#you have to say your drink order at the bar

[gracieheartspedro]

Cherry Stems

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 3.1k

description: eddie rejects your advances because his friends are around. so you use them to your advantage. piss eddie off and maybe you'll get what you want. maybe.

warnings: MDNI! 18+ only pls, age not specified but i imagine eddie/reader are 20+, porn without much plot, major teasing, reader is a brat, mentions of eating food, reader has no food aversions, nicknames, reader is flirting with eddie's bandmates, jealousy, possessiveness, name calling, face grabbing, eddie is lowkey a dom, unprotected p in v, fingering (vaginal), oral fixation, eddie puts his fingers in your mouth a lot, reader gets off on being bullied, orgasm denial, cum play, cum eating.... think that's it.

author’s note: hi i wrote this in one night. i am a whore for eddie, what else can i say. i'm also down to take requests, so if you see this, hey, send me an ask. maybe i'll cave and do some. as always, thanks bestie girl @amanitacowboy for helping me with this. let's never forget how much of a whore we are for this man. it keeps me (in)sane <3

Eddie had been teasing you all night and it was really starting to get to you. 

After a pretty electric performance at The Hideout, Eddie and his friends decided that they were hungry for some burgers from the empty Shiny Diner nearby. You had already had enough of Eddie’s shit at this point, so as soon as you sat next to him in the big half moon shaped booth, you knew it was game on. 

From eyeing you while he sang filthy lyrics from the stage, to the way he was working his hand up the hem of your dress when you sat at the bar, Eddie was truly being a menace. When the band got loud in the car on the way to the diner, you decided to make your move. You had rested your hand on Eddie’s crotch while sitting in the bucket seat next to him. While Eddie loved giving a good show, he was not keen on letting his friends see you in such a way. So he brushed your hand away and gave you the ‘not now’ eyes. 

You were for him and him only.

It aggravated you to no end, watching him rejoin the conversation with the guys, while you crossed your arms in disappointment.

But you were going to push some buttons tonight. You were going to get him back.

Gareth, Jeff, and Grant were all very sweet boys. Each of them have never been nothing but respectful of you. Gareth had known you longer than Eddie and he was actually the one who introduced you two. Jeff was usually a know-it-all, but he never dared question anything you said. And Grant… he was just quiet. Always following along with the antics and very well mannered. 

While you respected all the boys back, you also knew they found you attractive and that you could take advantage of that. After one specific smoke session together a couple months back, Eddie asked them all if they had a crush on you. He only ever said things like that to make them squirm. Teasing each other was the way they showed their love for one another. He also liked to remind people that they never stood a chance with you. And they all said that of course they found you pretty, but they would not dare go after you. 

Well, for one night only, you would give them believe they had a chance. Just to piss off Eddie. 

You had done this before. A year into your relationship, you had unintentionally made him jealous and it led to the most mind blowing sex of your life. The sex was so memorable that you do not even remember how you made him jealous. 

You needed that just about now. 

You were the only group there along with the waitress and line cook, so you were not worried about making a scene. You game plan how you were going to achieve such a feat as you scan the diner menu. You already knew what you wanted, but spotting the milkshakes on the list of drinks, a light bulb went off in your brain. 

The older waitress took down the boy’s order while you sat quietly staring at the menu. When it came down to you, you look up at the white haired woman and smiled. 

“One chocolate shake, extra whip cream and cherries, please.” You hand her the menu and glance over at a confused Eddie. You usually got a Dr. Pepper and a cheeseburger value meal, hold the lettuce. 

“Not hungry, baby?” He asks, reaching out for your black painted nails. You slide your hand away, acting like you are reaching for something in your purse. 

“Just wanna try something new.”

You pull your lipgloss out, still not looking over at Eddie. You twist off the top, placing the applicator on the middle of your bottom lip as your eyes flicker over to Grant’s. He is not paying much mind to anything, his eyes looking towards the window behind you. When he takes note of your gaze, he finally looks at you. 

You swipe the gloss across your lips, smirking devilishly. 

“What did you get, Grant?”

He thinks for a beat, realizing even he forgot what he ordered. “Uh… BLT with onion rings.”

You smack your lips together, rubbing your top lip on the bottom one painfully slow. 

“You gonna share your onion rings?”

He was not expecting the question, his lips curling upward before he chuckles. You can feel Eddie’s body stiffen as you ask the question. 

Grant nods, though, “Of course. You can have some-” “Baby, you’re not gonna eat his food.” You shoot a glare at Eddie, tossing your gloss back in your pocketbook. “Grant said I could, so… yeah I am.”

Eddie’s eyes search yours, trying to figure out what you are trying to do. You disguise your pleasure at his curiosity, rolling your eyes and pointing your attention at Jeff. He’s positioned right next to Grant, fiddling with his fingers. Before you can press him with a question, the waitress comes and puts down your drinks. She’s missing your milkshake. 

“That’ll be out in just a moment,” She says, grabbing her tray as she returns behind the counter, seemingly preparing your shake. You watch Jeff fiddle with his straw wrapper and you finally decide to bother him next. 

“Is that Dr. Pepper?” You ask, already knowing the answer. Jeff always got Dr. Pepper, just like you. It’s something you two bonded over often. He just nods, taking a sip of the bubbly beverage. You look over at the waitress quickly, seeing she’s still fiddling with the milkshake blender. 

You grab Jeff’s ice cold glass, your eyes glistening with innocence, “You mind if I have a sip? I’m parched.” And of course he’s too confused to say no. You pull the drink over and once it crosses to your side of the table, Eddie’s hand presses into your bare thigh. You do not react, taking Jeff’s straw into your mouth and sucking in a big sip, your eyes never leaving his. Once you pull the plastic away, you smirk. 

