, crouched between your thighs — before your head tips back, lips wrenched apart in a silent scream, and you come, as hard as he has worked for the flush of slick down his chin.

There’s goosebumps on your thighs, he notes. He rubs his thumb against your raised skin and you shudder, head rolling against the back of the couch.

He’s already feeling a slight twinge of shame at the noise his knees will inevitably make when he stands, but for now he’s content watching you glide down from your high, his head against your knee, shoulders still stretching your legs open wide. 

To his delight, you manage to laugh, your hand draping over your eyes. You can see the shine of the dull light all across his lips, his chin, his nose and you have to close your eyes. He should make you lick it off him, but not tonight.

“Top marks, Miller, as usual,” you mumble, “but the threat of voyeurism really deserves the extra credit.” 

He grins. Still waiting for your breath to slow, he wipes his mouth with his palm and slides the leg over his shoulder down in between his own thighs. Propped up on one knee, he begins to unlace your boot. He holds your calf like it’s delicate as he gently drags the boot over your heel. 

He’s just as reverent with the other side. 

And then your boots, the pair, sit at the end of his couch, like they were always meant to be there. 

His heart, easing down from its own thunderous beat, squeezes and that feeling, that strange-not-so-strange feeling, the one that dictates practically every action with you, dribbles into his veins. 

You open one eye. A flutter of lashes, coy and playful, the curve of your mouth guarding a hoard of secrets.

“Now, Joel Miller . . . will you take me to bed?” 

It’s a question. A request. Your eyes, as dark as ever, on his warm his chest, all the way down his spine. You’re asking, politely, for a thing you both know he would never, ever deny you. 

He cannot lose you, he just can’t. 

He stands and, yes, his knees crack and pop, but he regains stability when he toes off his only good pair of cowboy boots. He nods, grinning, and offers you his hand.

The walk, half-run up to his bedroom is something his brain designates as not important enough to store away. 

Instead, it languishes in the way you stretch out on his mattress before him, ass in the air, knees spread over his blankets and arms sliding through crumpled sheets towards the headboard. 

The room is dark, the only light fighting its way through the downpour of snow comes from the lamp posts that dot the street outside. But the veil of snow warps the light and everything in the half-darkness is doused in blue. 

The shadowy, blurred curve of your shoulder, blue. 

The spread of your fingers on his mattress, blue.

The swollen bottom of lip of your mouth —

“Joel.” 

The snow falls so fast and hard, it patters against the windows and the sides of the house. It’s the only thing he can hear over the pounding of his heart and the short breath in his lungs. He stares at you, soaking his blankets in your scent and slick, and you stare right back in utter and total silence. 

You sit in the center of his bed, bare for him beneath the velvet dress that is red like blood, your patchy white socks at complete odds with your smeared make up and the fucked-out look in your eyes. But there’s something else there too. 

Something softer. Gentler. 

You reach out a hand to him and he goes to you, like always. The instant your skin touches his the instinct to fuck you hard until you’re bruised and crying evaporates. He doesn’t think you want that anymore either. 

No, you need — 

“Joel, please come here. I need you.” 

You need him.

The mattress squeaks when he settles one knee and then the other on top of it, his fingers stroking your ear, brushing the tips of your hair, while he kisses you with an ache that is not physically manifested. Instead, it resides —

“I love you,” you whisper. 

You pull back infinitesimally, just enough that your eyes are all he sees. 

A patient silence hangs from the ceiling. The sound of snow falling. Of baited breath. The scratch of your fingers against at his beard —

“I love you too.” You smile and his body is no longer big enough to contain his heart. “I feel like I’ve always loved you. Is that strange?” 

Your gaze traces the same path your fingers take when you think he’s sleeping; it runs over his nose, his forehead, his eyebrows, the plush curve of his lips. Like you can’t believe he’s there with you. Like you can’t believe he’s real. 

That feeling — that feeling he had been fighting because it always was the only thing that would ever really do him in — is love. He loves you. 

He loves you.

And you love him. 

Didn’t think they told stories like this anymore, not in a world like this. So maybe, for once, Joel Miller just got lucky. 

“No. It’s not. Just be sure you mean it.”

He can't tell if the glow in your eyes comes from within you or it beams out of him. “Every word.”

Eventually, he sheds you of his favorite dress of yours, your only dress, and he lays you back, fully bare in the nest of his blankets. In the corner of his bedroom, the heater hisses like the wind from a purple storm, the static crackle of warmth hovering in the air. You watch, with eyes that shine like stars, as he pops apart the pearl-snaps holding his shirt together. 

And then his white undershirt goes next. He used to worry what he looked like, until he found someone else who had done exactly what was necessary to survive. 

When he goes to unzip his pants, you sit up, hair mussed and the hickey he gave you earlier throbbing like a dream. 

“I wanna do it.” 

He lets you unbutton his jeans, slide the zipper down, at the edge of the bed, but your hands are shaking, your breath stunted.

“I’m fumbling like a teenager,” you huff, a small, flustered smile on your face. “It’s like I’m nervous, but what is there to be nervous about —,”

His mouth pressed up against yours creates the most beautiful silence of all. 

How do you want me, you ask him and he thinks, all the time. But he takes you both under the covers and settles in next to you. He positions one leg over his hip and immediately you know exactly what he’s asking for. Quick as a whip, you are. 

There’s a rustle of covers, the bed slats squeaking, and then he’s nearly nose-to-nose with you. You kiss him again, maybe nervous still. 

He disconnects, when you slip between his legs and take his thick, leaking cock in your hand. 

“Baby, wait, do you need — I know it’s a lot — I’m a lot –,”

He can’t fathom why he’s so nervous either. But you chuckle, shake your head, smile at him. 

“Don’t need anything but you.” 

Your leg wraps tighter over his hip, knee up to his ribs, as he sinks inside you. The palm wrapped around the back of your knee grips roughly only once.

This is true silence. The instant where the world goes muted, everything distant and muffled, when he’s first buried deep in your heat. 

Your fingers thread through his curls and suddenly all sound is cranked up to an eleven. Your rapid, stilted breathing, the groan of the bed, your soft smothered moans, or are those his? —

“Fuck me, Joel.” 

Eyes never leaving yours, he does. 

Your fingers dig into his skull, nails biting, hand wrapped around his neck to hold yourself steady as he thrusts up into you. He thumbs your stiff nipple, half of his hand still grasping your ribs. 

You meet him thrust for thrust, a slow steady pace that draws sweat to his hairline and endless gasps from his mouth. But your gaze stays strong, never falters. Your hand slips to his shoulder, to stabilize just a bit more, but then it's on his chest, twisting his chest hair and he thinks he feels that sparkle of sanity, of rationality, any restraint to hold back crack and shatter between the clench of his teeth. 

“Goddamn–,” 

He rolls, taking you under him and demanding a faster pace. You push your hand against the headboard, the bed knocking against the wall in rhythmic, hypnotic thuds. 

He thinks you hiss his name before you bite down his shoulder. 

The sharp shock of pain lights up his brain, channeling the sudden awareness that he liked that so fucking much all the way down his spinal cord where it presses hot against his groin. 

He lifts up onto one elbow, skin sweat hot and sticky as it splits from yours. 

“Tell me what you need to come,” he pants.  

You whine again, your throat dripping sweat, but that’s not an answer. Knowing he has about a half-a-dozen to a dozen good grinds before it puts too much strain on his back, he uses every single one of them to drag you to the knife’s edge. 

“What–,” grind, “do you need –,” grind, “to come?”

The wail you let out nearly makes him come on the spot. Your eyes have that same, out-of-this-world, off-this-planet unfocused gaze, any sort of language impossible. You plead with him in the silence. A silence loaded with damp moans, grit teeth, and skin against skin against skin against skin against skin. Best sound in the world, as far as he was concerned.

You arch until he lifts above you and, taking the hand that was by your head, tuck it down between your legs. You let him grasp around with spread fingers where you are wet, where his cock rocks into your body, watch as that pulls him apart faster with dark eyes, before pressing his thumb against your clit. 

There, you say without words. There is where I need you.

Once, twice, he circles – he can feel the tightness in his back already settling in, his jaw fixed and locked, his body battling the two overwhelming sensations of dull pain and fierce, wild pleasure – and you hit your release and you soak him in it. 

He falls then too, falls just as hard and as fast as you, the chronic pain he holds in his shoulders, his neck, his back, his knee fleetingly gone in the rush of heat that branches out of his body from his groin and it feels divine.

When he lies on top of you, face buried in the curve of your neck, the heat from your humid skin warming up the breath in his lungs, the throb of your body matching his, his mind wiped clean, the thought occurs to him:

It’s not silence he’s found with you, it’s quiet. 

It’s peace.

Eventually, some awareness seeps back into his trembling body and he rolls off of you, but takes the curve of your jaw in his hand as he goes. He can’t settle into the pillows because he can’t stop kissing you, love bites occasionally against your lip, as if where his body fails, he proves his love for you won’t end so easily.

Eventually, you press your fingers into the base of his skull and, like a reset button, he groans and drops onto his back. 

Eventually, the quiet returns. Only soft noises, murmurs of existence outside of this perfect little room, fill the space. 

Eventually, he falls asleep with you curled up next to him. 

He knows you love waking up in bed together, but he also knows you love fresh coffee even more. 

Which is where Ellie finds him the next morning. 

He nearly adds too much ground coffee to the pot because he’s distracted, lost in thought about the way your curves looked in the bright morning light, when the back door slams open and a little creature made of entirely scarves, mittens, and an oversized purple jacket stomps into his kitchen and clomps its snowy shoes on the rug. 

“Joel, we gotta go!” She’s a little breathless, red-cheeked too as she unwinds the scarf around her head and her face is revealed. “We don’t wanna miss it!”

“Miss what?” Joel asks, this time carefully measuring how much water the pot needs. 

His question is not met with her usually buzzy chatter. Instead, she’s stopped undoing her scarf and just stares at him like he’s been beamed down from another planet. 

He realizes all too late that he’s still in PJs at 9AM (basically a sign of another apocalypse), he’s making more coffee than just for himself, and he’s smiling. 

Shit.

“Ellie, um, I –,”

She rolls her eyes. Her scarf is flung off her neck and she starts yanking off her gloves, her plucky attitude back, if not a bit smug.

“Get your girlfriend up too. They’re lighting the big tree in town square in an hour. I know she’d be pissed if she missed it.” 

So definitely caught. Time to be “The Adult” here and put it out on the table. 

“Don’t call her that.” Joel eyes her. Coffee percolating, he grabs a slice of bread and Ellie’s favorite jam. “Makes it sound like we’re fourteen.” 

She frowns at him, classic “pouty-mouth”. 

“I’m fourteen — rude. But seriously, and I say this because I care, get over yourself. Call a spade a spade. You’re dating her, fucking her–,”

“Ellie!” 

"– and you make gross ga-ga eyes at each other when you think I’m not looking."

She slides into the seat at the island in front of him as he pushes the toasted bread with jam across the marble to her. She takes a bite, chews with her mouth open, and shrugs. “That’s a girlfriend, dude.” 

Joel turns back to the eggs that might be burning, his shoulders hunched and fist tight around the spatula. Hate it when the kid is right. 

He salvages what he can of the eggs, plates them along with two strips of bacon on two plates, and balances a mug of coffee on each. He tries to salvage some of his dignity with a glare. 

“When you’re older, you’ll see some things just don’t need labels.” 

At that, she rolls her eyes again and snatches up the last strip of bacon from the folded, greasy napkins. “Whatever, you dork.”

Argument soundly lost, he gathers up the plates and heads back up stairs. She’s still mumbling to herself as he goes. 

“'Girlfriend', pfft . . . much better than fuck bunny!” She yells to no one in particular.

You hear the entire conversation from bed, the door cracked open enough for the sound to travel. Muffling a giggle, you snag his white shirt from the floor and draw it over your head. You should probably be more embarrassed that Joel got caught in his Walk of Shame, even if it was to his own kitchen to make breakfast. But . . . you’re just not. 

The smile is still on your face when his footfalls approach the door and he sticks his head into the room.

“Sounds like we’re busted,” you smirk. 

Joel almost chuckles. “'Bout as busted as you can be.” He hands you one plate and sits on the end of the bed with his own. He takes a low, slow sip of coffee and you follow him. The eggs are nibbled at and the bacon is perfectly crunchy.

“So . . . girlfriend?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Not you too.” 

“I mean," you slip the plate and coffee onto the bedside table, then hug the sheets around your knees, "I agree with you on the bit about labels. It seems silly. And not wasteful silly. Just . . .”

“Silly.” Joel’s eyes are as dark as his coffee, warmer than it too. “Doesn’t really capture the whole thing, does it?”

An apocalypse and a half later, and a boy’s sweet eyes on you can still make your stomach swoop. 

“No, it doesn’t.” 

“Then what do you wanna say, if people start askin’?”

You bite your lip, eyes up in faux-thought. “Truth be told, I'm kinda partial to fuck bunny. Cute like with a little tail and ears —,"

The groan from Joel and subsequent head shake makes you laugh enough for you to take pity on the old guy. You crawl closer and his eyes slip from your face to where the sheet tucks under your knees. But a hand on his cheek returns his gaze.

"I like what you said last night." Your smile is soft, pleased. "That I’m yours. Like you’re mine.” 

Joel’s warmth bleeds from his whole frame as he leans in close to put his mug on the bedside table, then leans in closer still to you. He drags his nose over your bare, exposed shoulder, in a way that is sweet and sensual all at once. He stops with a kiss on the hinge of your jaw. 

“I like that too. I like saying that you’re mine.”

Ignoring the shiver that rockets up your spine at the low hum of his voice, the flutter of his lips barely against your cheek, you tuck an errant curl around his ear and it immediately springs back up again. You smile and he smiles back, a youthful shine in his eyes.

“Wherever you are, I am too.”  

Listen to: I am the forest by Willie Nelson

[luvyeni]

DEMURE GIRL ,, 이희승

pairings ‎⸝⸝⸝ acquaintances!heeseung x shy!reader wc. 4k

genre. smut

🦢◞  includes ... first kiss, oral sex ( fem. receiving ), unprotected sex

「 authors note 𖹭 」 i had to use this word at least once im sorry.

❪ masterlist! ❫

you liked to live a simple life; you liked routine; going to class, then back to your dorm to study or catch up on reading your favorite books; this was your everyday life , except when you were running around a frat party trying to make sure your roommate doesn't take her shirt off— for the third time that semester.

“i told you yn i’m not drunk , im completely sober.” her words slurring, and inability to walk straight told another story. “okay , i believe you, just drink this.” you handed her some water, she took a sip, some of the water dripping down her chin, you wiped it. “you're so kind yn , i love you so much.” she drunkenly held you. “oh there's jake! hey jake!” she yelled over the music. “let's go yn there's jake.”

she dragged you over to the group of boys you often found yourself hanging with because of your friend's obsession with one of the frat members, jake sim, you sat her down on the couch next to the equally drunk boy. “she dragged you out to another party?” sunghoon asked, you nodded. “please she loves these parties, it's the only fun she has in her life.” your friend slurred. “well besides those books she reads.”

“what books?” you froze up hearing the voice; the voice that made your little heart jump. “heeseung man you made it.” jake got up, giving the boy a handshake. “yeah decided to stop by.” he sat down , right down next to you. “glad i did too.”

the sad thing about your crush on heeseung; is that everyone knew about it, it wasn't a secret , even heeseung knew it — it's just that you could stay in the same vicinity of the man before you started breaking out in a cold sweat , so you never gave him the time. “hey yn.” the boy smiled next to you. “h-hi."

when heeseung found out about your crush on him; he didn't think anything about it, he was popular around campus , he was used to having pretty girls having crushes on him; but your crush on him — he never had someone so shy and modest and closed off to themselves have feelings for him, so he started to watch you, the way you would sneak off by yourself; he followed you once; not in a creepy way, he followed you into the university library, you were studying or reading a book, he couldn't remember, he was too busy watching you.

the way you'd absentmindedly pick at your skirt, or you'd smile at something in the book— before he could realize, he'd been sitting down for 30 minutes watching you , and you were getting up walking out the building, he tried to follow behind you , just so he can say hi , but you were already gone.

he would've given up chasing you; but he soon found himself crushing on you, even though you only gave him a shy hello or a meek goodbye in passing; but to heeseung, that was all he needed from you in order to be utterly obsessed with you— that's the reason why he was even here, he heard you were here with your friend, and he just had to be here. “her books are all she cares about, books and her school work.” your friend slurred. “it's been like that our whole lives, you know she never even had her first kiss.”

your eyes widened, you'd strangle your best friend if she wasn't drunk and there weren't any witnesses. “you've never had your first kiss?” the question floated around the air, your ears heated up in embarrassment. “well…”

“i can help you with that.” heeseung spoke up, everyone turned to him. “unless you're waiting?” your friend; whom you definitely were gonna strangle with a pillow once she was sober in the morning spoke up. “no she isn't , she just doesn't leave the house enough to realize how many guys are fighting to even be in her presence.” that made heeseung jealous, he didn't even want to think about another man touching you. “yn?”

you shrugged, maybe this was just a really good dream and you'd wake up with a red face. “su-sure.” heeseung stood up. “where are you going?” jay asked. “well i'm not about to kiss her in front of you guys, come on yn.” he held his hand out for you to take , a waiting smile.

once you grabbed his hand, he helped you up, guiding you away from the group. “hey , don't worry i won't do anything you don't want me to do.” he said as he guided you up the steps. “besides it's just a kiss right?” he said, holding the door open to a room. “i-i guess.”

you sat down on the bed; he closed the door, the sounds from the party muffled, but you could hear your heartbeat as he got closer to you, sitting down next to you. “now before i kiss you, i want you to tell me this is what you want.” he said. “i won't pressure you into doing something just to please your friend.” he held the side of your face , making you look at him. “yn?”