“Thanks, hun.” You push the drink back to him slowly. His cheeks heat up instantly when he notices your lipgloss on the tip of the straw. Eddie’s hand only squeezes more, trying to get you to look over at him. 

He wanted your attention so bad, his body curving closer to you. You can feel his gaze stuck onto the side of your face. 

Before anyone says anything else, the white haired lady returns with your chocolate shake. You giddedly grab the glass and stuff a straw into the frozen drink. 

You use your tongue to toy with the end of the straw, pulling it into your open mouth. Your eyes flicker away from Jeff and take aim at Gareth, who’s seated right across from you. Since he’s known you so long, you can already read on his face that he knows what you are up to. He may be a nice guy, but he too loves to fuck with Eddie. 

He was going to help you in whatever way possible. Instead of you initiating conversation, he speaks up. 

“Chocolate, huh? Thought you’d like vanilla.” Your eyebrow quirks up. You know Eddie’s face is bright red next to you. The heat radiating from him is pressing into your shoulder and thigh. 

“You got me pegged as a vanilla girl? That’s a bit offensive, Gare,” You smile, calculating your next move. You look down at the pile of whipped cream on the top of the shake. You drag your pointer finger across the top, gathering the cream all around it. 

You hear Eddie whispering beside you. “You better fuckin’ not.”

You smile, bringing your finger to your lips, not peeling your eyes from Gareth. You know the tension is palpable because Gareth’s smile is only widening when you lick the cream off your finger. 

The other guys are gawking at you at this point. You were putting on a show and they could not even fathom that it was happening before their very eyes. 

Gareth finally says something, nodding at the milkshake. “And extra cherries?”

“Gareth-,” Eddie’s voice fades over yours. 

“Oh yeah! You know I can tie the stems with my tongue?”

Eddie’s rings are going to be imprinted on your leg with how tightly he’s gripping onto you. You grab one of the cherries, getting your fingers covered in more whipped cream. You lean your head back a bit, your nose facing the old tile ceiling. You drop the cherry in your mouth, stem up. Tilting your head back, facing Gareth, you pull the cherry off the stem between your teeth. It’s unbelievably sensual the way you chew the red fruit. 

You show each of the boys the stem, even Eddie. When you glance over at him, you do not believe you have ever seen him so annoyed. He’s not hiding it well. You drop the stem on your tongue, returning your gaze over to Gareth. 

You roll the stem around, using your teeth slightly to do the stupid party trick you learned in 10th grade to impress a boy. It’s not impressive when every hot girl in school could do it, too. But nonetheless, it was something you could do to layer on the eroticism of the moment. 

When it’s tied, you contemplate taking it out of your mouth and showing it off. Maybe even drop it in Eddie’s hand. Instead, you decide to just extend your tongue out and show the stem on the very tip of your tongue. 

The color drains from Eddie’s face. It’s the end of the show for him. 

He grabs your forearm, ripping you out of the booth. You look back at Gareth, who’s still smiling, all the while Jeff and Grant look even more confused.  

When the fresh air hits you when he slams the glass door open, you flick your head to the side and spit out the stem in the gravel. His grip is so tight around your arm as he drags you to the van. It’s parked on the far side of the lot, occupying a spot that’s backed up to some woods. 

“What is wrong?”

Asking such a question only pisses him off further. Once you reach the van, his left hand flings the side door open. He practically tosses you onto the shag rug that lines the very back of the vehicle. 

“Are you fuckin’ with me right now?” His voice is intimidatingly deep.

Your legs hang out while Eddie stands over you, his hand resting on the top of the van. The back of your knees feel the sting of the frayed metal that hinges the door shut. You swallow, contemplating if you should continue messing with him. With the way he’s looking at you, you felt that this was not going to lead to the jealous sex you two had before. He’s actually angry. 

“You pushed my hand away when I wanted you earlier.”

Your voice is so small and unsure. His eyes narrow at you, his mouth slightly ajar in complete disbelief. The silence hanging in the air makes your heart rate increase. 

His mouth closes and you watch his jaw clench, “So you flirt with my friends right in front of me? Even when I explicitly said you better not.”

With his free hand, he swats your bare leg as you squeeze your thighs together. “Answer me.”

You watch the red mark appear on your flesh and decide to keep playing into the game. You had nothing to lose. If he’s actually angry, you could always have amazing make up sex instead. Eddie could not stay mad at you for too long. 

You shake your head, lifting your chin up in defiance. “All I did was tie a cherry stem.”

He does not accept that answer, slapping your thigh harder this time. 

You knew then that you had him where you wanted him. His eyes were giving him away. His pupils dilated as soon as he realized that you did not yelp at him slapping you around. 

Your eyes widen, watching him jump into the van beside you and dragging you back further. He slams the door, rattling the hunk of metal. The only light being let in is from the front windshield. A hazy warm lit streetlight only lights up Eddie’s face as he’s pining you to the ground. 

He positions himself between your legs, pushing the back of your thighs up with his knees. The skirt you chose for the occasion was pretty flowy, so it slid up your hips as soon as he props you up. “You want to act like a whore in front of my friends? All ‘cause I slapped your hand away earlier?”

His voice does not even sound like his. You hear the jiggling of his belt as he asks you the question. But the more twisted Eddie was, the more aroused you felt. You were drawn to him the first moment he teased you and bullied you a bit. You got off on him being callous. 

“Words. Now.”

You look down between your legs and see his cock springing free from his boxers as he shoves them down his thighs. You groan, the pulsating at your core coinciding with your heart rate. “Wanted to get your attention.”

He smacks your inner thigh, painfully close to your pantyline. You moan at the action, propping yourself up a bit more on your elbows. You watch as he carefully drags his pointer and middle finger under the hem of your lace. He smirks to himself, “That’s not what I fuckin’ asked.”

His fingers dip under your underwear, gathering the slick between your folds. You throw your head back, unable to hold back the sob as he spreads you open. You were putty in his hands, always bending to him. “Yes, Eddie.”

Your response leads to him sliding his fingers inside your cunt, a wet squelching noise filling both your ears. Your back thuds against the rug as your muscles give out under his touch. He fucks you with his fingers, the look on his face unreadable. He usually takes his time with foreplay, but this was different. He was testing how far he could take you in a limited amount of time. You were in a parking lot with his friends less than 500 feet inside, he could not take his time torturing you. 

His fingers retract from your pussy, gripping onto the lace of your panties and tearing them down your legs. When he sits back on his heels, you watch his long cock bounce with his movements. It sends a smile across your face. When he zeros in on you again, he tilts his head to the side. 

“I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t talk anymore.”

It makes you giggle at first, unsure if he’s really being serious. But when his face does not twist up into a smirk like it usually did, you realize you were in trouble. He takes ahold of his dick, leaning forward onto you. Your mouth falls open as you study Eddie dragging his tip between your slit, gathering as much of your wetness as he could. 

He sinks into you, raising your hips a bit to meet him straight on. The stretch is always overwhelming for you at first. You and Eddie fucked at least three times a week, but he always made you cum before shoving his cock deep inside you. Stretching you out for a couple minutes with two fingers is not enough for you. He hisses when he pulls back, his hands grasping onto you for dear life. 

He wastes no time setting a bruising pace. There’s no build up, he is simply taking his annoyance out on you. You are reaching out to anything around you, trying to find something to hold onto as he rams into you. You find a sweatshirt nearby, squeezing it as tight as you can as you breathe out to relax your pelvic muscles.

“Eddie, please-” You try to say, throwing your head forward. He shifts your hips a bit more, opening you up wider. As he does that, he rakes his hands upward, pushing your skirt up higher to your belly button. He shakes your head to your pleas. 

“Eddie, please.” He mocks, relocating his hand to squeeze your cheeks together. When your jaw unhinges, Eddie inspects your tongue as he drills into you. “Put my fingers in your mouth.”

“Ed-”

He sandwiches your face harder, cutting you off from being able to say anything. He fills your mouth with the two fingers that were plunging inside of you earlier. The taste of your own arousal is still present on his fingers as you swirl your tongue around the digits. You mewl as he grinds his pelvis into your clit. “Shut up,” he orders, his face centimeters from yours, “Now suck them while I fuck you.”

You have no way to talk back, so you do what he says. You hallow your cheeks out, lathering all your saliva around his fingers. The build up in the pit of your stomach only gets more intense when Eddie hoists your leg up over his shoulder. You clench around him, tears pricking your eyes as you vibrate his fingers with your moans. 

“Do not fuckin’ cum yet,” He warns, pulling his fingers in and out of your mouth. His hips are faltering as he chases his own climax. Your body feels like every nerve ending is about to implode under the pressure of you holding back your orgasm, and Eddie can sense that. He drags his fingers out from your lips, rubbing your own spit into your lips. He grabs your jaw with the same hand, pulling your face closer to his.

“Say you’re mine. You’re only gonna be mine.”

You nod, knocking his forehead slightly. “I’m only ever gonna be yours, Eddie.”

With your foreheads touching, you watch as he falls apart inside you. 

And with three vicious snaps of his hips, he spills his seed deep inside you. He does not let out a sound. His mouth is agape as deep heaves fan your face. 

When he finishes, he slides his cock out of you and sits back on his knees again. Him exiting your body is so frustrating, you want to scream.  

He uses one arm to hold your one leg back as spit covered fingers swipe up your cunt. His spend is leaking out of you and you know if he works his usual magic, you will cum in 30 seconds. 

“Please, Eddie. Please let me cum.”

He smirks villainously, “Why should I let you, hm?” He spreads your pussy lips, getting a good look as his cum dribbles down to your asshole.

You are getting desperate. You never had to beg Eddie to cum, ever. He was always so generous. 

“I promise I’ll be good. Please, please.” He chuckles dryly before sinking his fingers back into you. “Fine. Since you asked so pretty and promised to behave yourself.”

His fingers scissor into you, that familiar burn in the pit of your stomach returning. As his two fingers make work at your entrance, his thumb swipes your clit in meticulous circles. His bottom lip is tucked under his top teeth, watching you fall apart on his fingers. You are practically chanting his name as he brings you to your peak. 

When your chest heaves, finally relaxing from your orgasm, Eddie slides his digits out of you and brings them up to his plump pink lips. He licks them clean, just like you did with the whipped cream earlier. 

“Hm… Don’t see how Gareth thought you were a vanilla girl,” He states, smiling sinfully at you. “You, my dear, are a fuckin’ vixen.”

-

tags of friends who may like this idk (if you wanna be tagged in the future, just lemme know <3):

@hockeyhughes @pedgito @mediocredreams @the-unforgivenn

[coco-loco-nut]

High Stakes

pairing: lando x reader

summary: Lando can’t help but to fall for his teammates elusive childhood friend

masterlist requests open

————————————

You strut out of the casino eyes locked on your phone as you change your flight back to Australia. The casino threw a few perks at you, and who are you to say no to free stuff. You don’t even notice as you walk into a brick wall, or someone built like a brick wall.

“I’m so sorry,” you quickly stuff your phone into the black Birkin on your arm. The bag is a contrast to the champagne dress that glitters under the city lights.