“i-i do.” you said, “you can kiss me.” he smiled. “that's the most you've ever said to me.” he said, holding the side of your face. “im not gonna bite , don't worry okay?” he leaned in, his lips dangerously close to yours, almost touching. “you're safe with me.” he closed the gap between you; his pillowy lips on yours , it felt like fireworks were going off inside your stomach, you closed your eyes, he softly caressed your cheek— he was fighting every demon inside to not stick his tongue into your mouth.

unfortunately you both needed oxygen; so he slowly pulled away, he chuckled as your lips chased after his. “hey, hey calm down.” his kissed the tip of your nose. “you want another?” he whispered, you nodded. “you can speak can't you darling?” his other hand come to your knees cap, rubbing gently. “all i need you to say is yes.” he waited patiently until you softly muttered a yes, and his lips were back on yours.

your hands shaking, picking at your skirt; he grabbed your wrist , pulling away. “you can touch me it's alright.” he guided your hand to his face, his skin soft. “good girl.” he said, smirking. “your lips are all swollen now, you liked that?” you nodded, your cheeks hot. “you're so cute, i can see in your eyes you want more.” he said. “but you don't even know what you want do you?”

“i-i don't.” he tilted his head to the side. “you want my help?” you wanted something from the boy, but losing your virginity wasn't something on the top of your list so you never thought about it; what if that was something that made him uncomfortable. “i see the gears turning in your head, if i didn't want this, i would've gotten up after kissing you the first time.” his hands were now easing up your skirt. “i can make you feel good.” he whispered, kissing your ear, blowing on it. “just give me the okay.”

he was holding back for you; he didn't want to scare you, but he couldn't deny the heat burning in his stomach, or the tightening below his belt buckle. “angel i don't mean to rush you, but fuck you're killing me with this silence.” he dry laughed. “i kinda need an answer.”

“o-okay.” he got off the bed, ridding himself of his shirt, unbuckling his pants. “can you take your shirt off for me?” his eyes lowered as you slowly lifted your shirt up; his cock twitching in his pants , it felt like his was a dream he had once or twice. “good girl.”

he gently laid you back on the bed, sunghoon was gonna kill him, but in the end he didn't care, he wasn't waiting any longer to have you. “i got you.” he was in between your legs, looking down at you all laid out for him, you looked like an angel , skirt above your waist — he almost felt bad for the things he was about to do to you. “let me do all the work.”

his hands came to your shoulders, lowering your bra straps, his hand was under you, undoing the back of your bra, sliding it off your body, revealing your perfect tits. “fuck, i dreamt of this for a long time baby.” both his hands were up your skirt, pulling down your panties. “gonna keep these.” he smirked, you whined. “keep making those pretty noises.”

kissing both of your breasts, making his way down your stomach, holding your legs wide open for him. “pretty little pussy.” he kissed in between your thighs. “bet you she tastes real good.” then you felt the sensation of his tongue on your heat. “o-oh.” you gasped. “you like that?” he licked another stripe , your hand came up to his hair, you balled your fist up. “pull it , i like that baby.”

he didn't say anything else before diving straight in, your cunt dripping on his tongue, like candy , so sweet he wanted nothing more than to drown in you. “h-heeseung.” you moaned out , he smirked against your heat , exactly what he wanted to hear , he couldn't help but grind against the bed, his tongue prodding against your hole , he groaned at the feeling of you tugging at his hair as he pushed his muscle inside you.

heeseung knew the inside and out of a girl, he could tell you were about to cum , you tore your eyes from the ceiling , below making eye contact with heeseung as he brought his lips to your clit , sucking on it — before you could even announce anything , you felt the knot in your stomach snap , you let out a moan that you only heard on videos you've watched a couple of times , your legs shaking as heeseung buried his head deeper inside you, cleaning up everything that came out of you , you were so sensitive you had to pull his head away. “it hurts.”

“sorry baby, you just taste too good.” he kissed the inside of your thighs. “i got a little caught up.” his normally put together hair was all messy; his lips were red and he was heavily breathing. “did you like it?” you nodded. “i-i did.”

he was addicted, he needed more from you, he needed to feel more of you. “you wanna feel even better baby?” you nodded. “you've been so vocal this entire time love , you know what i need.” you whimpered. “pl-please , i want you inside me.” he closed his eyes to calm himself; you sounded so desperate. “you want me inside this tiny pussy?”

he quickly rid himself of his jeans, he was just as desperate as you; he felt like a virgin himself , ready to feel you; he's thought about it since the day he saw you in the library. “he-heeseung.” your soft voice , it did everything to him , he could get off to that alone. “yes baby?” you whimpered hearing him calling you that. “will it hurt?”

“for a little bit.” he was in between your legs again, pushing his waistband down , freeing his cock; it was intimidatingly big, red and leaking with pre-cum, bobbing against his abs. “but not for long baby.” you could feel his tip against your hole. “don't worry , i won't hurt you okay?” you felt his tip entering , you hissed at the burning sensation as he filled you. “fuck , fuck baby you're so tight.”

he was losing his mind with how slow he was going; ready to just plunge his cock inside you. “he-heseung.” he kissed your lips. “shh shh , -fuck- baby it's okay, it's okay it's almost over.” he slowly worked himself , until he was fully inside you. “you-you're so big.” he smirked. “yeah baby i know.”

“m'gonna pull out now okay?” you nodded, he slowly pulled out of you , his tip still stuffed inside you. “you ready?” you nodded, he pushed himself back inside you much faster than before. “fuck.” he cursed , moving his hips; your fingers digging into his forearm as he thrusted into you. “f-faster.”

“you -fuck- you sure?” you moaned out a plea, that's all he needed before he was speeding up , sweat beading down his forehead; your cunt squeezing him like a vice, he was in heaven. “you feel so good baby , this pussy is perfect.” he groaned. “only i can touch it , isn't that right baby.” his thumb came to your clit , rubbing harsh circles. “only man to touch you like this , see your pretty face all fucked up.”

he was losing himself fully , his pace picking up, thrust deeper , hitting your cervix. “tell me baby, tell me this pussy is all mine , no man can ever touch you.” you were a moaning mess , eyes closed. “baby look at me.” he said. “look at me baby.” he repeated , his cock slowly dragging inside of you.

you force your eyes open; he was smirking. “good girl, keep looking at me.” he gave your lips another kiss. “tell me who this pussy belongs to.” you whimpered. “yo-you.” he cursed. “exactly baby.” you could feel yourself about to cum. “you gonna cum?” you nodded. “good girl , cum all over my cock.” you moaned out your legs wrapping around his waist. “fuck baby , if you don't unwrap your legs , im gonna cum inside you.”

you moaned out. “you want that baby , want me to cum inside you?” he was about to blow his load. “fuck baby i need a answer , or you need to unwrap your legs.” he cursed holding himself back from cumming. “pl-please cum inside me.”

his eyes rolled to the back of his head, as he came, you can feel him empty inside of you. “shit, baby.” he twitched. “you okay?” you were a little sore , but you'll be fine. “sunghoon is gonna kill me.” you chuckled breathlessly. “i-i'm sorry.” he shook his head. “no don't worry about it baby, let's just worry about getting you home okay , getting you cleaned up , i'll make sure your friend gets back to your dorm safely after okay?” you nodded , he help you get dressed. “why are you being so nice to me? did you get what you want?”

“baby , if you took one look up from those books you're always smiling at , you would've noticed me looking at you.” he said. “i told you i wouldn't have brought you up here if i didn't want to.” you smiled shyly , he caressed your cheek. “okay.” you whispered , he held his hands out. “come.”

“lets get you home baby , i’ll stay with you.”

©LUVYENI

[emilys-bangs]

born knowing you | e.p

Tags: shy!reader, established relationship (married cause who wouldn’t wanna marry her), temporary amnesia, hospitals, reader has an appendectomy but no details are mentioned, absolute boatload of fluff, disgusting amount of petnames used, no use of yn

Summary: After your surgery, the effects of the anesthesia linger: you can’t remember your wife—or being married to her. Luckily for the both of you, she’s persistent.

Word count: 1.4k

The moment you peel your threaded lashes apart, fluorescent light assaults your eyes. Immediately they shutter closed. You take a few seconds to adjust to the blissful dark before opening them again, a small, displeased sound getting stuck in your throat. 

It catches the attention of a woman sitting on a chair next to your bed. She looks up from a book in her lap, a smile crossing her face as she closes it and slips it onto the table next to her. Your brain is fuzzy, but with the sharp scent of antiseptic and the uncomfortable scratch of the gown you’re wearing, it’s not hard to deduce that you’re in a hospital.

“Hi gorgeous,” she says softly. Reaching out, she takes your hand. “How are you feeling?”

You frown confusedly. Looking between her and your joint hands, your perplexion mounts; you know her, you must. Your skin doesn’t crawl at her touch. But you try to come up with a name, a memory, and your brain comes up with nothing.

The woman squeezes your hand and leans out of her chair, across the handle of your bed—she’s suddenly so close you could count the freckles on her cheeks. Her eyes spike your sluggish pulse into something frantic.

God, she’s so familiar. You know that stare. Your skin warms at its intensity, a low buzz in your bones that could no doubt be accredited to the deep, unfathomable brown of her iris. 

Nobody has eyes like that.

The woman’s brows pinch at your silence. A wrinkle forms between her manicured brows; she chews on her bottom lip, squeezes your hand again—nervous this time.

“Honey?”

“I…I know you,” you mumble uncertainly. It sounds like a question. 

The wrinkle clears. An exhale parts the woman’s heart-shaped lips, her relief wafting over your chin.

“You do. I’m Em, baby. Emily. Don’t you remember?” She asks gently, cradling your cheek with her free hand. You think you could’ve answered if not for the devastating tilt of her spidery lashes. “The anesthesia did a number on you, huh? The doctor said it might happen.” Her thumb traces the length of your jaw.

She’s so close. You swallow and discover that your throat is dry. Emily, she said. Strange how it warms you up on the inside. Flitting your eyes away, you relieve yourself of her crushing gaze.

“Can I have water?” You rasp.

Emily procures a bottle. Cold creeps into your skin as she adjusts your bed, helping you sit up, and uncaps the water. Your arms are leaden by your sides. Heat surges in your cheeks as you let her help you drink, a distinct weight on your face you think might be from her eyes. You can hardly feel the cool spill of the water down your throat.

Clumsily, you push the bottle away when you’re done. Water spills down your chin; it travels down the column of your neck, soaks your hospital gown. Embarrassment flares hot, especially when Emily’s hand is there on your chin, drying the water with her fingers. You stare at her, this time unable to look away even when her eyes meet yours.

She smiles, dimples popping in her cheeks. “Everything alright in there? They didn’t mess you up too bad, did they?” Her voice is lightly teasing. It’s lovely, silky smooth and drenched with the warmth of adoration. That can’t all be for you, can it? “I should’ve flashed my badge, let them know it was precious cargo they’d be dealing with.” She muses, brows pinched as if she were serious.

God, who is this woman?

You swallow your thrumming heart. “What happened?”

“You had an appendectomy.” Emily says. “Laparoscopic. It took about an hour—we should be out of here once they check your vitals.” 

Out of here, to where? She won’t be taking you to her home, will she? You saw a wedding ring on her finger when she tucked her hair—wavy, dark as an oil spill—behind her ear. The glint of metal makes your stomach tighten strangely.

“Hey, you never answered,” Emily’s leaning against the handle of your bed, “how are you feeling?” A smooth, smoky scent floods your lungs.

“Alright.” Breathless. Her ring is dazzling in the dull light. “Itchy. But nothing hurts. You’re married.” You say, vaguely aware of the way your voice slurs.

Emily smiles softly. 

“We are.”

What?

You shake your head haltingly. “I’m not—I’m not married.”

“You are, sweetheart.” Again, she cups your face. “To me. What, am I that easily forgettable?” She whispers. The smile doesn’t play on her lips now; it shimmers in her eyes. “You’re breaking my heart, love.” Her voice is so achingly tender, soft as the cushioned heel of her palm.

Your heart is going to beat out of your chest. 

Breathless, you wet your lips with a quick dart of your tongue. “You…you wanted to marry me?”

Emily looks almost offended.

“Of course I did.”

You still can’t fathom it. “Why?” You mumble. “Why me?”

“Who else if not you?” She thumbs along your jaw.

You’re dizzy. And almost entirely sure she can feel your frantic pulse under the lazy drag of her finger. At your disbelief, Emily hums.

“Here,” her hand is reaching for your left, “see? I put that there, two October’s ago.” She kisses your wedding band—how hadn’t you felt it?—her lips velvet smooth against your skin. “You were so stunning I nearly forgot my vows.” The warm vibrations of her voice sink into your hand, reverberate through your bones.

It’s a good thing you’re in a hospital; you think she might be doing you irreparable damage. Lungs tight, you try to think past the effortless way she threads her fingers through yours.

“Do you always flirt like that?”

Emily’s smile melts your brain. “When you let me.”  She shifts a little closer—impossibly—and her eyes sweep downward, a lick of heat burning your lips. Then they’re back up to meet yours, wide open and a little desperate. “Can I kiss you, baby? God, you wouldn’t believe how much I missed you in there.”

Your heart palpitates.

“We’ve done it before?” You manage, more than a little choked at the thought.

“A million times.” Emily promises.

It’s your turn to look at her mouth. Soft pink, heart shaped, and entirely too inviting. When she does something with a flash of her teeth, you’re a goner.

“Okay.”

She lights up. “Yeah? Sure?”

“Please.”

The breath you exhale when she cups your cheek is downright embarrassing. But it almost doesn’t matter; this close, you can see that her pupils are wide, blown out. The lack of iris doesn’t make her gaze any less intense. If you hadn’t been sitting, legs firmly on the mattress, you’d have slid to the floor with weakened knees.

Emily’s lips are exactly as soft as they look. She tastes like coffee, sweetened by something you inexplicably identify as Splenda, and when her fingers sift through your hair something tugs in your chest. It’s instantly proven—no, this isn’t your first kiss. Maybe it has been a million times, or maybe somewhat less, but it’s not the first. Though it’s chaste and quick, your mouth knows what to do. Even when Emily leans back, eyes glittering, your mouth takes over without your permission.

“Love you,” you blurt.

Emily grins so wide you’re breathless. “I love you too. What, did I kiss some memories into that pretty brain of yours?” She thumbs at the edge of your tingling lip.

“You could try to. If you wanna.” What are you even saying anymore? She’s robbed you of thought, of breath. You’re happy to be completely at her mercy.

“Honey, there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.” Emily says solemnly. She kisses the corner of your mouth, the mellow lilt of her voice dissolving right in your tongue. “In fact, it’s my duty as your wife, I’m pretty sure.”

“My wife,” you say dumbly.

“Oh, you like that.” Her grin is incandescent. “God, I’d marry you all over again if I could.”

“I’d just like to remember the first time,” you say quietly.

“You will.” Another kiss, to the other corner of your mouth. Feather light and quicker than you’d like. Your mouth curves into a sulk—a pout.

“Soon?”

“Before you even know it.” Emily—your wife (the reality is starting to set in)—promises. And her promise holds up; it’s when she’s taken you home, and you’re in a baggy pair of sweatpants, flushing and fidgeting as it comes back to you. Believe me now? she teases into your ear, her laugh soft when you reach out to swat at her.

You can’t believe you ever doubted.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi@temilyrights@professorsapphic

[imaginedisish]

Poker Face (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: OKAY! Here is the strip poker fic! This is not a request, but there are a few requests I really like, so I'm most likely going to write one of those next! Could not waste the opportunity to use Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" as the inspiration here. I hope you guys enjoy!

Summary: You and Logan are alone in the mansion for the evening, and after a few drinks, your game of Blackjack turns into strip poker...

Warnings: 18+ Sexually Explicit Content MINORS DNI!!! Oral (f!receiving), Fingering, Unprotected PIV, multiple orgasms, softdom!Logan(?), cocky!Logan, alcohol consumption (neither reader nor Logan get drunk), feelings, friends to lovers, strip poker!, f!reader/afab reader, cursing, def some grammatical errors (proofread this one between weird times), I think that's it!