“No that was my fault,” you look up, the sound of another Australian voice piquing your interest.

“Australian?” You ask, watching the man study your face.

“Y/n? Oscar,” he says, your face lighting up.

“Osco, I didn’t realize you were in Vegas. What are you here for?” Oscar was your best friend when you lived down the street from him. You moved to a different town a few years later, losing touch quickly.

“I’m a race car driver, what are you doing here?” Oscar notes the clothes your wear, the same designer brands he sees WAGs wear in the paddock.

“Oh, you still race? That’s so cool. With, um, Daniel Ricciardo?” you try to pull a name from the back of your mind.

“I actually replaced him, he’s retired now,” Oscar spares the messy details since it’s pretty clear you don’t have a vested interest in motorsport.

“Oh, that’s sad. Hey, it was nice seeing you again,” your goal is to hit the club you frequent in Vegas, and you only have so long before the line gets too long and won’t let you in.

“Right, yeah, enjoy your night,” Oscar watches you walk away, looking like the opposite of the girl he used to play in the dirt with.

“Miss L/n,” the bouncer smiles, taking your tip as you bypass the line. Taking your phone out of the purse, you leave the purse at a bag check, the staff knowing to take care with it and they get a nice reward. You only come here after winning big anyway - and you ALWAYS win big.

You slide onto a stool at the bar, catching the bartender’s eye. He’s the reason you frequent this one in particular. He makes a mean drink and is quite pleasant to look at. He picks up a liquor bottle, winking at you down the bar.

“Welcome back, this one’s on me,” he slides a cocktail to you before going to serve another customer. Maybe tonight you will actually give him your number, but the cat and mouse game you have going is too much fun.

The cocktail is fresh, something you haven’t tried before. It’s like a mix of some of your go to’s. You finish it quickly, craving the pulse of music.

“Going so soon?” the bartender asks as you slide a five to him.

“I need to dance. I’ll be back,” your sly smile makes his eyes follow you as you exit to the main club.

You find the bar once again. The one with the shitty liquor that serves everyone’s main goal. Getting shitfaced. You order two green tea shots, the familiar set of the local dj calling you to the floor.

“Your shot is on me,” a British man, or boy based on his height and struggle to grow facial hair, says as he slides beside you. You raise your eyebrow, passing one of your shots to him. You can sacrifice the buzz you are chasing for an adventure.

“Cheers, but I think you owe me another round now,” your eyes sparkle like the dress you are wearing. The man’s eyes rake your body as you throw the shot back. He quickly follows suit before ordering another round.

“Anything for a beautiful woman like you. I didn’t expect to see an Australian in the States. What’s your name?” he says, filling the time as you wait for the shots.

“I didn’t expect to see a Brit, but here we are,” you smile, unwilling to give your name until he gives his.

You take the next round quick, itching to dance.

“Lando, mate, the team is waiting on you to do the round- Y/n?” a familiar face appears beside you once again. Lando, the boys name is Lando.

“Twice in one night, are you stalking me Piastri?” you tease.

“No, we are here celebrating with the team. This is where you were in a rush to be?” Oscar asks and you nod. Lando looks between the two of you confused. Of course his teammate knows the Australian he just met.

“I always come here when I’m in Vegas. What’s next, Osco? You’ll be in Monaco next week?” you laugh. Oscar realizes how little you really know about racing or him.

“Not next week, no,” Lando answers. For a minute you forgot about him.

“We need to get back to the team. Want to join us?” Oscar asks you, a little disappointed when you shake your head.

“I need to get on the floor and dance. I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” you walk off towards the crowd of moving bodies.

“How the hell do you know her?” Lando watches you leave.

“Old friend, we were best friends for a few years before she moved away,” Oscar explains. Maybe third time will be the charm in getting your number so you can actually stay in touch. Lily has asked about you when looking at old childhood photos.

“She’s hot,” Lando comments, following Oscar back to the team.

“I couldn’t tell you the first thing about her anymore. I looked her up on the way over here and nothing came up. No socials or anything,”

“Odd,” Lando shrugs. An hour later you are back at the bar, and Lando strikes again.

“Do you travel a lot?” Lando asks and you nod.

“Yeah, when I’m not in Australia I travel for work. About a month ago I was in Singapore, around Marina Bay, and before that Macao. London, Paris, and Sydney are other places I frequent,” you tell him, shame letting your eyes roam his body, the top buttons of his shirt undone.

“I travel a lot too,” Lando takes a step closer. one goal in mind.

“I should start visiting new places. You know, I’ve never been to the middle east,” you wave your hand, thinking it would make your statement bigger.

“You should come to Abu Dhabi, Osc and I will get you a paddock pass. You’ll be in Monaco for a couple weeks, right?” Lando asks and you nod.

“Yes, but I was planning on going back to Australia after,” your eyes narrow, unsure at what he’s getting at.

“I’ll be flying to the race from Monaco, why don’t you join Oscar and I on the flight there and fly back to Australia with Oscar?” Lando offers. You turn your attention to your phone, Lando fears he lost you.

“Give me your number, I’ll let you know tomorrow once I am sober,” you hand your phone to him, allowing him to enter his details.

“Everything ok?” Oscar asks, startling Lando as he returns your phone to you.

“Yeah, Lando just invited me to Abu Dhabi,” you turn to Oscar, extending your hand to him. “I’m going back to the casino hotel, let’s stay in touch this time,” you watch Oscar quickly make a contact for himself, sending a text so he has your number as well.

“Do you want me to walk you back?” Oscar asks, concerned.

“Enjoy your party, I’ll be fine,” you let your drunk impulse take over, hugging the shy man before strutting away to get your purse.