Word Count: 4,025 how did I do that???

The house is empty. Quiet. It’s so strange, almost eerie, but honestly welcome. You can’t remember the last time you were ever so alone. Not lonely—alone. Comfortably and peacefully alone. 

Scott, Jean, and Storm took most of the children off on an overnight camping trip, while Hank, Kurt, and Charles were on a mission with some of the older mutants. Rogue and Gambit were out somewhere, leaving you and Logan in the mansion alone. 

You’re sitting at the kitchen table, back to the window, looking out at the empty room. Everything is untouched—neatly put away. You know things will be back to normal by tomorrow afternoon—dishes in the sink, shoes all over the floor, kids shouting down the halls. But for now, there’s nothing. No disruptions. No—

“Oh, hey,” Logan mumbles, stepping through the doorway and into the kitchen. “Didn’t know you were in here.”

You smile, trying your best not to let your eyes flit up and down his body. He’s wearing one of his tight beaters and a pair of jeans. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want him—if you said that being alone in the mansion with him wasn’t somewhat overwhelming. You’ve wanted Logan since the day you joined the X-Men, just a few months ago. And while you’ve become close friends, you know it’ll never progress further than that. 

“Wanna join me?” You ask, tilting your head to the chair across from you. 

Logan smirks and nods. He walks to the fridge, swings open the French doors, and reaches inside. “Got something for us, actually,” he says, glasses clinking as he rummages through the fridge. He pulls out whatever he’s looking for, turning around, and revealing a 6-pack of beer. 

“No way!” You shout excitedly. “Logan Howlett, breaking the rules as always.”

He sits down across from you, placing the beers in the center of the table. “You know you love it,” he husks, grinning widely. 

You can feel the heat rising to your chest. He’s right. “I do,” you whisper, hoping he doesn’t catch on to the implications of your words. If he does, he doesn’t show it. He grabs a beer by its neck, pops off the cap with ease, and holds the bottle out towards you. Your fingers brush his as you take the beer from him, his hands warm and surprisingly soft. The contact is fleeting, effervescent. You wish he could touch you again. 

You bring the bottle to your lips, the cold beer a distraction from your all-too-hot thoughts. You watch as Logan pulls a bottle for himself, his muscles flexing as he removes the cap. He brings the bottle to his mouth and knocks it back, his throat bobbing as he swallows. 

“So…” You trail off, doing your all to ignore the way his tongue swipes across his upper lip as he places the beer back down on the table. You take another swig of your beer, ready to down the entire thing just to give yourself the confidence to say something. “D-did you wanna do anything?” You take another big gulp. 

Logan smiles. “Not sure,” he says, taking a sip. “You got anything in mind, princess?”

Your heart flutters at the familiar nickname. You rub a finger up and down the beer bottle, streaking the condensation. “We could play a game,” you offer, your eyes finding his. “Cards?”

Logan hums in affirmation as he knocks his beer bottle back again. He’s already practically finished. “You wanna play Blackjack?” He asks, taking a final sip before standing up and walking over to the kitchen island. He rifles through a couple of drawers before finding a pack of cards. He sits back down across from you, grabbing another beer and cracking it open. 

“Sure,” you answer, watching as Logan slips the cards from their box and expertly shuffles them. He thumbs the cards, dexterously letting them slide through his long fingers. He deals you the first card, face up, and then does the same for himself. You have a king of hearts, and Logan has a five of diamonds. He deals again, and you’re given a nine of clubs. It’s a good hand. Better than Logan’s, so far. He deals himself another card, looking at it briefly before putting it face down on the table. 

He smirks up at you. “Hit, or stay?” He asks.

You roll your eyes. “Stay, obviously.” He shakes his head, smiling as he deals himself another card. 

“Well, princess,” he says, showing you all three of his cards now. Five of diamonds, queen of hearts, and six of spades. “Looks like I won.” He’s smug as he grabs your cards and shuffles them back into the deck. 

You scoff and let him deal you in again.

You’ve only had two drinks, but there’s something about being with Logan that makes you feel like you’re drunk. You’ve been playing Blackjack for almost forty-five minutes now, round after round. Despite this being a game of chance, it seems like Logan wins far more often than you do. 

And yet, something gives you the sudden confidence to up the ante. 

“Lo?” You ask, taking a swig of your third beer, now. He looks up at you and hums, dealing the next round. You lean across the table. “What if we…” you trail off. “Made this more exciting?” 

Logan looks across the table under hooded eyes. You can sense the sudden shift in his expression, and you know he can sense the suggestiveness in your voice. The corner of his mouth turns up—a sly, half smile. “Exciting how, princess?”

You’re nervous now—all talk and no action. “Maybe we could bet somehow?” You offer, but Logan knows that’s not truly what you mean. He cocks his head, eyes narrowing.

And then he says exactly what you’re thinking—as if he can read your mind. “What about strip poker?” 

Your eyes widen and you swallow harshly. Logan is focused on you, still folding the cards into each other. You finally nod your head. “Sure, sounds fun.” 

Logan quickly deals the first cards. You have an ace, and Logan has a ten of diamonds. He places another card down for you—seven of clubs—and another face down for himself. 

“Hit or stay?” He asks, his eyes set on yours. He’s leaning closer to you than he was before. 

You take a deep breath. “Stay,” you answer, your voice trembling ever so slightly now. 

Logan shakes his head. “Wouldn’t have mattered anyway,” he says, flipping over his second card. It’s an ace of hearts. He collects your cards without another word, but his eyes are still glued to you. 

You bite your lip nervously and decide to tug away your sweatshirt. You’re wearing a thin tank top underneath, much to your relief. Logan’s eyes flit up and down your body, drinking you in. 

You drape the sweatshirt across the back of your chair, your eyes narrowing in Logan’s direction. “You have to be cheating,” you accuse sarcastically.

Logan grins ear to ear as he deals again, looking down at the table. “Just lucky,” he says, the words stopping your heart. “Very lucky.” He looks back up at you. Your breath catches in your throat. 

There’s a four of hearts in front of you this time. You roll your eyes at the low card. Logan—naturally—has a jack of diamonds. He places another card in front of you, a nine of clubs, and another face down for himself.

“Hit,” you mutter before he can ask the question. He places a seven of diamonds in front of you and shakes his head. He reveals his other card: an eight of spades. You smile widely, self-satisfied as you grab your beer by the neck and take a long swig. You lean back in your chair, watching as Logan pulls his beater up and over his head. 

He’s perfect, you think to yourself. Sure, he’s all chiseled abs and muscles, but he truly is beautiful. And you hope he knows it. “Happy now?” He asks, dealing the next hand. 

Heat spreads across your chest and down to your stomach. Your clothes feel tight, itchy. You try your best to ignore the way Logan makes you feel—to ignore the way you long to press your thighs together for some sort of friction. You—very obviously—are failing horrifically. 

“Hit, or stay?” Logan asks. You’re so distracted by him that you completely missed the deal. You look down to see an eight of hearts and a six of diamonds. Logan has a king of spades face up, and his other card face down. 

You raise your eyebrows, mulling it over in your mind. “Hit,” you finally spit out, and Logan deals you a ten of clubs. 

Oh. 

“Well shit,” you mumble. Logan chuckles as you stand up, struggling to decide what to take off. You look down at your athletic shorts and decide those are the next to go. You slip them down your legs and place them on the back of the chair with your sweatshirt. 

Logan’s throat bobs as his eyes trail up and down your legs. He isn’t laughing anymore; there’s something serious in his eyes, something dark. He works his jaw as you sit back down across from him. He looks pained as he deals the next hand. 

You cock your head to the side as he places a queen of hearts in front of you. “Are you okay?” You ask.

“’M’fine,” he answers curtly, drawing an ace of diamonds for himself. He quickly places another card down for you—a five of spades—and another face down for him. 

But you can tell there’s something wrong. It’s the way he moves, the way he fidgets in his seat. You reach out tentatively across the table, your fingers brushing against his. “Logan,” you soothe. “We don’t have to play if you don’t want to.” 

His eyes find yours, and he smiles softly, looking at your cards and then flipping his over. He got it. Twenty-one. Blackjack. “I think this game is almost over,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

You roll your eyes and grab the hem of your tank top, slowly pulling it up your body and over your head. Now all that’s left is your sports bra and your panties. You look across the table, and there’s Logan, eyes locked on you. “One more round?” You ask. 

But he ignores you, pushing out his chair, standing up, and walking over to you. “No,” he murmurs. “I think we’re done with the game.” He pulls your chair out from the table and leans down over you, placing his hands on either armrest, caging you in. 

His eyes are dark and filled with lust, his lips just centimeters from yours. Your noses brush, his breath fanning across your cheeks. You can smell him—the pine and musk and tobacco, his shampoo, a hint of mint. 

“L-Lo,” you stutter, your heart beating out of your chest as he leans in closer. There’s something animalistic, something primal about the look in his eyes. 

“I know you want me, pretty girl,” he husks. “Could smell that pussy crying for me before you even took those little shorts off.” 

“I-I,” you stutter, unable to form a coherent thought, no less a sentence. Your thighs rub together involuntarily at Logan’s words, searching for friction, for relief. 

Logan chuckles darkly. “Yeah,” he hums, one hand dropping from the armrest and slipping in between your thighs. “That’s what I thought, princess.” 

He pushes your legs open, his fingertips trailing along your inner thigh, slowly climbing higher. He finally reaches your heat and two of his fingers drag teasingly through your clothed folds, up to your clit. “Haven’t even touched you yet and you’re already soaked,” Logan growls, stroking you through your panties. “Making a mess of the chair, hm?”

“Logan,” you whine, his fingers circling your clit and then pulling away. Before you can protest the loss of contact, he’s hoisting you up and out of the chair, his hands squeezing your ass, holding you tightly in his arms. You wrap your legs around his waist and bring your hands to the nape of his neck.

He carries you through the kitchen and into the hallway. He stops in his tracks and pushes your back against the wall, his lips finally finding yours. The kiss is rushed and frantic, like he just has to have you now, like he’s so hungry he’d die if he waited another second. He grinds his hips into yours, his erection straining through his jeans. 

“Need you, darlin’,” Logan mumbles against your lips, his chest heaving in time with yours. “Needed you this whole time.” He finally steps away from the wall and heads towards the stairs. You thread your fingers through Logan’s hair as he bites your lower lip, your pulse point, kissing you anywhere he can as he walks up the stairs and into his bedroom. 

He closes the door with a kick, and strides over to the bed in the center of the room, placing you down in the middle and crawling over you. His lips find yours again, his tongue darting out and sliding over your bottom lip, silently asking to be let inside. How could you ever say no? How could you ever not give him whatever it is he wants?

Logan balances on his forearm as his free hand trails up your body, warm and soft and soothing. He finds the hem of your bra and pulls the fabric over your tits. You arch your back, helping him slip it off the rest of the way. He finds your breasts, massaging gently before teasingly rolling your nipple under his thumb. 

“So fucking beautiful,” he huffs, moving to your other breast, pawing at the flesh, rolling over your nipple again, pinching lightly. His knee is settled between your legs, keeping you spread open for him. Your hips involuntarily rock against him, your needy core sliding up and down his thigh, searching for relief. 

Logan smiles against your lips and swallows your moans with a kiss before his touch suddenly disappears. His knee is no longer between your legs—the delicious friction gone. Your eyes flutter open and closed as he crawls down your body, kissing his way to the hem of your panties. 

“Lo,” you whimper as he places a chaste kiss to your clothed clit. “Please,” you beg, squirming underneath him. 

His arm latches around your waist, holding you down to the mattress while his other hand hooks inside the waistband of your panties. He tugs teasingly, taking his time as he slides your panties down your legs and tosses them off to the side. Logan settles himself between your thighs, his breath fanning against your cunt.

His arm is still firmly pushing you down into the mattress as he brings his face closer to where you need him most. “Wanna taste this pretty pussy, darlin’,” Logan grunts, and his tongue swipes through your folds, dragging across your slit and up to your clit. 

You curse under your breath as Logan licks another long stripe, his tongue finishing with a flick to your clit. “So fucking sweet,” Logan murmurs against you, the bass and vibration of his voice sending a burst of pleasure up your spine. “Knew you’d taste so good, pretty girl.” 

Logan pulls you closer to him, burying his face into your cunt like a man starved. He takes your clit between his lips, sucking roughly. His fingertips slide up your inner thigh, drawing higher and higher until he finds your folds. 

“Such a fucking tease,” Logan mutters, spreading your slick, prodding your entrance. “Using cards as an excuse to take your clothes off for me.” He shoves two fingers deep inside you as his tongue circles your clit. “Wanted me that bad, huh?” You can feel him smiling against you, all smug as he pulls his fingers from your slit and plunges back in. 

“Y-yes,” you stutter. His grip is like iron across your hips, keeping you in place, stopping you from squirming. “Wanted y-you so fucking bad.” 

He pumps his fingers in and out, down to the knuckles as he laps at you. He sucks at your clit again, harder this time. “I know, sweetheart,” Logan soothes, his thumb rubbing against your hip as his thrusts become faster, deeper. You’re already shaking underneath him—a trembling mess. “I’ve got you, pretty girl,” he coos. 

His tongue flicks your clit, swirling around the bud, adding more pressure with every stroke. Your walls flutter around his fingers, taking him in deeper. “Logan,” you whine, growing closer with every pump. “I-I—”

You’re cut off as he adds a third finger. “That what you needed, princess?” Logan asks, all cocky and self-assured. Your back arches off the mattress and Logan tightens his grip on your hips, holding you down as he devours you. “You’re not going anywhere until I’m finished with you.”

Your muscles clench around him at the words. His teeth graze lightly against your clit as he pulls the bud into his mouth, sucking roughly. “Lo…” You trail off, unable to use any semblance of language to communicate the way he’s making you feel. 

“Taking me so good, darlin’,” Logan praises, his fingers fucking into you unrelentingly. “Such a good fucking girl.” 

You’re so close, almost at that edge, pleasure burning through your every nerve ending. “’L-Lo I’m so—” you choke out.

“So fucked out that all you can say is my name,” Logan teases, sucking on your clit between sentences. “Wanna feel you come around my fingers.” He pushes himself in deeper. “Wanna taste it.”

“F-fuck,” you stutter, contracting around him uncontrollably. The tension building in your stomach finally snaps, the fire set free to burn through your body. “Logan!” You cry out, chanting his name like it’s a sacred prayer. And maybe it is.  

“I’ve got you,” Logan soothes, his tongue still lapping at you, his fingers still thrusting in and out. “I’m right here, let go for me.” He works you through your orgasm, his pumps slowing down as you ride out your high.

He pulls his fingers from your cunt, but his face doesn’t move. He’s still lapping at you, his tongue swiping through your folds, your slit, up to your clit. He’s drinking you in, savoring the taste of you. 

“Lo,” you whimper, running your hands through his hair, trying to guide him up your body. But he doesn’t budge. He grunts against your core, his tongue dragging through your heat. “Please,” you beg. “Need you, Lo.”

He licks one more long stripe through your folds before finally lifting his head to look up at you. Your release is painted across his lips, glistening in the moonlight. His tongue darts out, licking away the proof of your orgasm. 

“Need me, sweetheart?” He asks, sitting up, unbuckling his belt and letting it fall to the floor with a clink. He unbuttons his jeans and pulls his zipper down. “Need me to fuck you?” You nod, settling into the pillows at his headboard as he tugs his jeans and boxers down his legs. 

His cock springs free, bouncing against his stomach. You swallow nervously at the size of him. He settles on top of you, balancing on his forearm as he guides his cock to your entrance. 

Logan presses a chaste kiss to your lips as his tip nudges through your folds. “Thought about this for a long time,” he murmurs, the head of his cock bumping against your clit before sliding back down towards your entrance. His lips meet yours again, more hurried and hungry this time. “Always thinking about you.” And then he buries himself deep inside you, down to the hilt. He stalls, unmoving, giving you a moment to adjust to the size of him. He’s stretching you out, working you open. You grab his biceps, searching for purchase. Nothing could have prepared you for this, for the way he fills you up and makes you feel whole. 

“Feels so fucking good,” Logan whispers, pulling out and pushing all the way back in. “So tight, so perfect,” he praises, slowly setting a rhythmic pace, pumping in and out. 

His hand leaves the base of his cock and slips between your bodies, finding your clit—still sensitive from your first orgasm. His thumb strokes soft circles into the bud, drawing a moan from your lips. 

“Y-yes,” you pant as Logan plunges into you, faster and deeper with each thrust. You can feel him throbbing inside you, his cock dragging against your walls. It’s already too much—already more than you can handle. “F-feels so good, Lo.”

His hips snap against yours. “I know it does, pretty girl,” Logan coos, rutting into you. “Gonna take care of you. Gonna make you feel good.” His words go straight to your core, your muscles contracting around him. He curses under his breath at the feeling, your pussy taking him deeper as he sinks inside you. “Squeezing me already, sweetheart.”

He’s fucking into you, his pace growing reckless and punishing. He adds more pressure to your clit, rubbing harder, faster. You don’t know how much longer you’ll last, not with his lips at the shell of your ear whispering praises. 

“So fucking beautiful,” he husks, his hips rocking against yours. “Taking me so good, doing so well for me.” He’s hitting that sweet spot inside you with every thrust. He swallows your moans with starving, desperate, needy kisses—biting your lips, bruising them. He’s consuming you, taking everything you have to give him. 

He presses his forehead to yours, pounding into you, somehow finding a way to sink deeper inside. Your walls flutter around him, and you know you’re almost there. “Logan,” you croak, pushing your hips into his. 

“F-fuck,” he stammers, his cock twitching inside you, massaging your inner walls. “I know princess, know you’re close.” You can feel his thrusts faltering, growing sloppier. “Wanna feel you come on my cock, pretty girl.” You moan his name, wrapping your legs around his waist, keeping him close as he pumps in and out. “Come for me, darlin’.”

Logan pinches your clit and buries himself deep inside, sending you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes into you, your walls clenching around him, squeezing him tighter. “Stay,” you whisper, and he knows what you mean—knows exactly what you’re asking for.

He curses under his breath and his head falls to your shoulder as he comes undone, too, filling you up, spilling inside you. Everything is liquid heat. Your muscles contract and relax, your shoulders melting into the mattress. Everything feels hazy as Logan gently strokes your clit, thrusting in and out of you slowly, riding out your orgasms. 

He finally pulls out, wrapping his arms around your back and rolling you over so that you lay on top of his chest. He holds you close, his fingers trailing up and down your back. He kisses the crown of your head. “You okay?” He whispers into the silence of the room. 

“Yeah,” you answer, burying your face into his chest. “’M’perfect.”

He presses another kiss to the top of your head. “Wanted you for so long, princess,” he husks, his voice deep and raspy. 

“Wanted you, too, Lo,” you say, pressing a kiss to his chest. 

You can hear his heart beating; can hear every breath he takes. You can even hear the smile in his voice. “You have a terrible poker face, you know.”

You laugh softly, lifting your head from his chest. “I think it’s just fine, thank you very much.” He’s smiling down at you, his hair a mess, sweat still on his brow. He’s perfect. So fucking perfect. “And besides, you’re the one who suggested strip poker.”

He shakes his head, tugging you back down to his chest. “Should’ve played it sooner.” You can feel his chuckle reverberate through his lungs. “We can play again if you want…”“…but this time we skip the poker part.”

tags: @ilysmdovie12 @prettyseaveins @spiderset @figsnpassionfruits @silversprings-mp3 @movhoney @wittyjasontodd @theasiaabattoir @fanfic-writing-barbie @manipulatour @pedrohoe04 @derbygracie @honeyfewr

[themultifanshipper]

Sometimes, there's nothing like some heavy drinking and extreme cold to make sure best friends don't stay best friends.

You and Franco found this out the hard way.

Warnings: don't fuck on the beach guys it's really not a good idea, smut, belly bulge, squirting, alcohol, so many petnames I lost count, no good judgement to be found anywhere

I'll set the scene.

Winter break, at a beach house on the Argentinian coast, at night.

Everyone is sleeping, the only sound that can be heard is the waves crashing on the sand.

You and Franco were indeed best friends. And deeply, deeply in denial about your feelings for each other.

You followed him everywhere, fucking up your education to go to all his races, ever since you were 14.

And he never had a girlfriend because... well, how could he even look at other girls when you were around?

Now you were 23, and he'd fucked around a bit, and so had you. But it was never anything serious, drunken one night stands mostly.

But there you were, on the beach at 2 in the morning, playing a game of drunk hetero-chicken.

Like gay chicken, but longer and more painful to watch.

It involved throwing back shots, and running into the ocean.

The twist was that the ocean was fucking cold when there was no sun to warm you up, and there was only so much the cheap tequila could do, so once you were in the water you had to huddle up to share body heat.

It was only a matter of time before the huddling turned to groping.

You can't even remember who initiated the first kiss, but neither of you wanted to stay in the water for long after that.

Franco carried you out, your thighs firmly wrapped around his waist and his hands digging into your ass.

He set you down in the sand and climbed over you, shoving his way in between your legs.

You both knew what was about to happen, but were too fucking in love to care.

You whined at the stretch when the first of his thick fingers made its way into your quickly dampening cunt.

“It's okay, querida. Let me take care of you”

He bit your bottom lip at the same time as the second finger slipped in, both actions making you groan into his greedy mouth.

Mouth that decided to start traveling south and sucked a couple of bruises into your skin before going even further.

The hand that wasn't pumping in and out of you came up to pull at the string of your bikini, exposing your tits to him as he gulped and looked deep into your eyes.

“You are perfect, mi vida”

He leaned down and sucked one of your nipples into his mouth, making you arch into the sensation and he took the opportunity to slip a third finger in.

He hooked them upwards and you groaned your approval of his ministrations.

“Franco, fuck me- please”

“In a minute, baby, let me just-”

You looked down at this hand, and the sight of him slipping a fourth finger in was enough to make you clench around them, and he groaned, the squelch almost audible over the crashing waves.

“Fuck Franco, that's- I think that's enough, no?”

He chuckled. “I need to prepare you, the last thing I want is to hurt you. I am... uhh, big” he muttered, almost shyly, and if it hadn't been night-time you would have seen the blush creeping along his cheeks.

And if the bulge in his shorts was anything to go by, he wasn't lying.

You slipped a hand in the waistband, pulling them down slowly, and marveled at the thickness that met your touch.

Your fingers were barely long enough to wrap around him, and he grunted as you started pumping him slowly.

“Come on Franco, I won't break. I need you inside me, please”

And who was he to deny such a request.

Despite his inebriated state, he went slow, and was incredibly careful as he inched inside you with measured thrusts.

When his hips were finally flush with yours, you let out a wanton moan.

“Fuck, I'm so full”

“I know querida, just breathe”

He let you adjust at your own pace, kissing your neck in an effort to distract you from the intense stretch.

“Okay” you gasped out “You can move baby”

The first gentle thrust was eath-shattering and you couldn't help but let out a shrill cry, which spurred Franco on.

He lifted you with an arm around your waist, sitting back on his haunches and holding you up so that he could thust into you while you clung onto him, overwhelmed by the pleasure.

You came once like that, panting and moaning into his mouth, before he lay you back down and put your legs over his shoulders.

He pounded into you hard and fast while you squirmed and whined at the overstimulation.

“Franco, oh my god” you gasped, feeling the beginnings of another orgasm approaching and he chuckled when he felt your cunt squeezing him tighter.

“You can do another one for me, baby, can't you?”

He looked down at you with a sick smirk and you nodded.

He glanced further down and his jaw tightened at what he saw.

“Look baby, look how good I’m filling you”

You followed his gaze and landed on the slight bulge that appeared when he was fully inside you.

You moaned and he laughed, his hips speeding up.

“You like that, huh? Go on and rub yourself for me while I make you feel good”

You complied immediately, fingers going down to rub fast circles on your clit, and at the same time Franco put a hand over the bulge and pressed down.

You saw stars, literally and metaphorically as you spasmed around him, juices coating his hips and thighs, and seeping into the wet sand.

Your head was thrown back while you cried out his name into the night, and once you were sated he quickly pulled out and fisted his cock until the thick ropes of his cum landed on your thighs and soaked folds, mixing with your own release.

He leaned down to kiss you, not caring about lying in his own spend because, after all you just needed to have a dip in the water to clean off.

You lay like that for a bit, just kissing in the moonlight while the sound of the waves faded into the background.

After a while you separated and he chuckled.

“Thank god we are outside. I don't think I've ever made anyone squirt that much before.”

You slapped his chest lightly and giggled. “Franco!”

He smiled and leaned down to capture your lips once more.

“Come, lets go inside before we catch un resfriado”

You didn't know what that was, but you followed him anyway.

You took a long hot shower, and curled up together in bed, like you always did.

The next day you learned what a ‘resfriado’ is (it’s a fucking nasty bitch of a cold), and you also learned that Franco's poor mother had gotten up in the night to get a glass of water, and had the misfortune of looking out of the window.

She apparently got quite an eyeful of the filth that you two were getting up to.

[milawritess]

just read your gojo fic and it was amazing!! can i ask does megumi end up calling the reader mom to her face or something along those lines in the end? i’m a sucker for the reader being a parent to megumi so was wanting to know how that plays out 💜

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader, mom!Reader & Fushiguro Megumi 

Warnings: angst, Megumi missing his mum :( 

Word count: 2k+

a/n: this takes place after the events of my fic Wherever you go, that's where I'll follow

-

Would Megumi ever call you mom to your face?

Yes and no. He’s a bit shy when it comes down to it. 

After nearly dying, you were sick. Your technique became unstable, a flicker of the shadow of what your flames once were. 

Your recovery was hard, harder than anyone could have expected. Your eyes were hollow and sunken; you had lost even more weight, and you were always so tired. Megumi saw you dozing off at the dinner table, in the middle of conversations, and one time while you were even standing. It seemed like a never-ending exhaustion—like your own soul couldn’t withstand being… alive. 

It scared Megumi. More than words could describe. 

When word got around that you couldn't even conjure up more than a spark, Megumi noticed you started to change. You’d disappear for days at a time, you were eating less and less, and you hardly spoke, evident by the strain in your vocal cords when you addressed him or anyone for that matter. He knew you were depressed; he picked up on the signs quickly and felt the weight of your absence. Eventually, it seemed Yuji and Nobara did as well. 

It was starting to get to you, he thinks. But Megumi doesn’t entirely blame you. If he woke up one day unable to conjure his shadows, he thinks he’d lose himself, too. 

Megumi could tell Gojo was starting to worry. He found him taking you out on strolls around the block a few times, trying to get you out of the house you’d much rather wallow away in. Gojo kept a bright smile on his face the entire time, and he was more open and apparent with his affection for you. His hands were always on your hip, around your shoulders, or your hand was tightly wrapped in his. Megumi wondered if it was to be closer to you or to help you keep your balance. Probably both; Gojo walked slower than usual, half strides that still never seemed quite slow enough to match yours. 

It felt like you were just… disintegrating right before everyone’s eyes. To Megumi, it was like watching an angel fall from grace. 

One day, he finds you and Gojo on the couch. After finishing his classes, he went to the store to buy your favorite soup, crackers, and some energy drinks he hoped might perk you up, even just a bit. He let himself into the Gojo estate after knocking and receiving no answer. It wasn't a big deal. Not too long ago, it was his home, too, and it's not like nobody was home. He could sense Gojo's presence. It was oddly overwhelming and dense. 

He sees why when he finds you. 

The room was warm—warm enough to make him break a sweat in his uniform upon entering. The fireplace was crackling, and the central heat was on blast. You were sprawled out on the couch in the main room, and Gojo was behind you, holding you to his chest while you slept. Megumi was ready to leave the grocery bag on the kitchen counter and leave. It didn’t feel right intruding, but-

You were shivering. 

He doesn’t get it—why nothing could keep you warm. His whole life, you’ve always brought a warmth that extended beyond your kindness and soft smiles. It was the kind of warmth you shared with him— from those oversized winter coats you bought him, those knitted gloves you make him every year, and you. 

He remembers being small and how you’d heat your hands before holding his tightly. Back then, he never had numb knuckles or fingertips whenever you were around. Not only that, you could just radiate warmth, effortlessly warming the air around you. He’s seen you do it a few times when the people around you got too cold. It was like walking past a sauna, a warm breeze that always caught others off guard. 

He remembers you doing it just a few weeks ago. Yuji’s eyes widened, and he jumped up and down, annoyingly asking a million questions about your technique. You looked a bit prideful when he compared you to a fire-breathing dragon, which, ironically, might have been the best comparison for you. 

He hated that you shivered now. With several blankets, the room cranked to eighty degrees, and Gojo beside you still wasn't enough. He hated that there wasn’t much anyone could do—anything he could do. 

Quietly, he ambles upstairs, yanking the blanket off the bed in his old room. When he returns to the living room, he throws it over you and Gojo. 

Gojo doesn’t move much but opens one eye, eyeing Megumi for a moment. He acknowledged Gojo with a nod, knowing that he wasn’t asleep. His six eyes have followed him since he knocked on the front door.  

However, he notices that Gojo has sweat beading down his temple, his white hair damp and sticking to his forehead. Megumi hadn’t associated himself with Gojo much since the incident, but… he’s happy he’s with you, doing everything he can to keep you safe, protected, and warm, even at his own expense. 

The corner of Gojos' lip twitches before his eye closes again. 

Megumi leaves a note on the counter before leaving. 

Mom, 

I bought you some food from the market. It’s in the fridge. Get well soon. 

— Megumi 

-

It’s when Gojo takes a leave of absence from teaching that Megumi can feel it sinking in—a dark foreboding, an anxiousness that tied knots around his heart, keeping him up late into the night. 

“I’m worried,” Yuji admitted sullenly. “What if… what if the damage was so bad she won’t fully heal? I know regenerating cursed energy takes a while, but it’s been weeks.” 

“I really hope that’s not the case,” Nobara sighs, resting her elbows on the table and looking out into the distance.  “It must be serious for Gojo-Sensei to leave.”

“I can’t imagine how painful it must have been,” Yuji winces a bit, merely playing with the fries on his plate. “… Urggg!” Yuji wines, hiding his face in his hands. “I don’t even wanna be at this stupid sandwich shop without Sensei. It’s not right!”

“Relax, I’ll order her something before leaving. I’ll drop it off at their place,” Megumi grouses, pulling himself away from his thoughts. 

Yuji peeks at Megumi between his fingers. “…Can I come?”

Hell no, is what Megumi wants to say, but he bites his tongue. Tsk. You’d probably like to see Yuji—Nobara too. 

“Fine,” Megumi laments between gritted teeth. “Just- don’t bother her too much. We drop the food off, and then we leave.”

Of course, Yuji doesn’t listen. 

“Sensei, it was crazy! First, it went—boom! Then skeeert, and wham! And then, and then- I went flying! Right into the wall! But it was a short wall! I flipped right over it!”

You held a cup of warm tea in your hands and smiled softly, eagerly nodding along and giggling at Yuji. He animated the story with excitement, bouncing on his toes, and his voice echoed through the halls as he made quirky sounds. Megumi rolled his eyes, finding his friend rather obnoxious, but you looked happy. He supposed that was all that really mattered. 

However, Megumi wonders if you have a single clue as to what Yuji is talking about. He surely didn’t. 

Yuji threw himself down on the couch adjacent to where you sat, right beside Nobara. “Man… they banned me. Can you believe that?”

“They banned you? That’s egregious.”

“I know, right!”

You wiggle your eyebrows before taking a sip of your tea. “Want me to beat up the director?”

Yuji lets out a heartfelt laugh. “No, but that would be kinda funny,” he sighs dramatically. “I guess I’ll just have to start going to other skating rinks.”

“Sensei-” Nobara freezes, your name slipping from her lips. 

Megumi couldn’t see what those two saw. He opted for staying in the corner of the room, watching you interact with his two friends. It was hard for him, he realized bitterly, to even look at you. So he stayed in the corner, content with just watching over you from a distance. But suddenly, the air is knocked from his lungs. 

Things weren’t supposed to be like this. 

Nobara reaches forward quickly, nearly dropping her tea as she does. She rips out three tissues from the tissue box before shoving them in your hands. 

However, Yuji freezes. His face goes white as a sheet. 

You lean forward, holding the tissue to your nose. Nobara jumps up, putting her hands on your shoulders as she encourages you to stand. “We’ll be right back! Going to the ladies room!”

It’s only when you two walk past him that he sees the bloody tissue, crimson dripping from your nose. Yuji remains silent on the couch, fiddling with his hands and looking at nothing in particular. He looks like he just saw a ghost, and Megumi doesn’t blame him. He felt the same way; however, he had the will to move. In a haze, his feet carry him to the kitchen. He finds Gojo there, plating the food Megumi brought you and putting it in the microwave. 

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Well, hello to you too, brat.”

“Just tell me already.”

Gojo sighs. “Yeesh. Everything’s fine, you little gremlin. Nothing you gotta worry about.”

“H-Her nose just started bleeding! Out of nowhere.”

Gojo seems to pause for a moment before going back to what he was doing. “Seems Nobara has it handled. They’re on their way back to the living room now.”

“Just tell me what’s going on,” Megumi nearly pleads. He wants to accuse Gojo of not caring, of not doing whatever he can for you during your difficult recovery, but the bitter words never make it past his lips. Megumi knows he is. Even when anger threatens to blind Megumi, he remembers that you and Gojo have weird dynamics that often leave people’s heads spinning; however, the love is always there, alive and apparent. He just had to know where to look. 

Gojo loves you, and more importantly, he makes you happy. Megumi knew that even if he didn’t always understand it. 