“I wish I knew more about her. She’s so different from the girl I grew up with. I’m sure my sisters or mom could tell me,” Oscar says, watching you leave. You don’t even stumble, despite mixing heels and alcohol.

“I think she works for casinos. She mentioned traveling for work and everywhere she goes there are a lot of them,” Lando guesses. Oscar shrugs.

“I’ll ask around,” Oscar replies, turning your words over in his mind.

You thought about moving to Monaco, you love it when you are in the small country,but you can’t seem to permanently leave Australia. Monaco always treats you well, yacht parties mixed with rides around the city in expensive cars, not to mention all the money you win. It really is a tempting move. Maybe one day.

Lando picks you up outside the hotel, his chauffeur takes care of your luggage while you slide into the back. Oscar and Lando were very helpful in planning the last minute trip, despite the racing and team meetings.

“I got you a gift,” Lando hands you an orange bag. You open it and pull out a shirt and hat.

“Thank you so much. Orange isn’t usually my color-“

“Papaya,”

“But I will definitely wear it during the race. Thank you,” your brow furrows at the interruption as you carefully place the clothing back into the bag.

“It’s not orange, it’s papaya. McLaren is very insistent on that. It’s my hat and Oscar’s jersey,” Lando says, watching you tuck the bag beside your feet.

“I see,” an easy conversation falls between you as you approach the airport. The private jet awaits. Oscar is already inside when you arrive.

“Welcome aboard,” Oscar greets you as you settle into a seat. Some more people who you don’t know join the flight.

“Carlos, this is Y/n. She’s Oscar and I’s friend,” Lando says as the man extends his hand to you. You shake it, examining him.

“Nice to meet you,”

“How do you know them?” The Spaniard asks you.

“I grew up with Oscar and ran into him in Vegas. Lando invited me to Abu Dhabi,” you simplify the story.

As soon as you reach cruising height, Lando pulls out a case from a closet.

“Do you like playing cards?” he asks you, setting the black leather case onto a table.

“Occasionally, I love solitaire,” you sit down beside Lando.

“Name of the game is Texas Hold‘Em,” Lando sets it up as the group buys in. You look at your cards and the people around you.

You fold early despite your very good hand, needing to tank yourself.

“Let me take a look at that,” Lando says at the end of the round, checking your cards. “You had a straight, you should’ve stayed. It would’ve won,”

“It would? Silly me, I guess I’ll have to learn as I go,” you bat your eyes. A little lying to get some action never hurt anyone.

“I can teach you,” Lando wraps an arm around your shoulder as Oscar clears his throat.

“That would be unfair, don’t you think?” Oscar says, unsure why he’s feeling protective over you. Maybe it’s because of Lando’s womanizing reputation and you being an old friend.

“It would, we can’t do that,” you agree. You easily win the next three rounds.

“What a comeback, quite impressive,” Carlos says as you collect the money at the center of the table.

“Beginners luck,” you shrug coyly. You purposely lose the next two, going all in on a pair of three’s, an awful hand. It kills you to sandbag, but it would be very suspicious if you were annihilating the group. Then the game comes to a small break for drinks and for Oscar to use the restroom, you quietly flirt with Lando. Carlos declares himself out, choosing to nap instead.

“My offer for lessons still stand,”

“Oh? How would we go about those,” you ask, brushing your leg against his while you gently set your hand on his bicep.

“You, me, and a game a strip poker in my room tonight,” Lando suggests, eyes darkening a little as you lean closer.

“Sounds marvelous.” your devilish smile sets Lando’s mind racing as you turn towards Oscar to talk.

“Why are you pretending to not know how to play?” Oscar arches his brow at you. Slowly but surely, it’s like the two of you never moved away from each other.

“It’s fun. I don’t know how to play that well anyway,” you smile, playing off your lie.

“He’s my teammate, you know,” Oscar’s voice has a tone that warns you not to fuck up.

“I know, Osc. It’s harmless flirting. Besides, I’m not in the right place to start anything serious,” you shrug, knowing Lando’s reputation.

“Does he know that?” both of you glance at Lando who stares like a lost puppy dog.

“I’ll make sure he knows, don’t worry,” you promise as Lando calls both of you back into the game. Fifteen minutes later, Oscar folds.

“It’s just you and me now,” Lando says, both of you with an even amount of earnings.

“Don’t hold back on me,” you bat your eyes innocently as you get your hand. Oscar peeks over your shoulder, watching the cards.

“Don’t you dare fold,” Oscar hisses, you feign confusion and nod.

“Let’s see your cards,” Lando says, laying his down first after your final bets. You checked him, not wanting to discredit your lie.

“Is this good?” you ask as his eyes go wide.

“Holy shit, yeah. You won, four of a kind,” Lando pushes the money towards you.

“No, I couldn’t. You keep it. I’m well enough off anyway,” you give him the money, not really interested in the winnings of a one hundred euro buy in.

Lando starts to protest, but you move from the table to your seat before he can get a word out. You put on your headphones and pull out a book. Oscar follows Carlos in the pursuit of sleep. Two hours down, six more to go of the flight.

You feel a presence beside you and look up from your book.

“What’s up?” you ask, pulling an earbud out, marking the page of your book and setting it down.

“Everyone’s asleep,” he whispers. You glance around the plane as he inches closer to you. You feel his hand brush against your arm.

“Lando,” your breath hitches, his face close to yours.

“Let me kiss you,” he says, your head tilting up against your better judgment.

“We can’t do this,” you whisper, lips almost brushing his.

“Why not?” you get the sense that he doesn’t care as your head starts to spin and there is a strange pull between you.

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” you state.