Gojo sighed before reaching for the sink and turning on the faucet. Megumi gives an odd look, but Gojo grins before tapping his ear. Oh. Right. If you wanted to, you could easily pick up on what they were discussing. Megumi imagines you wouldn’t feel great knowing they were speaking about you—even if it came from a place of worry and concern. You didn’t need anything else being added to your plate. 

“Is she sick?”  

Gojo crosses his arms before leaning his back against the counter. “She is,” he answers honestly. Megumi wanted the truth, yet he flinched when it was handed to him. “She is sick.”

How can he do that? Sound so indifferent? But, as he looks at Gojo, Megumi notices that he's uncharacteristically stoic, almost stern, as he hands him the cold truth.  Gojo didn’t like what was happening as much as Megumi, but there was no avoiding the truth and no sense in lying about it. 

“What can we do?”

“Not much,” Gojo answers easily. “We just… wait.“

Megumi can’t quite understand that. He hates this, hates waiting, day after day. You were weak; Megumi could sense it, Yuji and Nobara, too. 

“She’s outputting more energy than she is retaining… how do you even begin to fix something like that?” Megumi murmurs, his eyes finding the floor. He was afraid. You were his mother, the woman who loved and raised him and always kept him warm. He feels like he’s losing you, like a candle wick running dry of wax. 

Suddenly, Gojo reaches up, ruffling Megumi's dark hair. “She’ll be alright, brat.” Gojo playfully pushes his head back as he pulls away, a small smile now gracing his lips. “Leave all the worrying to me, yeah? I’ll take good care of her. I promise.”

-

“Sensei! I’m praying for you!”

Nobara rolls her eyes. “You’re not supposed to tell her, dimwit.”

“I know, but I want her to know I’m praying for her recovery!”

Megumi groans, stepping away from the shrine. “Just shut up, Yuji.”

You smiled from your spot beside Gojo. You were leaning on him, your head resting on his shoulder. One of your arms wrapped around Gojo’s, your fingers grasping his bicep. Your other hand reached down, intertwining your delicate fingers with his. Clinging to his arm, which you held close to your chest, you smiled sweetly as you observed the scene around you. 

You still looked exhausted, and there were still bags under your eyes, but you had enough energy to get out of the house today, at least. 

“Thank you, Yuji,” you smiled. “I appreciate it more than anything.”

He beams, giving two big thumbs up. 

“Whatever,” Nobara brushed Yuji off, stepping forward. “I, on the other hand, got you an omamori!” She presents the small charm to you with a broad and cheesy grin. It was a Kenko charm—an amulet for good health and protection from illness and disease. 

You hesitantly reach for it, clasping it with one of your hands. “Thank you, but you didn’t have to. You have exams coming up that you should be focused on.”

Nobara waves you off harmlessly before looking at Gojo. Her eyes squinted. “You didn’t get her anything. Tsk. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Wha- I got her something! Look! Show them sweets!”

You laugh, putting Nobara’s charm in your pocket and rummaging around. You pull out two other charms—en-musubi charms. Your cheeks flush a bit as you happily present them, and Gojo perks up, looking the proudest he’s ever looked. 

“Two en-musubi? Hm,” Nobara hums passively. “And yet I don’t see a ring on her finger.”

“Hey, that’s not fair!”

Nobara defiantly turns her head from her Sensei. “Whatever, just tell us how you really feel...”

“Y’know, Satoru,” you play along with a slight grin. “She might be onto something…”

“Wait! Hold on, let me buy you a charm!” Yuji dashed away, ignoring how you protested, yelling to him that it was alright and that you didn’t need another charm. 

Megumi sighs. He hates to admit it, but that idiot's right. He should get you a charm, too. ”I’ll be right back.”

“Megumi, it's okay! I don’t need another one! My pockets are already full!” 

He waves, brushing you off. It was the least he could do. He prayed for you, of course he did, but he wouldn’t say anything about it—unwilling to risk his prayers potentially being unanswered.  So, he walks, eventually catching up with Yuji. However, even with the charm in his hands, it doesn’t feel enough. 

So, after buying your charm, he walks over to another booth. He takes out his wallet to purchase an ema, a wooden plank on which he can write the wish he has been praying for over the past few weeks. 

What Megumi doesn’t see, though, is Gojo nudging you and pointing over to where Megumi stood. Just in time, you see him hanging his ema, placing it alongside hundreds of other wishes. It’s only when Megumi turns around that he notices you and Gojo have been watching him the entire time. 

He coughs, cheeks flushing as he walks away. He puts his head down before walking to where Yuji and Nobara are waiting for him, too embarrassed to look your way. Yuji and Nobara’s smiles were sincere. Yuji even offered him a friendly squeeze on the shoulder. 

There were tears in your eyes as you read the ema. 

I wish for my mother to get well soon. 

-

a/n: just a little blurb following the events of wherever you go, that’s where I’ll follow :p

Let me know your thoughts or if I should write a longer fic detailing the reader's recovery. I have a few ideas in mind… 

As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated <3

[burnforyou]

ALL MINE - LUIGI MAGIONE x READER

!SUMMARY! your ex boyfriend Luigi buys you a drink and the rest is history!! cheating (reader, not luigi), smut!!!, both receive head, face riding (emphasis on the nose) use of the L word, creampie, kinda breeding but not really.

"can i buy you a drink?” a familiar voice asks from behind you.

you turn on the bar stool and you’re met with the face of your ex boyfriend smirking down at you. you instinctively smile at the sight of his face.

“buy away.” he calls the bartender over and orders you your favorite drink. he still remembers.

“what brings you here tonight?” he asks, leaning on the bar. he looks almost ravishing in the deep red lighting.

“just wanted a break from it all,” you sigh, studying the bottles behind the bar.

“what’s bothering you?” he peers down at you but you don't look at him. "hm?"

“just my stupid fucking boyfriend. and school.”

“you’re still with that loser?” the bartender slides your drink in front of you and you immediately take a couple big gulps. you need to be buzzed to be around him without wanting to cry.

“unfortunately.”

“you should leave him.” he whispers in your ear, his breath making your nerves tingle. "does he know you're here tonight?"

"nope," you shrug, still looking down at your drink. luigi swings his arm around your shoulders like he's done a thousand times before, pulling you into his warmth. instantly you forget about your boyfriend and all you can think about is how close you are. how if you turned your head just a few inches, your lips would brush.

"do you know how badly I've missed you?" he says deeply. his eyes burn into your skin and you turn your head to look at him.

"can we go somewhere more private to talk?" you propose. his stomach turns at the thought of being alone with you.

"yeah, good idea. I'll order us an Uber, if that's alright." you nod and turn back to your friend, telling her you're leaving with him.

"you ready?" he asks, holding out his hand for you.

"mmhmm," you nod, putting your hand in his. he helps you off the bar stool and you get an overwhelming sense of Deja Vu. it all feels so familiar, so right, you didn't even know you missed it. he leads you through the crowd, towering over most of the people there.

he led you out into the cold night and you shivered as the sudden wind hit your uncovered skin.

"you don't have a jacket, do you?" he looked at you, his eyes full of concern. you shook your head, your teeth beginning to chatter. you rubbed your arms with your hands, trying to generate any form of heat.

"oh, cm'here," he says, pulling you into him. he wraps his arm around your neck and the other around your waist, sharing his body heat with you. you try to wrap your arms around him, but can't completely just because of how large he truly is. you rest your head on his chest, close your eyes, and breathe.

unfortunately, his very public display of affection, his smell, his size, his height, his kindness... all of it is turning you on. all you wanna do is go home and jump his bones. and you know he's feeling the same way, you can feel his bulge pressing against your stomach. he knows its wrong but he's loving the slight friction he's getting from holding you.

before you know it Luigi has you pressed up against your front door with his thigh in between your legs. your lips move sloppily together in a kiss you've both been craving.

“where’s your little boyfriend at now, hm?” he breaks the kiss to ask, smirking, knowing that he has you all to himself. you push him off you and scoff.

"never bring him up again." you kick your shoes off and walk into your house, feeling his eyes burning into your figure, trying to memorize the shape of your body. he mindlessly follows you like a lost puppy. you suddenly stop on the stairs and whip around to face him.

"we seriously need to talk."

"I'm here to talk." he says, shrugging. you finally lead him to your bedroom and sit on the edge of your bed together. he looks around, noticing all that's different and all that's changed.

"I'm really glad I ran into you tonight," he confesses.

"yeah, me too." he leans in and pecks your lips.

"seriously, I've missed you more than anything. I want to try again, y/n, I want to try us again. I want this to work. I want you." his lips quiver with his confession. "and, when I saw you with him, it broke my heart to watch you be with someone that wasn't me, knowing that I love you more than you'll ever know, more than he ever could.

"I've always wanted you. you're all I've wanted. being with you was all I wanted. and, it didn't work last time, for reasons we both couldn't control. but now, you're here and I have faith we can make it work this time," you say, your hands shaking in his.

"yes, I want this, I want you, so much. you're all I want." he says, practically gasping for air. his arms wrap around you and bring you onto him for a deep kiss. slowly you both peel off your tops, leaving your bare chests touching. but it doesn't feel sexual, it feels intimate. tears well up in your eyes at the overwhelming sensation of finally being with luigi again. after all this time.

you slide off his lap and get comfortable on your knees below him. he smiles down at you, caressing your face.

you quickly tear his jeans off and sigh in content at the sight of his bulge through his boxers. you kiss the girth before slipping his boxers off too. you admire him completely naked in front of you, his hard cock pulsing, his abs flexing every time his chest rises and falls, his muscular arms holding him up, his pretty face.

he reaches down and grasps onto his own cock, desperately stroking himself slowly in front of you. his hand wraps around the girth so perfectly, you note. you find pleasure in watching him pleasure himself, wishing you were touching him.

“how often do you think of me when you jack off?” you ask, not tearing your eyes away from his cock. he doesn’t answer so you swat his arm away from his throbbing dick.

“please,” he whines at the loss of friction.

“answer my question.”

“every time,” satisfied with his answer, you take his cock in your mouth as deep as you can, “fuck!” he sucks in a breath and grips on the edge of your bed.

he taps your head and you take your lips of his cock reluctantly.

“hey, hey, i need you,” he practically whimpers. he grasps under your arms and effortlessly lifts you off your knees so your standing in front of him, in between his legs.

he brings you into him and kisses your lower stomach. you gently push him back on the bed by his shoulders and he flashes you a perfect smile. you slowly crawl up on him and sit right on his face with no shame. he immediately sticks his tongue in you like the munch he is and he has you gripping his shoulders immediately.

“you taste so good,” he groans on your hole, the vibrations have you moaning his name. he sloppily kisses your pussy and his perfect teeth slightly rubbing on you has you grinding on him. he gropes your ass and forces you to grind on him harder, leaving his whole face wet with your juices.

he continues eating you relentlessly as your legs begin to shake around his head.

“i haven’t cum in so long luigi.”

“he doesn’t make you cum?” he says angrily into your pussy, sucking on you harder than before.

“no,” you moan out, shaking your head.

“you’re so close, i can feel it,” he moans, nudging your clit with his nose.

you suddenly become aware of his perfect nose and start grinding solely on his nose. you feel his nose, wet with your juices, nudging at your hole.

“cum, baby,” he whimpers into you and pinches your clit between his fingers. “cum on my mouth.”

the knot in your stomach finally comes undone all over his face. you gasp and you tilt your head back, struggling to breathe. he licks it all up below you, never stopping. your legs shake around his head.

before you know it, he’s flipping you onto your back, flat against your pillows, and teasing your sensitive hole with his fingers. you reach up and pull his forehead down onto yours, never breaking eye contact as he fucks you with his long fingers. moans fall out of your throat against your will.

“you’re so wet, you like how i take care of you, hm?” he asks, stretching you out. “gotta get your pretty pussy ready f’me, right baby?”

all you can do is nod incoherently.

“you know that we shouldn’t be doing this,” he curls his fingers in you. “but you love it don’t you? dirty, dirty girl.” he laughs, shaking his head.

“please,” you whimper.

“you have to wait until i think you’re ready to take me baby. you know i’ve never been with anyone else? it’s always been you. always. nobody else even compares.” he talks sweetly to you while his fingers are rammed inside of you, stretching you in unimaginable ways.

“you think you’re ready now? you think you’re ready for my cock?” he asks, his forehead pressing harder against yours.

“yes, please,” you whimper when he slips his fingers out of you. he brings his soaked fingers up to his mouth and licks all your juices off of him, tasting every last drop.

“sweet like honey,” he moans.

he comes back down to kiss you and you can taste yourself on his lips.

"please, please prove it to me, lu. prove it to me that there's no one else.”

"there's never been anyone else. there will never be anyone else. it's always been you, y/n."

he reaches down and aligns his tip with your entrance, his eyes never leaving yours. his arms hold him up beside you, caging you in.

“is this okay?” he whispers.

“yes, please luigi,” you moan, digging your nails into his muscular back.

he slips the tip in and you both gasp. he thrusts the rest of the way in and your pussy welcomes him like a long lost lover. he waits momentarily for your pussy to adjust to him, before pulling out. he then bottoms out completely, hitting your cervix on the first thrust. he feels himself filling you up completely and collapses on you.

“oh, i love you,” he moans into your neck, his slight scruff scratching your skin.

you moan in surprise when he thrusts into you again, setting a fast but passionate pace. him non-stop thrusting into you fills the room with the lewd sounds of your skin slapping against his.

you don’t even get a chance to reply to his confession because he’s fucking you so good you can’t do anything but reach for him and moan. your foreheads press together, mixing your sweat with one another. his eyes stare deep into yours, never looking away from your face.

he catches your moans with a sweet and sloppy kiss, mixing his moans with yours.

he presses his hand on your lower stomach, feeling himself deep inside of you. his eyes darken.

“you feel that? how deep i am inside of you?” he groans. “fuck, it’s like you were made for me baby.”

he reaches down and rubs your clit, his other hand running groping your tit. your pussy grips him tighter than he thought was humanly possible.

“you’re close, aren’t you baby?” he groans at how tight you’re gripping him, his cock pulsing inside of you.

he keeps his pace, not once slowing down or stopping. your back arches off the bed and the knot in your stomach starts to let go again.

“cum baby,” he whispers and licks up your neck.

your eyes start to flutter shut and you see red. pleasure completely overcomes you as you grip onto him and grind your hips against his, feeling his cock fill you up. you cant even produce a sound, your mouth just falls open in silence.

he wraps his arms around your waist and without taking his cock out of you, flips so you're flat on top of him and thrusts up into you. you nearly scream at the new sensation in your sensitive pussy.

"I'm gonna cum," he groans, gripping on to your ass.

"cum in me, please, lu, cum in me," you sob in his ear, your pussy burning for him.

"fuck, you want me to claim you, hm?" he groans, his mind wandering to getting you pregnant.

"please," you moan, moving your hips back onto his and meeting each and every one of his thrusts.

"that's a girl," he moans in your ear.

before he can say anything more, he's completely bottoming out and shooting his cum deep in you. you gasp at the sensation of being so full. his orgasm sends you over the edge again, spilling out once again on him.

he grabs the back of your neck and forces you to kiss him sloppily. your whole body shakes on his and his soft cock finally slips out of you.

“i love you,” you finally return his confession. he flashes his bright smile, which makes you smile in return. he pushes you back down on his lips again and speaks through kisses.

“i love you too.”

MASTERLIST - PREV. WORK

yall... should I write something in this same universe where he fucks you like near your bf/in your house and he makes you be quiet? omg maybe he sneaks in through the window? omg. guys. im not okay.

!TAGS!

@strawbrriess @bellobambino @f4nfic-lover @btcowboy @chmpgneprblem @soggysouppp @hereandqueer6540 @poohkie90 @bricapallen16 @miarosalie11 @v1rtualsalvat10n @hypnotizedbyhood @webanglikethat @croucify

[ginevrapng]

bfd!marauders who pick you up after a night out and take care of you. you've had a girls night with your friends and have become absolutely wasted, in this state you don't know who to call to pick you up. harry is staying at ron's which is over 40 minutes away and you can't wait out in the cold outside of the club for 40 minutes. you definitely don't want to call your family members, not prepared tonight for a lecture about how drunk you are and how late you are out at so you call harry's dad, that makes the most sense to you. james is always so kind and you stay at his so often you're sure he'll pick you up.

you ring james and he seems worried at the fact you're calling at such a late hour as you drunkenly explain to him that you need a ride. james obviously doesn't hesitate to come get you, he's been up all night with sirius and remus but luckily he hasn't been drinking so he's good to pick you up. james gets to you quicker than you thought he would, you thought it takes longer but you're too cold and too drunk to properly think about it.

james rushes out of the car as he sees you waiting outside, shivering and hugging your arms. "shit sweetheart, you look freezing," he looks at you with worried eyes as he takes of his denim jacket and drapes it over your shoulders before placing his hand on your lower back leading you to the car. sober you would be incredibly flushed about this exchange and drunk you is just the same, your cheeks heat up and your stomach flutters with butterflies, you shiver again but this time it's due to james.

you don't even realise but james drives you to his house, halfway there you notice that you're going the wrong route. "where are we going?" you lift your head off from the car window and cock your head to the side.

james can't help but grin at how cute you look, "back to mine, it's quicker. we can get you some water and then you can stay in harry's room," he explains looking at you in the corner of his eye.