“Good, this is just a bit of fun, right?” his hand runs up and down your leg as you fight your body from getting closer.

“Right,”

“So kiss me,” Lando’s voice is breathy as he connects your lips. You pull back as you feel yourself losing control.

“Lando, we can’t, not here,” you shake your head, trying hard not to be pulled in by his puppy dog eyes and curls.

“Ok, what if we talk instead?” he sits back in the chair. You let him ramble, feeling yourself start to drift off. Lando notices you yawn as you try to carry on the conversation.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m so tired,” you apologize, shifting in the seat to a more comfortable position.

“It’s okay, planes always put me to sleep too,” Lando doesn’t take your sleepiness to heart.

“Wanna listen to music?” you ask, pulling out your headphones. Lando simply nods, taking an earbud from you.

He feels a light weight on his shoulder a few minutes later. A quick glance tells him that you fell asleep. Lando can’t stop the butterflies in his chest. A beautiful woman is unintentionally using him as a pillow, it’s natural. He will never admit that he has a crush, but he wishes that you didn’t insist it is all for fun. Lando knows that Oscar doesn’t trust him with you, despite your recently rediscovered friendship. He will just have to prove it.

Unfortunately for Lando, you see more of Oscar and less of Lando during the weekend. You also left earlier than planned, citing a family thing that needed you back in Australia.

Oscar talks to you frequently, but you don’t show to a race. Lando asks questions, and even finds your social media, but it’s private and Oscar gives vague answers. It is nearly a year until Lando sees you again in Singapore.

Oscar and Lando are exploring Marina Bay when a casino advertisement catches Lando’s eye.

“Osc, is that-“

“Y/n,” Oscar finishes Lando’s sentence.

“Play where champions play. Poker champion? I thought she didn’t know how to play,” Lando reads the ad and your description. You started playing some public tables and tournaments in the past year, the sponsorship and casino money was alluring. You play private tables most of the time, but a tournament or two never hurts.

“I guess we were wrong,” Oscar stares at it.

“She lied to me,” Lando is shocked, he thought you had some natural talent, but you let him teach you. He feels a little stupid.

“She lied to all of us. It kinda explains why she never told me how she got rich or what her job is,” Oscar frowns, watching as security exits the casino to escort a guest in from the black SUV.

Without thinking, Lando moves towards the entrance. “Y/n!” he calls out to you, watching your head snap over in surprise. Oscar approaches Lando, staying a few steps behind.

“Lando? Osc? What are you doing here?” you ask, the security silently encouraging you to keep walking.

“We have a race-“ Oscar starts, but you cut him off.

“Don’t stand there, follow me in,” you tell them before saying something to the security. Whatever you said, it lets Lando and Oscar get near you.

“You have better security than we do,” Oscar says.

“Well, the casino wants to protect its assets,” you shrug.

“I think you have some explaining to do,” Lando seems off, colder than usual. You glance around.

“Not here, in my suite,” you say, leading the way to one of the best rooms available.

Lando and Oscar gape at the opulence, it’s nicer than their rooms.

“You are here for a race?” You ask as you pour a glass of water.

“Yeah, do you want a pass?” Oscar asks without a second thought.

“Sure, maybe I’ll bet on you to win,” you smile, crossing the room to take a seat.

“Why are you here?” Lando asks, first Vegas an Monaco, now Marina Bay.

“Work. I’m playing a few tables and a tournament for sponsorship purposes,” you lean back in the chair, not sure of how much you should say.

“I thought you didn’t know how to play?” Oscar looks between you and Lando, curious at the standoff and tension between you.

“I lied. I only recently started playing public games,” your eyes narrow a little, gauging the room.

“Why?” Oscar asks, bringing himself into the conversation.

“Why I lied or why I only just started playing publicly?” you don’t get an answer so you choose to answer both. “I lied because I wasn’t comfortable with my career and I didn’t want to be judged,” your arm raises to scratch your neck, an emotional cue that you haven’t been able to stop yourself from doing. “I also didn’t want to embarrass you. I only just started playing publicly for more money and casino sponsorship,” you watch their reactions, crafting your words carefully based on the small cues they give you.

“So what do you do exactly?” Oscar pries.

“I play card games and casinos invite me to play worldwide. It attracts regular people to have high caliber players in house, and the expensive tables are lucrative for me. It’s simple marketing,” Lando looks at you, the wheels turning in his mind.

“So you do work for the casinos?” he asks, wondering if his first guess from when he met you was right at all.

“You could say so, yeah, in a way,” you look between both of them. “Any more questions?”

“How did you start?”

“I just kinda fell into it. Picked up a lot of games quickly and had natural luck and talent,” you answer, you seem so nonchalant about it.

“How rich are you?” Oscar knows he probably shouldn’t ask, but he’s curious anyway.

“I am not answering that,” you laugh, almost affronted that he would ask. “Let’s just say, I could retire right know and live very comfortably for the rest of my life,” you answer. It helps that you’ve made some very good investments over the year to build your net worth. Even if you lost money on an expensive buy in, you’d be well off.

“Holy shit,” Lando whispers, glancing at Oscar who meets Lando’s eye. There’s a subtle shift in the air. The way they look at you now is different. It’s like even though they knew you were rich from how you dressed, they didn’t know how so it was pushes aside. Now it matters to them. This is the reason you don’t tell people. Not because they are likely to ask for money, it’s the judging. Like the way you earn your living makes you a bad person.

“Look, if you guys want to judge, that fine. I made my money legally and that’s what matters to me. Now, if you will excuse me, I am contractually obliged to make an appearance and play a public table,” you stand up, resolute in yourself and the choices you’ve made with your life. If they judge you or want to act like they don’t know you going forward, that’s their prerogative. Lando and Oscar watch as you leave, one security guard remaining by the door to escort them out.