"okay," you say quietly and mumble the words to the songs on the radio.

as you walk through the door remus and sirius both quickly stand up from their seats, having been worried about you. james leads you inside as you sit on the sofa right next to where sirius was. sirius sits back down, james sits next to him and remus hovers above you all. "did'ya have a nice night doll?" sirius asks you and smirks, leaning further back on the sofa.

you hum and nod your head. "yeah it was good, a bit tired now though."

"i'll get you some water," remus leaves to go fetch you a drink as you settle down next to sirius. remus comes back and hands you the water, sitting across from you. you drink some but go and place the glass on the side before remus interrupts, "you've gotta drink it all," he says firmly with a slight smile. the tone he uses makes you think very inappropriate thoughts, it's not the first time you've thought of him like that and it certainly won't be the last but you know you're going to remember that stern tone he used when you're lying in bed at night or spending nights alone. you down the rest of the drink, doing what you were told and remus goes to take the glass out of your hands, "good girl." his hand brushes against you and you felt like you nearly whimpered. he's just so hot it's making you feel things, being in a room with three attractive men is making you feel things.

sirius had to suppress a chuckle as he heard your breathing hitch when remus touched you. "met any lucky fellas tonight doll?" sirius teasingly asks as he moves closer to you, you don't notice.

"nope, just me," you reply as you look down at your lap. all the guys eyes fall to your lap with you, staring at your thighs and how your pretty skirt is short and how it's also ridden up a bit too. they stay silent for a second and you think maybe the conversation is over or they don't have anything to say but really they're all distracted wondering what you'd feel like in their arms and how good you'd taste.

james clears his throat, realising that no one has answered you, "no one's good enough for you anyway sweetheart," james grabs your hand in his and squeezes. you feel his callous hand against your soft one and bite your lip to try and stop yourself from smiling all this accomplishes though is for james' gaze to shift down to you lips and stare.

"he's right," remus agrees earnestly and looks at you fondly.

you see sirius wink at you, making you feel warm, "it's true."

"thank you," you say softly.

"you're welcome sweetheart," james grins at you and you smile back.

[natalievoncatte]

There was a knock at Lena’s door, and it startled her awake. She was awake, but also wasn’t, sitting in a side chair beside her sofa with a glass of whisky still in her hand, loosely held by tired, nerveless fingers. It nearly fell from her palm when the sound jolted her from the twilight between fitful wakefulness and falling asleep sitting up. By her side was that goddamn picture, the glass still cracked. She grabbed it and forced it down so she didn’t have to see her grinning face, feel the ghost of a warm soft cheek lightly grazing hers.

The whisky made a fiery stab at her heart as she finished it and went to the door. She already knew who it was, the only person who’d dare disturb her at this hour, and who could get past her security.

Kara stood in the hall, clad in fluffy pajamas and disbelieved, tracks left by hot tears still cut into her soft rosy cheeks. There she was, the pretty little crying princess again.

It was an act. It was bullshit. The real her was hiding behind it, standing tall, appraising Lena’s faults with eyes that could burn mountains, the cold judgment of an extinct empire carved into her godlike, inhuman beauty. Lena made herself see that, refused to let her guard down.

“What, Kara?”

“Can I come in?”

Lena didn’t even answer. She began to close the door, only for her movement to be arrested by a single word.

“Please.”

Part of her made her stop. She seethed against it, hated it. She had carved icy knives of vengeance to carve it out herself. Alcohol had failed to drown it and the sharpest logic was dull against it. It was both too hard to crush and too soft to squeeze, this hateful thing that coiled around her heart and made her feel when she had sworn never to feel again.

Kara took a halting step forward. Lena threw out her palm and pressed it into her chests, stopping her.

She shouldn’t have done that. There was something heady and intoxicating in it. Kara froze in place, and Lena could feel her pulse along her collarbones. The pinnacle of alien might, strength so vast that nothing could stand as her equal, and she stopped from Lena’s lightest touch. That was power.

“What do you want?”

“Just to talk.”

“I’ve heard your apologies. Don’t waste my time unless you have some new material.”

Kara licked her lips. “Maybe.”

They couldn’t stay like this. Resting a hand on her chest had too many possibilities. Touching her had too many implications. It would be so easy to let the soft thing win and bring her hand up and hold her palm to that soft cheek and seek to balm those tears, make it better, care.

She let herself remember that Kara’s pain was a shoeld for Supergirl’s judging wrath and pulled back, but she didn’t close the door. Kara did as she slipped inside.

Thee was a heavy pause of silence, where Kara just breathed, soft and ragged.

“Why are you here?” said Lena.

“I needed to see you. I needed to know you’re safe.”

“Nightmares?”

“Worse,” said Kara. “It was so much worse.”

The agony in her voice shook Lena.

Forcing herself to composure, she poured another three fingers of single malt and flipped into her chair, extending neither drink nor invitation to Kara. The drink was a bad idea. It was dangerous. The smokey, hazy heat of it burned the soft bitter taste of regret from her teeth. Lena didn’t look at her.

“It was the imp.”

“Excuse me?”

“It calls itself Mxy. It says it’s from the fifth dimension but I have no idea if that’s true or not. All I know is that it has vast powers, even godlike. The last time it… it tried to force me to marry it.”

Lena knew what darkness in her birthed the hot rage in her gut, the possessive jealous fury that welled within her at those worse. This thing, how dare he.

She took a drink.

“It… he came to me tonight and said he wanted to make amends. He offered to let me change the past. I could fix whatever I wanted.”

“Hmm. Must have been a trick,” said Lena. “Let me guess, restoring Krypton had some ironic Twilight Zone twist.”

Kara blanched, blinking. “No, I… I didn’t even think of that. I asked him to help me fix us.”

There is no us, Lena began to say, but the words died on her tongue. She washed the taste away.

Something in her twisted, a cold shiver like a water dumped over her head. She knew Kara’s bullshit super senses would pick up on it and steeled herself.

Rubbing her arms, Kara paced.

“I tried telling you at different times, so you’d hear it from me and not Lex or someone else.”

“What happened?” Lena said, trying to look more interested in her whisky than the answer.

It was purely an intellectual curiosity, she told herself.

“You died,” Kara said, blunt. “You died every time.”

“How?”

Every which way. Reign killed you five or six times. Mercy blew your brains out all over my chest. Lex… Lex could be creative. Poison, blades, fire once. He was fond of sadistic choices and clever tortures. Say, use red wavelengths to negate my powers and set up a sadistic challenge I could never pass, that sort of thing. It got so bad I stupidly wished I’d never met you.”

Her voice was ragged, breathing uneven. Fresh tears glittered on her cheeks and Lena felt herself lunge, start to stand. Kara’s pain called out to something in her, something beyond the physical or even the emotional. It was like something in Lena’s soul yearned to stop that terrible pain.

“The worst was when you drowned. Almost.”

Lena looked away, swirled her drink.

“Sounds like you kept trying.”

“I did. The timeline where we never met was one of the worst. I wasn’t there when your chopper crashed. Your mother… you tried to kill me and I couldn’t even fight back.”

“Is this where we segue into the ‘I would never hurt you’ lecture?”

“No. I did hurt you. I deserve your hate. If someone else did to you what I did, I’d snap their neck.”

Lena flinched. There was something cold in that admission, something brutal and beyond even Supergirl. Raw.

None of her rules matter for me.

A tiny voice in that darkness whispered to her: And if some poor bastard locked her in a Kryptonite cage the way you did, they’d be begging you for death. They’d know you’re a Luthor.

Lena shuddered.

“What do you do?”

“I kept trying. I thought… I felt… I had to keep trying.”

“Well, you gave up and came here eventually. You…”

Kara swallowed hard. “It thought it worked, finally. I picked the night I reached you from Corben. Remember that?”

“I remember,” Lena said, hesitant.

Kara Danvers believes in you.

“I told you when you asked me why I saved you. I took you home, made sure you were safe. Life went on. These… these timelines or whatever they were, Lena, they were real. I lived them. That one was, it was…”

“What?”

“A few days later after things calmed down we went to lunch. We were just chatting about something unimportant and you looked at me and our eyes met and it was like…”

Kara looked away from her, wrapping her arms around herself the way she did, not a smug Supergirl pose but a woman shielding her heart from the world that clawed at it.

“When I first arrived on Earth there was a night where my powers had just kicked in and I looked at the sky. I could see more than stars. There was an aurora that was invisible to humans. I could see invisible lines of energy crackling between the stars, the cosmic background radiation shimmering on the dark. Can you imagine that? I can see the remnants of the Big Bang when I stargaze.”

Lena’s had trembled, the dregs of her booze shaking in the bottom of the glass.

“It was like that,” said Kara. “I knew I’d never be the same. I was staring at you like a big goof and you just stopped talking and stared back. I blurted out ‘is this a date?’”

Lena clutched the glass so she wouldn’t drop it and forced the tears back with all her might, but she was weak. Always weak.

“I take it I said yes,” she managed to say, voice quivering.

“We got married three years later. Lori was born a year after that.”

“Kara,” Lena began.

“Then it happened.”

“Kara, shut up.”

“Kalibak killed you. My sister. My little girl. My everything.”

Lena hurled the glass and Kara snatched it from the air in a superhuman blur. Lena was already on her feet, stabbing an accusing finger.

“So what?” Lena demanded. “We’re star-crossed lovers, now? Is this your ploy to fix it? Make me realize how in love we are? It’s a sick joke, Kara.”

“I know I can’t fix it,” said Kara. “I don’t want to.”

Lena blinked, her rage momentarily cooled. “What?”

“I would rather live in a world where you hate me as long as you’re still in it.”

“Kara,” Lena said.

“We are star-crossed. I don’t know want I did to deserve this but I can’t fix it. There was never a right time to tell you. It was doomed from the start. I’m here to tell you to let me go, Lena.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I know about Non Nocere. I know what you’re trying to do. I’m here to ask you to stop. Please. Don’t do this. Don’t ruin you life over me.”

“Why couldn’t you just save me and leave?” Lena demanded. “That’s what everyone else gets. A quick rescue and a wave and a wink and you’re gone. Why did you have to drag yourself through my life and wreck everything?”

“I tried that.”

Lena screamed, bellowed at the top of her lungs.

“So what? So fucking what, Kara?”

Kara just stood there.

“I don’t know. I just… I just had to see… all I want is for you to be safe.”

Lena turned away from her.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” Kara choked out, behind her. “I did go back to Krypton one time. I told him I wanted to stay and die with my world, that it was the only way.”

“Let me guess, you did that and…”

“Car accident.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Lena cried. “You have to be kidding me.”

“He made me watch. Not just you, everyone else that died because there was no Supergirl. I… I think I’m in Hell.”

Lena blinked. She turned slowly. A memory came flooding back to her from another time, a closed casket in a small Irish church with Lionel Luthor lurking, waiting for her with an entourage. She’d asked the priest in her precious child voice, am I in Hell, Father?

A sob forced itself out of her. She let herself look at Kara, standing there bedraggled and teary eyed in rumpled Hello Kitty pajamas and felt sick, like she’d swallowed a belly full of rancid oil. All she could see was the hurting, and she wondered if that was it, if this pain was the source of the unbreakable quantum entanglement that had dragged this alien being across a gulf of stars to fuck up her life.

Or save it.

“Kara,” Lena whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I dragged you into my life.”

“I’m not,” Kara whispered. “It was a gift, every minute of it. I wouldn’t trade a single moment for anything. Even the ones that didn’t happen.”

“What the hell do we do?” said Lena.

“I leave. I keep saving you. You find someone else, live your life, be happy. I do everything I can to keep you in this world and watch you grow old. That’s it. I should go.”

Kara turned and Lena screamed, balling her fists.

“Don’t you fucking dare leave this penthouse, Kara Danvers.”

Kara froze.

“I went back.”

“Went back to what?” said Kara.

“I went back to let you out of the Kryptonite cage. I couldn’t stop thinking of you lying on that cold floor in pain so I had to go back, but you weren’t there. I… I… I don’t know what I’m doing. I want to stop this but I just keep going and I don’t know what to fucking do anymore. I’m so lost.”

Kara’s shoulders slumped.

“I would take it back if I could.”

Kara turned back to her.

“You don’t have to.”

Lena backed away, unable to look at her. Kara crossed the gap in seconds and tenderly rested her hands on Lena’s arms.

“I’m sorry. I mean it. I am truly sorry from the depths of my soul. I would fix this if I could.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” said Lena. “It makes my soul hurt, and I don’t believe in souls.”

Lena pulled her in, clinging to her as if she might disappear. Kara was tentative, testing with every movement.

God, they had a daughter. A child! Lena could imagine, almost see… what had she done?

“It’s going to be okay,” Kara said. “I think this is what I was supposed to learn.”

“What?”

“To own my mistakes, and if I don’t want you to be a villain, I shouldn’t treat you like one.”

“I’m so tired.”

“I should go home and let you rest. This is a lot, I know, and it’s late. I…”

Kara trailed off, and Lena looked up at her. Their eyes met, and Lena… knew.

“Will you come back?” said Lena.

“Always.”

[girlygguk]

i miss you, i'm sorry | jeon jungkook

my attempt as a hopeless & unapologetic simpy romantic to write angst, drabble, idol!jk x fem!reader, young lovers to strangers to (?), 854 words, jungkook's home, he needs to see you, he finds you, then he wishes he didn't

now playing: gracie abrams—i miss you, i'm sorry

"your hair's shorter."

you stand there, to-go coffee cup in hand, fingers fidgeting around the cup as you try to manage a small smile. your head nods slightly, your hair now brushing just past your shoulders, a little lighter than it was the last time you saw him. "yeah," you say, "yours is longer."

jungkook smiles, his own hair pulled back in a neat bun, the glint of his lip ring twisting under his tongue. "it’s nice. i like it. suits you."

your smile stays on your face, though you feel your heart sink. you blink a few times, fighting a losing battle against the emotions stirring inside you. you never could manage that when it came to him. "thanks, jj."

he nods, his stomach twisting at the way the nickname, once so natural and familiar from your lips, now sounds foreign. he hates that he’s the reason for it.

“bub, i—” his voice trails off. not because you interrupt him, at least not with words. but the way your gaze lifts from the coffee cup lid—chai latte, if he remembers right—catching his with the faintest sadness stops him in his tracks. "i hope you’re well, bub."

you nod, unable to manage anything else. you didn’t have time to grab a sleeve for your cup after hearing the nickname called from behind you as you accepted the hot drink. you knew it was him before you even turned around, the nickname striking a deep ache in the pit of your stomach. nobody’s called you that in five years. nobody else ever had, other than him.

the cup’s heat burns into your fingertips, extra hot as usual, the baristas knowing your order by heart now, and your grip tightens around the tray. it’s subtle, but jungkook notices the tension in your posture. he feels sick.

“i am. hope you are too.” your voice is quiet, honest. “didn’t know you were back in town.”

“you would’ve if you answered my calls.” he tries to joke, but it doesn’t land. your eyes blink at his words, a bit longer this time. “sorry, i—that was… fuck, bub, that was so stupid for me to say—”

“all good,” you reply softly, your smile never reaching your eyes. you try, at least. “i better go, jungkook. it was nice seeing you again.”

jungkook swallows, watching as you step around him to exit the cafe, the familiar scent of your flowerbomb perfume dazing his senses. his body reacts instinctively to the comfort of the smell. before he can stop himself, his legs are moving, following it.

he catches the door of the shop just before it closes, stepping out into the chilled busan air. the sensation is both grounding and unsettling, nostalgia washing over him in a heavy wave. he’s always loved how cold it is here. you do too. at least, he thinks you do. he doesn’t know anymore.

“bub, wait, could i just talk to you for a—” he slows as he takes a step forward, his footsteps catching on the pavement.

you’re standing just a few feet away, the door to your car open, looking back at him with a haze in your eyes. sadness, he thinks. could be pity, too.

his focus drifts to the passenger side door, noticing your hand wrapped around its handle. his eyes trail further, to the driver’s seat. he blinks, unsure if he’s seeing things. he isn’t. sitting in the driver’s seat of a tacky matte black audi is kim chanyeol. only then does he notice the other drink in your hand.

“oh, uh, sorry. i’ll, uh… i’ll see you around, y/n.” he swallows hard, the words rough and thick in his throat as he turns back toward waveon coffee.

he doesn’t look back at the sound of his name, though it’s the very thing he’s longed to hear ever since he’d convinced his managers to give him a week off during their busiest season, just so he could visit his hometown. he’s doing so well. his career is taking off, just like you said it would. you’d always wanted him to succeed, always believed he would. and now he’s made it. but at what cost, bub?

without thinking, he steps away from the cafe, barely remembering why he even came here. he didn’t want anything, not really. he’d only stopped by because when he visited your house, your mom said you weren’t home, and she wasn’t sure where you might be. he checked every one of your old favorite places in the city, wondering if they were still favorites at all. he had to try.

“jj, wait—” he doesn’t stop. he keeps walking down the busy busan footpath, not sure where he’s even going. there’s nowhere for him to go anymore; his family having moved to seoul as soon as he made it big. he paid for it, bought them a house, covered their travel expenses. he’d even offered the same for you, your family too. told you he’d do anything.

you never responded to those offers.

and he understands. he wouldn’t have responded, either. he’d promised he’d never truly leave you.

and then he did.

pov you read this back and realized that you didn’t take into account him being a world famous idol back in the hometown that literally treasures him above all else… so just imagine he gets jumped on by a crazy fan as he walks down the footpath or smth, he deserves it xx

[xoluvx]

cowgirl; b.eilish

[▸] cowgirl by nicki minaj smut

"save a horse. ride a cowgirl, right?" you whispered in her ear, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. the cup in your hand was empty, but your craving for her was filled to the brim. you needed her. you needed her bad.

when she sauntered into the party with that costume, you hadn't expected to have such a visceral reaction. your eyes locked on the cute strawberry blonde cowgirl. tracking her like a predator did its prey. you just knew you had to have her.

with a few drinks in your system, you found your bodies orbiting around each other until you were innocently conversing. teasingly complimenting her costume. boldly wrapping an arm around her shoulder whispering such daring things that had her blushing.

she'd let the words sink in as she bit her lip curling her arm around your waist. her fingers bunched the fabric of your costume causing the dress to ride up. you felt a breeze brush along the back of your thighs and shivered leaning closer to her.

she'd taken off her cowgirl hat, placing it on your head to which you'd scrunched your nose and giggled. the act so minuscule yet so meaningful. she was flirting back.

it'd felt like an eternity. sexual tension building over an insane amount of torturous hours. it all amounted to your bodies stumbling into her room. her cowgirl hat still on your head. her hands gripping your hips. your arms wrapped around her neck. kissing hungrily and desperately. when her thigh brushed between your legs, you moaned clinging to the collar of her shirt.

"is that your gun or are you just happy to see me?" you teased in a hushed voice, but breathing heavily from the heated make out session you'd just endured. billie smiled and cupped your face bringing you in for another kiss as your hand traveled down to her holster. your fingers wrapped around the pistol's handle pulling it out as you backed away from the kiss with a devious smile.

you ran the muzzle along her cheek. the cold metal sent shivers down her spine. she absentmindedly opened her mouth. the pistol so phallic as her plump lips parted. you were amazed. so enamored you wanted to devour her. you wanted to ride 'til you couldn't feel your legs. 'til the only name you remembered was hers.

right now you were enjoying stripping away every little piece of the costume she'd so meticulously picked out.

you let go of the fake pistol and it fell on the floor with a loud thud as you reached for the collar of her shirt pulling her in for another kiss. it was sloppy, desperate, and hot as your tongues tussled. her fingers gripped your ass pulling you closer until your chests were rising and falling in sync.

you worked the buttons of her blouse. whimpering when you struggled to undo them. sensing your frustration, she replaced your fingers with hers pulling harshly on the fabric until you heard the thread rip; buttons popping off the shirt. you gasped with amazement and your mouth hung open as you made eye contact. a devilish look plastered on her face.

though she'd been of assistance, she was still letting you take control. you eagerly hooked your thumbs in her holster. it hung low on her hips. you had to have been a complete fool to not think that was the hottest thing ever. her slim waist and big tits in a pretty lacy bra. her leg between your thighs. your hips swaying as you pulled her closer by her belt loops. it was all so fucking hot.

your fingers fumbled with the buckle of her holster and she came to your rescue once again. fingers working it quickly letting it fall on the floor near the fake pistol. your fingers busied themselves with her belt. so many fucking layers for such an impatient person like yourself. you'd wanted to take your time, but as you were nearing her naked frame you were eager for more.

when the belt came undone, your fingers shakily unbuttoned her pants. lips connecting with hers just for the sake of touching. she cupped your face as your lips hung open and her tongue roamed every corner of your mouth. you tugged on her pants, coming down with them until you were on your knees.

you looked up at her doe-eyed, fingers hooking in her thong pulling them down her legs. your mouth hung open. practically drooling. she peeled off her shirt letting it fall with the rest of her costume before reaching around her back to unhook her bra. when her breasts broke free a small gasp escaped your lips and you tugged at her thong almost tripping her.

she ordered you to get up as she completely broke free of her costume before disappearing for a few seconds. when she returned, the strap hung from her body and her natural hair cascaded down her shoulders. you fisted the fabric of your dress feeling very much overdressed and underfucked.

"strip," billie instructed motioning to your clothes. you tugged at the zipper on the side of your body letting the dress fall and pool at your feet. the only thing that clung to your body was your underwear, but those too were instructed to be removed by billie who was now sitting at the edge of the bed. you reached for the cowgirl hat you were still wearing, but she held her hand up.

"keep it on," she commanded in a raspy voice.

"and show me how you ride," she teased motioning towards her lap as your eyelids fluttered, completely stunned. she was in total control, yet made you feel like you were the one calling the shots. you approached her slowly. knees sinking into the mattress at either side of her body.

she held the fake dick as you slid onto it. face contorting with pleasure as she stretched you so deliciously. your lips parted as you looked into her eyes. pussy swallowing her whole as you planted your ass on her lap. cock erect against your cervix. you sat for a few seconds adjusting.

when you started swaying your body, billie snarled and leaned back placing a hand behind her head to admire the view. she watched the way you moved so seductively. selfishly swaying for your pleasure. she placed one hand on your hip. it lived there and burned from the touch of your scorching skin as you moved back and forth in an enchanting dance.

you leaned forward placing your hands under her breasts as you lifted your ass each time you swayed. the new movement hit a place so yummy you were biting your lip so hard you were on the verge of drawing blood. you were practically bouncing on her cock and she grunted each time your ass landed on her lap until you were a whimpering mess. you hung your head low as your nails dug into her skin.

her hands cupped your ass. they moved with the beat of your bounces until you were sitting up again. lips parted beautifully as the softest yet sexiest sounds escaped your body. you rutted your hips against hers, her cock rubbing so gloriously on your cervix.

you were so fucking close you could hardly keep your eyes open. when you tossed your head back in pleasure the cowgirl hat nearly slid off. you placed a hand on top of your head holding the hat in place before looking down at her.

her eyes were wild. she was biting her lip. she looked flushed. cheeks pink as her hair tangled under the weight of your heaving bodies. you clung to the cowgirl hat swaying faster. bouncing harder. moaning louder. maintaining eye contact with billie who had since captured a picture of the scene in her mind to store for later.

just pretty girl riding her into oblivion.

diaween 2024 🧡

[jiminomenon]

money talks

pairing: jang wonyoung x female reader

tag(s): ceo! wonyoung, sugar mommy! wonyoung, sugar baby! reader, power dynamics, wonielle makes an appearance

word count: 4.4k

summary: y/n sneaks into an exclusive gala, where she unexpectedly saves wonyoung, a powerful ceo, from a heated confrontation. this chance encounter leads to a life-changing sugar baby arrangement that pulls y/n into a world of luxury and complexity. as their relationship deepens, the lines between business and emotion blur, with wonyoung’s charm and generosity making it harder for y/n to see their arrangement as purely transactional, and both women find themselves drawn to each other in ways they never expected.

a/n: there’s 200 of you now which is insane 🤯 i’m honestly quite overwhelmed bc where on earth did you guys come from? 🤨 i didn’t even have time to write smth for my 100 followers special so take sugar mommy! wonyoung as a treat. lowkey kinda gave up in the end tho but hope you guys enjoy lmfao, happy reading 🎀✨

the grand ballroom of the city’s most exclusive hotel sparkled under the glow of crystal chandeliers. the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the sound of clinking champagne glasses. the room was filled with the city’s elite—celebrities, business moguls, and socialites mingling effortlessly, their laughter echoing off the marble floors. it was the kind of event y/n could only dream of attending, and yet, here she was, standing awkwardly in the corner, clutching a glass of champagne she didn’t dare drink.

“this was a terrible idea,” y/n muttered under her breath, glancing around nervously. her friends, hanni and yunjin, had convinced her to sneak into the gala, promising it would be a night to remember. they’d borrowed dresses from a thrift store, done their makeup in the back of an uber, and somehow managed to slip past security by blending in with a group of influencers. but now, as y/n scanned the crowd, she realized she’d lost sight of her friends entirely.

“great,” she sighed, setting her untouched champagne on a passing waiter’s tray. “just great.”

she wandered through the crowd, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. the opulence of the event was overwhelming—gold-trimmed tables, towering floral arrangements, and waiters circulating with trays of caviar and truffles. y/n felt like a fraud, her thrift store dress suddenly feeling cheap and out of place. she was about to turn around and head for the exit when a commotion caught her attention.

near the edge of the room, partially hidden by a towering potted plant, stood a woman y/n recognized immediately. it was jang wonyoung, the ceo of starship industries and one of the most powerful women in the city. she was dressed in a sleek, tailored suit, her sharp features illuminated by the soft glow of the chandeliers. but what caught y/n’s attention was the tension in the air. wonyoung was speaking to a younger man, her expression cold and unreadable.

“you’re boring,” wonyoung said, her voice low but cutting. “i don’t have time for boring.”

the man’s face twisted in anger, his hands clenching into fists. “you think you can just toss me aside like that? after everything i’ve done for you?”

wonyoung raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “done for me? please. you’ve done nothing but drain my bank account and waste my time.”

the man’s anger boiled over, and he lunged at her, grabbing her arm roughly. y/n’s heart leapt into her throat. without thinking, she rushed forward, grabbing the man’s shoulder and pulling him away.

“hey!” y/n snapped, her voice shaking but firm. “let her go!”

the man turned to glare at her, his grip on wonyoung loosening. “who the hell are you?”

“someone who doesn’t think it’s okay to put your hands on someone else,” y/n shot back, stepping between him and wonyoung. her heart was pounding, but she stood her ground, her fists clenched at her sides.

the man hesitated, his eyes darting between y/n and wonyoung. for a moment, it looked like he might argue, but then he scoffed, releasing wonyoung’s arm with a rough shove. “whatever. she’s not worth it anyway.”

the man stormed off, leaving y/n and wonyoung alone. y/n turned to wonyoung, her breath coming in short gasps. “are you okay?”

wonyoung studied her with an unreadable expression, her sharp eyes scanning y/n’s face. “i’m fine,” she said finally, her voice calm and measured. “but you… you’re not supposed to be here, are you?”

y/n’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “i—uh—”

before she could stammer out an explanation, a security guard appeared, his walkie-talkie crackling as he spoke into it. “we found her,” he said, his voice gruff and authoritative. he turned to y/n, his expression stern. “you’re coming with me.”

y/n’s stomach dropped. this was it. she was going to be thrown out, humiliated in front of everyone. the guard grabbed her arm, his grip firm and unyielding. “let’s go.”

“wait—” y/n started, but the guard cut her off.

“no excuses. you’re trespassing, and you’re coming with me.”

y/n’s heart raced as the guard began to drag her away, the eyes of the crowd starting to turn toward the commotion. she felt a wave of panic wash over her, her mind scrambling for a way out. but before the guard could take more than a few steps, a voice cut through the noise like a blade.

“let her go.”

the guard froze, turning to see wonyoung standing there, her arms crossed and her expression icy. “m-ms. jang, this woman is trespassing. i’m just doing my job.”

“and your job,” wonyoung said, her voice low and dangerous, “is to listen to me when i tell you to let her go.”

the guard hesitated, his grip on y/n loosening slightly. “with all due respect, ms. jang, she’s not on the guest list. i have to remove her.”

wonyoung stepped closer, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. she tilted her head, a sly smile playing on her lips. “are you really going to argue with me about this? in front of all these people?” the guard glanced around, noticing the curious stares of the guests. he shifted uncomfortably, his confidence wavering. “i… i’m just following protocol.”

“protocol?” wonyoung repeated, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “let me make this simple for you. she’s with me. she’s my plus one. and if you don’t let her go right now, i’ll make sure you’re looking for a new job tomorrow. understood?”

the guard’s face paled, and he immediately released y/n’s arm, stepping back. “of course, ms. jang. my apologies.”

wonyoung’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “good. now, if you’ll excuse us.”

the guard nodded quickly, muttering another apology before retreating into the crowd. y/n stared at wonyoung, her mind reeling. “why did you do that?”

wonyoung turned to her, her expression softening. “because you just saved me from a very unpleasant situation. consider it a thank you.”

y/n blinked, still trying to process what had just happened. “i… you’re welcome?”

wonyoung chuckled softly, the sound sending a shiver down y/n’s spine. “you’re interesting. most people wouldn’t have stepped in like that.”

“i couldn’t just stand there and do nothing,” y/n said, her voice firm despite the nervous flutter in her chest.

wonyoung tilted her head, studying y/n with a curious expression. “what’s your name?”

“y/n.”

“y/n,” wonyoung repeated, as if testing the sound of it. she stepped closer, her gaze intense. “tell me, y/n… how would you like to be my new sugar baby?”

y/n’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open in shock. “i—what?”

wonyoung’s smirk widened, her confidence unwavering. “you heard me. i’m in need of someone… interesting. and you’ve just proven yourself to be exactly that.” she reached out, brushing a strand of hair from y/n’s face, her touch sending a jolt of electricity through y/n’s body. “so, what do you say?”

y/n’s mind raced, her heart pounding in her chest. this was insane. completely, utterly insane. but as she looked into wonyoung’s sharp, calculating eyes, she realized she didn’t have it in her to say no.

“okay,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “i’ll do it.”

wonyoung’s smile was triumphant, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “good. you won’t regret it.”

the morning after the gala, y/n woke up in a daze, her mind still reeling from the whirlwind of events. wonyoung had given her a ride home in her sleek black car, the interior smelling of leather and expensive perfume. before dropping her off, wonyoung had handed her a business card with an address and a time scribbled on the back.

“be here at 8 pm sharp,” wonyoung had said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “don’t be late.”

now, as y/n stood in front of the towering skyscraper that housed wonyoung’s penthouse, she felt a mix of nerves and excitement. she smoothed down the front of her dress—a simple black number she’d borrowed from mina—and took a deep breath before stepping into the lobby.

the doorman greeted her with a polite nod. “miss y/n? ms. jang is expecting you. take the private elevator to the top floor.”

y/n nodded, her heart pounding as she stepped into the elevator. the ride up was smooth and silent, the glass walls offering a breathtaking view of the city lights. when the doors slid open, she was greeted by the sight of wonyoung’s penthouse—a sprawling, minimalist space filled with floor-to-ceiling windows, modern art, and sleek furniture.

wonyoung stood by the window, a glass of wine in her hand. she turned as y/n stepped out of the elevator, a small smile playing on her lips. “you’re right on time. i like that.”

“i didn’t want to keep you waiting,” y/n said, her voice slightly shaky.

wonyoung gestured for her to come closer. “relax. you’re not here for an interview. well, not exactly.”

y/n walked over, her eyes darting around the room. “this place is… incredible.”

“it’s home,” wonyoung said with a shrug, as if it were nothing. she handed y/n a glass of wine, their fingers brushing briefly. “sit. we have some things to discuss.”

y/n sat down on the plush white sofa, her hands clutching the glass tightly. wonyoung took a seat across from her, crossing her legs elegantly. she reached for a sleek black folder on the coffee table and slid it toward y/n.

“this,” wonyoung said, “is your contract.”

y/n’s eyes widened. “contract?”

“of course,” wonyoung said, her tone matter-of-fact. “this is a business arrangement, after all. i need to make sure we’re both on the same page.”

y/n opened the folder, her eyes scanning the neatly typed pages. the terms were lavish—generous monthly allowance, a luxury apartment, access to wonyoung’s world—but there were also rules. y/n would be expected to accompany wonyoung to events, be available when needed, and maintain a certain level of discretion.

“this is… a lot,” y/n said, her voice barely above a whisper.

wonyoung leaned forward, her gaze intense. “it’s a fair deal. you get financial security, and i get… companionship. someone interesting. someone who isn’t afraid to stand up for me.”

y/n looked up, meeting wonyoung’s eyes. “and if i say no?”

wonyoung smirked. “you won’t.”

y/n hesitated, her mind racing. this was insane. completely, utterly insane. but as she looked around the penthouse, at the life wonyoung was offering her, she realized she didn’t have it in her to say no.

“okay,” she said finally, her voice steady. “i’ll do it.”

wonyoung’s smile was triumphant. “good. i knew you’d see it my way.” she reached for a pen and handed it to y/n. “sign here.”

y/n took the pen, her hand trembling slightly as she signed her name. when she was done, wonyoung took the contract and set it aside, her expression softening.