“Should we follow her?” Lando asks, feeling like they’ve fucked up. They didn’t have to say a word, the way they reacted told you enough.

“Yeah,” Oscar stands, a pain in his chest at how quickly you turned cold. “There’s a reason she keeps people at an arms length, I think we are that reason,” Oscar murmurs, the shame setting in.

“Can we watch her play?” Lando asks the guard as he brings them back to the main floor.

“Yeah, check the map over there,” the guard points to a wall, leaving Oscar and Lando to fend for themselves. They stay silent as they walk through the casino, finding the poker tables. A small crowd is near yours spectating.

“Why didn’t she tell us from the start?” Lando asks quietly as they approach.

“I assume she doesn’t want people to ask for money, same reason we don’t always disclose our career,” Oscar shrugs, he knows he’s wrong but doesn’t want to admit it.

You are sitting at a 1,000/2,000 no-limit game of hold'em. Typically you would be at a super high roller table, in a fancy room, schmoozing with execs and other professional players. But this is a business appearance, and all you have to do is win a few hands then you can leave the table.

“Maybe. Maybe she thought that because we were rich, we would understand and wouldn’t judge. We are her friends,” Lando’s voice cracks slightly, they stay silent as they are within earshot of the table.

They lean against a railing, separating the few people near them from you and the table.

Oscar feels bad for the people brave enough to play you. Your eyes are cold and calculating, not one muscle on your face moves as you observe. You slowly build a depth of knowledge about your opponent’s, balancing poker strategy with the emotional game. It’s impressive.

“She’s like a strategist and driver combined,” Oscar murmers, barely loud enough for Lando to hear. Lando simply nods in agreement as you toss a coin into the pot, calling the bet. You are not only doing the strategy that a team would do for Lando and Oscar, but the emotional game that Lando and Oscar do when driving.

“This is so hot,” Lando whispers as you seem to win with ease. Luck seems to naturally fall to you, but it’s just skill. You glance up from the little bubble of the game, noticing Lando and Oscar watching, but you make no indication of it.

“There’s been rumors that she is going to join a professional tour,” someone beside the two drivers says, quiet enough that it doesn’t disturb the game, but loud enough that it catches Lando and Oscar’s eye. So you were serious about being more outward about your career.

Lando and Oscar are gone by the time you leave the game, and you aren’t surprised. You don’t stick around, you just collect your money and retreat to your room. Typically you would indulge in the amenities that the casino has to offer- the bar, restaurants, spas, etc. When you get to your room, there is an envelope near the entrance. You open it and find paddock passes for the weekend. Your hand shakes slightly as you pull them out, a frown settling on your face.

Despite your better judgment, you show up to the first free practice. You don’t wear the gear that the boys got you, opting for a neutral outfit.

“Y/n L/n! I’m Zak Brown, CEO of McLaren Racing,” a man extends his hand out to you. “I’m a huge fan so I was thrilled when your agent reached out to request paddock passes,” your eyes narrow slightly in confusion. You don’t have an agent. He does look like he would follow the poker world though, and your emergence into the public tables has been a hot topic recently.

“Thank you for having me,” you shake his hand. He turns and waves a hand, your eyes follow his motion.

“These two are our drivers, Lando and Oscar,” Zak introduces you but you don’t offer a hand to shake, keeping them folded in front of your chest. Oscar’s heart hurts, a year of rebuilding the friendship washed away.

“We will show her around,” Oscar offers, having some free time.

“Thank you, Oscar,” you ignore Lando, finding it harder to forgive him. You’ve known Oscar for longer, which makes it easier, even if it shouldn’t.

“Right, I’ll see you later,” you don’t dare to look at him, his dejected voice tells you enough.

“I’m really sorry, I was just stunned. It’s not really a career you think about,” Oscar starts, knowing you’ve already had a tour of the McLaren area.

“I take it you are my so-called agent?” you ask, ignoring his apology.

“Guilty. I’m sorry if I overstepped, I just wanted to give you the option of acting like you don’t know us, in case you needed space,” you nod at Oscar’s words, processing them with every step around the paddock.

“I talked to Lily. I’m sorry for storming out on you abruptly. I realize that it was a complete one eighty from how I was moments prior. You weren’t the one judging, and I overreacted a bit,” you take a deep breath, offering an apology of your own, one specific to Oscar.

“You think you overreacted because you were scared of being in that position already. You had a right to remove yourself from the situation, and I’m sorry I had a part in it. You are my friend, and that is more important than anything else,” Oscar bolsters you, and reiterates his apology.

“Thank you, it means a lot to have you as a friend,” you open your arms slightly, inviting your typically stoic friend in for a hug. Oscar carefully wraps his arms around you, not much of a hugger.

“Should we talk about the other elephant-“

“Nope,”

“Gotcha. Want ice cream?” Oscar asks as you stand outside of Ferrari.

“Always,” you tentatively follow him inside.

“I was jokingly adopted by Charles, now I get to come in and get ice cream,” Oscar shrugs, explaining as if it’s no big deal. You are out as quickly as you went in, but you acquired your target.

“Some fans posted photos of Lando and I leaving the casino, we got asked if we had gambling addictions,” Oscar tells you between bites.

“Really?” you choke back a laugh. “What did you tell them?” you ask, curious as to how they played it off.

“We said that wanted to see if it was like the casino in Percy Jackson,” you shake your head, taking another bite of the ice cream.

“Well, that’s one excuse. By the way, are you even allowed to have ice cream right now?” you ask, realizing that he’s probably on a diet.