“now that that’s out of the way,” wonyoung said, standing up, “let’s celebrate. i have reservations at a place i think you’ll like.”

y/n blinked. “right now?”

“why not?” wonyoung said, her tone playful. “consider it your first official outing as my sugar baby.”

the restaurant was everything y/n had imagined and more—a Michelin-starred establishment with dim lighting, soft music, and a menu filled with dishes she couldn’t pronounce. wonyoung ordered for both of them, her confidence effortless as she chatted with the waiter.

“you’re not allergic to anything, are you?” wonyoung asked, glancing at y/n.

“no,” y/n said, shaking her head. “but i’ve never been to a place like this before.”

wonyoung smirked. “get used to it. this is your life now.”

the food arrived, each course more exquisite than the last. y/n tried to keep up with wonyoung’s easy conversation, but she couldn’t help feeling out of place. wonyoung noticed, her sharp eyes catching every nervous fidget.

“relax,” wonyoung said, reaching across the table to touch y/n’s hand. “you’re doing fine.”

y/n’s breath hitched at the contact, her cheeks flushing. “it’s just… a lot to take in.”

wonyoung’s smile was soft, almost tender. “i know. but you’ll get used to it. and i’ll be here to guide you.”

the rest of the evening passed in a blur of laughter, wine, and stolen glances. by the time they left the restaurant, y/n felt a little more at ease, though the weight of her new reality still lingered.

as they stepped into the cool night air, wonyoung turned to y/n, her expression unreadable. “you did well tonight.”

“thanks,” y/n said, her voice barely above a whisper. “i’m glad i didn’t embarrass you.”

wonyoung chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down y/n’s spine. “you could never embarrass me. in fact, i think you might just be exactly what i’ve been looking for.”

y/n’s heart skipped a beat, her mind racing with possibilities. as wonyoung’s driver pulled up to the curb, y/n realized that her life was about to change in ways she couldn’t even imagine.

the weeks that followed the signing of the contract were a whirlwind of luxury and excess. y/n moved into a sleek, modern apartment in one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods, courtesy of wonyoung. the space was everything she could have dreamed of—floor-to-ceiling windows, a marble kitchen, and a walk-in closet filled with designer clothes. it was a far cry from her cramped, cluttered apartment, and yet, y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t belong.

wonyoung had been true to her word, taking y/n to high-profile events and introducing her to a world she’d only ever seen in magazines. there were galas, charity auctions, and private parties, each more extravagant than the last. y/n learned to navigate the social scene with a practiced smile, her hand always resting lightly on wonyoung’s arm. she was the perfect accessory—beautiful, poised, and just interesting enough to keep wonyoung entertained.

but beneath the surface, y/n was struggling. the pressure to maintain the image wonyoung expected was exhausting. she spent hours practicing her posture, memorizing the names of influential people, and perfecting the art of small talk. she felt like an imposter, constantly waiting for someone to expose her as a fraud.

one evening, wonyoung took y/n to an art gallery opening, the kind of event where the champagne flowed freely and the art was secondary to the socializing. y/n wore a stunning emerald green dress that wonyoung had picked out for her, the fabric clinging to her curves in all the right places. she felt beautiful, but the weight of wonyoung’s expectations was heavy on her shoulders.

“remember,” wonyoung had said as they stepped out of the car, “smile, but don’t overdo it. you’re here to impress, not to blend in.”

y/n nodded, her stomach churning with nerves. she followed wonyoung into the gallery, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. the room was filled with the city’s elite, their laughter and chatter creating a low hum of energy. wonyoung moved through the crowd with ease, her presence commanding attention wherever she went.

“ms. jang!” a man in a tailored suit greeted them, his smile wide and practiced. “it’s been too long. and who is this lovely creature?”

“this is y/n,” wonyoung said, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. “my… companion.”

the man’s eyebrows rose, his gaze flickering between wonyoung and y/n. “charmed,” he said, taking y/n’s hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “any companion of ms. jang’s is a friend of mine.”

y/n forced a smile, her cheeks burning. she hated the way people looked at her, like she was a shiny new toy wonyoung had acquired. but she kept her composure, nodding politely as the man launched into a monologue about the art on display.

as the night wore on, y/n found herself growing more comfortable. she even managed to hold her own in a conversation with a well-known art critic, surprising herself with how much she knew about the pieces on display. wonyoung watched her from across the room, a small smile playing on her lips.

“you did well tonight,” wonyoung said later, as they stepped into the car. “i’m impressed.”

y/n’s heart swelled with pride, but she quickly pushed the feeling down. “thanks. i’m just trying to keep up.”

wonyoung chuckled, the sound low and warm. “you’re doing more than keeping up. you’re thriving.”

a few days later, wonyoung took y/n to a charity gala at a luxury hotel. the event was even more extravagant than the gallery opening, with crystal chandeliers, live music, and a guest list that included some of the most powerful people in the city. y/n wore a sleek black gown, her hair styled in loose waves that cascaded down her back. she felt like a princess, but the illusion was shattered the moment she met *her*.

“well, well,” a voice purred from behind y/n. “if it isn’t the new girl.”

y/n turned to see a woman standing there, her golden dress hugging her figure like a second skin. she was stunning, with soft features but a confidence that made y/n feel instantly inferior. the woman’s long, dark hair framed her face perfectly, and her gentle eyes sparkled with an unreadable intensity. she smiled—a smile that felt effortless, almost intimidating in its beauty.

“i’m sorry,” y/n said, forcing a polite smile. “do i know you?”

the woman laughed, the sound cold and mocking. “oh, honey, you don’t need to know me. i know *you*. you’re wonyoung’s latest little project, aren’t you?”

y/n’s smile faltered, her stomach twisting into knots. “i… i don’t know what you mean.”

“don’t play dumb,” the woman said, stepping closer. “i was in your shoes once. wonyoung’s sugar baby, the center of her world… until she got bored and tossed me aside. and trust me, she *will* get bored. it’s only a matter of time.”

y/n’s heart raced, her mind reeling. she wanted to argue, to defend wonyoung, but the woman’s words struck a nerve. before she could respond, wonyoung appeared at her side, her expression icy.

“danielle,” wonyoung said, her voice sharp. “i see you’ve met y/n.”

the woman—danielle—smirked, her eyes glinting with malice. “i was just welcoming her to the club. you know, giving her a heads-up about how this little arrangement of yours usually ends.”

wonyoung’s jaw tightened, her hand resting possessively on y/n’s waist. “y/n is different. and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of her way.”

danielle laughed, but there was no humor in it. “we’ll see how long that lasts.” with that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd.

y/n felt like the ground had been ripped out from under her. she turned to wonyoung, her voice trembling. “is that true? will you just… get bored of me?”

wonyoung’s expression softened, her hand moving to cup y/n’s cheek. “don’t listen to her. she’s bitter and jealous. you’re not like her. you’re… different.”

y/n wanted to believe her, but the doubt had already taken root. as the night went on, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was just another replaceable part of wonyoung’s world.

months had passed since y/n signed the contract, and her life had become a carefully curated blend of luxury and performance. she attended events with wonyoung, played the part of the perfect companion, and tried to ignore the growing sense of emptiness inside her. the apartment, the clothes, the attention—it was everything she’d ever wanted, and yet, it felt like she was living someone else’s life.

the turning point came on a rainy evening, after a particularly draining charity gala. y/n had spent the night smiling and nodding, her cheeks aching from the effort. wonyoung had been her usual composed self, commanding the room with ease, but y/n had noticed the way her eyes lingered on danielle, who had been there with a new sugar mommy. the sight had stirred something ugly in y/n’s chest—a mix of jealousy, insecurity, and resentment.

now, back at wonyoung’s penthouse, y/n stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the city lights. the rain streaked down the glass, distorting the view, and she felt like she was looking at her own reflection—blurred, fragmented, and unrecognizable.

“you’ve been quiet tonight,” wonyoung said, her voice cutting through the silence. she stood a few feet away, a glass of wine in her hand. “is something wrong?”

y/n turned to face her, her arms crossed over her chest. “do you ever get tired of this?”

wonyoung raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. “tired of what?”

“this,” y/n said, gesturing vaguely at the room. “the parties, the pretending, the… the performance. don’t you ever feel like it’s all just… empty?”

wonyoung’s lips curved into a faint smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “it’s part of the life we’ve chosen. you knew that when you signed the contract.”

“did i?” y/n shot back, her voice rising. “because i don’t think i really understood what i was getting into. i didn’t realize i’d have to give up everything—my friends, my independence, my sense of self—just to be your perfect little accessory.”

wonyoung’s smile faded, her expression hardening. “you’re not an accessory, y/n. you’re my companion. my partner. i’ve given you everything you could ever want.”

“except the truth,” y/n said, her voice trembling. “except the freedom to be myself. i feel like i’m losing who i am, wonyoung. and i don’t know if it’s worth it anymore.”

there was a long silence, the weight of y/n’s words hanging heavy in the air. wonyoung set her glass down on the coffee table, her movements deliberate. when she finally spoke, her voice was low and measured.

“what are you saying, y/n?”

y/n took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. “i’m saying… i can’t keep doing this. i can’t keep pretending to be someone i’m not. i need to figure out who i am outside of this… this arrangement.”

wonyoung’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something—anger? hurt?—crossing her face. “so that’s it? you’re just going to walk away?”

“i don’t know,” y/n admitted, her voice breaking. “but i can’t keep living like this. i need… i need to find myself again.”

wonyoung stared at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. then, to y/n’s surprise, she let out a soft, bitter laugh. “you think i don’t know what that feels like? to lose yourself?”

y/n blinked, caught off guard. “what do you mean?”

wonyoung turned away, her gaze fixed on the city lights outside. “do you think i’ve always been like this? respected, controlled, untouchable? i wasn’t always this person, y/n. i had to become her. i had to build this… this fortress around myself to survive in this world. and sometimes, even now, i feel like i’m drowning.”

y/n’s anger faltered, replaced by a pang of sympathy. “wonyoung…”

“i didn’t expect you,” wonyoung continued, her voice softer now. “i didn’t expect to feel… anything. but you… you’re different. you’re not like the others. you’re not afraid to challenge me, to push back. and for the first time in a long time, i felt like maybe… maybe i didn’t have to be alone.”

y/n’s breath caught in her throat, her heart aching at the vulnerability in wonyoung’s voice. “wonyoung…”

wonyoung turned to face her, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “i don’t want to lose you, y/n. but i also don’t want to trap you. if you need to leave… if you need to find yourself… i won’t stop you. but i want you to know that what i feel for you… it’s real. it’s not part of the arrangement. it’s just… you.”

y/n felt tears welling up in her own eyes, the weight of wonyoung’s confession settling over her like a warm blanket. “i don’t know what to say.”

“you don’t have to say anything,” wonyoung said, her voice barely above a whisper. “just… think about it. and whatever you decide, i’ll respect it.”

y/n swallowed hard, staring at wonyoung—the woman who had, against all odds, become so much more than just a contract. she had been so sure that leaving was the only way to find herself again, but now, looking at wonyoung’s raw honesty, she wasn’t so sure anymore. maybe she had been looking at this all wrong.

maybe she wasn’t losing herself—maybe she had just been too scared to admit that she had already found something worth holding onto.

a shaky breath escaped her lips. “i don’t want to leave.”

wonyoung’s eyes widened slightly, the first crack in her composed mask. “you don’t?”

y/n shook her head, stepping closer. “no. i just… i don’t want this to be fake. i don’t want to be with you because of a contract. i want to be with you because it’s real.”

wonyoung exhaled, almost like she had been holding her breath, before a small, hopeful smile tugged at her lips. “then let’s make it real.”

y/n’s heart pounded. “what do you mean?”

wonyoung reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “no more contract. no more pretending. just you and me, figuring it out… together.”

y/n stared at her, searching for any hesitation, but all she saw was sincerity. warmth spread through her chest, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like she could breathe. she squeezed wonyoung’s hand, a slow smile forming on her lips.

“together,” she agreed.

wonyoung let out a soft laugh, her eyes shimmering. “you have no idea how long i’ve been waiting to hear that.

y/n chuckled, pulling her closer. “well, you’re going to have to wait a little longer… because i’m going to kiss you first.”

wonyoung’s breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. “then what are you waiting for?”

y/n didn’t need to be told twice. she closed the distance between them, capturing wonyoung’s lips in a kiss that was slow, deep, and full of everything they had been too afraid to say.

this time, there were no contracts, no expectations—just them.

[spitgobbler]

BunnyOwner!Leon <3

just a bunch of blurbs and thoughts I’ve had about Leon owning a bunny hybrid hehe also my first work on here :)

pairing: fem reader x leon kennedy

tags: bunny hybrid, heat, oral sex, p in v, praise, mention of belly bulge, creampie, breeding

Owner!Leon who’s seen so much shit and decides to go down to the centre and adopt a hybrid companion so he isn’t as lonely. looking at all the cute hybrids from puppies to cats but then he stops at one particular kennel.

Owner!Leon who can’t stop looking at your long floppy bunny ears that he’s already wanting to touch with his warm calloused hands, and your pretty little cotton tail that twitches once you notice him.

Owner!Leon who approaches carefully, being mindful of your bunny nature as he gets to know you a bit more. as soon as you permit him to pet your fluffy ears he thinks to himself how petting and playing with them would be a perfect way to wind down after a long day of work.

Owner!Leon who signs the adoption papers after getting to know your sweet and gentle nature over the course of the week, it’s just what he needed in his cold and dark line of work.

and he enjoys coming home to a no longer empty house, you laying across his lap while he pets your floppy ears and unwinds with you. feeding you strawberries as a snack before a proper dinner while he listens to you chat about your day and what you did while he was gone.

Owner!Leon who glances at your lips and the way you lick the sweet red juice from the strawberries off of them, he feels the urge to kiss them. but he doesn’t. he’s your owner and he shouldn’t do that sort of thing with his precious lil bunny girl.

Owner!Leon who feel conflicted when he comes home one day and his bunny is in heat, humping her pillow desperately as she whimpers for desperate release. his cock stirring in his trousers as he tries to remember what the centre advised him to do when this happens but it’s hard to think with the way his eyes watch your fluffy bun ears flop with each hump of your hips. he just wants to tug them, just a little.

“bun, are you okay?” leon asks, sliding his boots off and moving to your side. “you look- let me call the centre and ask them how to help.”

you whine for him, “o-owner, no. my heat, need you.”

Owner!Leon who swallows thickly at the way your needy voice expresses your desire for him while you rub your messy cunt against your pillow. his dick hardening in his trousers as he wants to help but a part of him is hesitant. you were his slice of paradise, would doing this change things?

“baby, i think the center gave you some toys for your heat, let me go find them.” he murmurs before caressing your floppy ears. “i shouldn’t.”

“no! need owner to breed me,” you plead, eyes glazed over with need.

Owner!Leon who groans at your words, your pretty voice and words tying a knot of arousal in his abdomen. he can’t help but pick you up in his strong arms and laying you down onto his bed.

Owner!Leon who spreads your smooth thighs out for him, his tongue lapping at your weeping cunt and teasing your folds with a hum. your pretty pussy so sweet for him that he palms himself for even a sliver of relief.

Owner!Leon who lets you take what you want, what you need. letting you grip his locks and grind against his face, his nose nudging against your clit, making you sing so lewdly for him.

“that’s it, pretty girl.” he murmurs, his tongue guiding you through your orgasm while he holds your hips down. “so good for me, bunny.”

“m’coming! o-oh!” you moan and try bucking against his face as your eyes roll, gushing all over your generous owner’s face as he drinks it up with a low moan of his own. “thank you, thank you owner,”

he presses kisses to your folds before pulling away and caging your form underneath his, capturing your lips that he’s been dying for in a hot, heavy kiss. you moan as you taste yourself on him, gripping his strong shoulders as you soak in all the love and pleasure your owner is giving you.

Owner!Leon who listens to your pleas for more, teasing your messy slit with the tip of his fat cock before sliding in with a heavy groan from the squeeze. his brows furrowing from the pleasurable fit before thrusting his hips into you slowly before picking up to a toe curling pace.

“feels good owner,” you mewl out, writhing underneath him. “so deep, s’good.”

he caressed your face with one of his hands as he pumped into you over and over. “uh huh, anything for my pretty bunny, mm, fuck.”

Owner!Leon who flips you over and fucks you so good into the mattress. his hands tugging your floppy bunny ears as he thrusts harder and deeper into your needy little cunt from behind, making you clench the sheets and moan. groaning at the tight grip of your sloppy bunny pussy, his hands occasionally moving from your ears to your round lil cotton tail and teasing the base.

Owner!Leon who might as well also be a bunny hybrid with the way he spills his milky cum so many times into you till it’s giving you the cutest little bulge in your tummy. breeding you over and over, he rocks his fat tip into your sweet spot till your heat is over and you’re both spent. no matter how tired he was, he would be a bad owner if he didn’t help his precious bunny through her heat, wouldn’t he?