“No, but it’s worth it. You’d be surprised how often drivers break their diets. It’s not like major, just a little cheating,” Oscar waves it off. By the time you return to McLaren, it’s like nothing happened between you. “I’ll be back in a minute, wait here,” Oscar says, leaving you at a couch while he disappears into another room. Lando takes the opportunity to pounce, sitting in the chair closest to you.

“Y/n? Can we talk?” you feel your heart freeze. You turn your head away from him slightly, staring out the window. “Please?” his voice breaks, and you silently look at him. You don’t say a word, but he takes the bit of attention you’ve given him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I judged you when you offered your trust. I hurt you in a vulnerable moment, and I know that it’s hard to forgive in moments like that,” Lando shifts closer, but still keeps some distance.

“I expected more from you,” the words sting as you look back towards the window. Lando looks down at his hands for a moment before he looks at you again.

“Yeah. I know. I never wanted to ruin what we have,” your head snaps over to stare at him.

“There is no we. We kissed once, and it didn’t mean anything. I don’t know where you got that idea from,” you practically seethe and Lando is afraid he poked the bear.

“Right,” Lando whispers. He knows his reputation. One he’s wanted to change since meeting you, but you don’t know that. “You’re right, I misspoke,” Lando says even if it kills him to. “I just meant that we had a friendship starting and I was excited to get to know you more,” he covers his butt, telling you what he thinks you want to hear. You don’t expect it to hurt, but it does.

“It takes more than that. It will take time and effort,” you don’t know why you are making him work for it, but the words feel right. Lando’s eyes light up a little, there is a chance. Maybe he can find a way to win you over, but there is one big obstacle in the way. The one standing in front of him. Oscar.

“We have to get ready for our first practice session. Feel free to take food or drinks,” Oscar tells you, silently telling Lando to leave. You give Oscar a nod, letting him know you are okay.

Surprisingly, it’s you who finds Lando next. It does take until after the second free practice, Oscar and Zak kept you busy. You can’t help but feel a little guilty after sitting with your thoughts. He’s in a quiet spot, leaning against a railing. You wouldn’t have known it existed without Oscar unintentionally giving it away. The secluded spot is invisible to the rest of the paddock and cameras, perfect for being alone. It’s odd, seeing him so quiet. You stand beside him, a decent amount of space between you.

You can tell he knows you are there, but neither of you speak. It’s an odd comfort, standing in silence with someone whom you admittedly don’t know that well. Your silent standoff, like a game of chicken, ends when Lando unintentionally steps closer and you take the first metaphorical step.

“One chance. One shot to earn a fragment of my trust back,” you murmur into the darkness, eyes trained on the night sky above. You didn’t think you would care, that you could dismiss him like every other guy who hurt you before. You didn’t expect to feel guilty.

Lando doesn’t hesitate, pulling you into a kiss. It’s different than the one shared on the plane. This is tender, unrushed, nearly a year of yearning being poured into it. His hand finds your neck, fingertips in your hair as you melt into the kiss. The other hand finds itself on your waist. You may not know where you stand with him or your readiness for any semblance of a relationship, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Lando gently pulls away to breathe, his eyes searching yours as his hands keep you close.

“I’ve spent the last year trying to be better, to strengthen my relationships and working on myself to be worthy of you. You made me want to be better, even if you didn’t want me. I don’t know where you stand as compared to last year, but I want you,” he stresses his last word, driving it into your soul and it hits you. He doesn’t care what you do for a living, if you are rich or poor, or even that Oscar is likely your closest friend. He likes you enough to want to better himself.

“Lando, I-“ the words leave your mouth before you begin to think.

“Shh, don’t say anything unless you mean it,” he stares into your eyes, igniting a fire deep inside. Something shifts with that fire, a stone building your resolve.

“Fuck it,” you whisper, allowing yourself to be pulled back into Lando’s orbit. His soft lips kissing you once more - this time with more passion yet just as soft as before.

“We can take this slow, at whatever pace you need,” Lando promises against your lips. He feels like if he lets you a step further away, you will disappear for another year.

The rest of the weekend passes by with stolen glances, quick kisses in hidden corners, and the thrill of brushing hands. You feel like a school girl, but this time you and Lando agree to keep in touch and already have dates planned.

Keeping it quiet only lasts until the end of the season. You couldn’t hide it from Oscar or keep it a secret, so you were upfront with the truth - things are starting to turn serious.

You are in Monaco when Lando returns from Abu Dhabi. You spent the week setting up your new apartment, choosing a cheaper place. It helps you feel like you aren’t wasting money when traveling.

A knock on your door prompts you to pause your music, rushing towards the door while trying not to hip check one of the boxes in your living room.

“Surprise!” Lando grins holding takeout bags in his hands.

“You weren’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow!” you throw your arms around him, taking in the moment.

“I got an earlier flight, didn’t feel like partying two nights in a row,” he says into your shoulder before stepping out of the hug and into the apartment. He looks around, setting the bags on your wooden dinner table. “This looks so much nicer than when we tour it,” Lando compliments your hard work. The lighting is soft and inviting, plush rugs adding a coziness that makes him want to snuggle under a blanket on the couch that looks perfect for a nap.

“Thanks, it’s really coming together,” you smile, there are a lot less boxes, most just decoration that need placed. You help Lando with the dinner, settling in on the couch to eat. Lando was right, the couch is incredibly comfortable and soft.

“So I was thinking, my friends do this card game night a couple times a year, and I want you to join me, if you’d like,” Lando proposes between bites, locking eyes with you.

“You want me to meet your friends?” you nearly choke on your food. Sure, Oscar knows that you and Lando are seeing each other, but that’s it.

“Well, I’d really love for you to meet them as my girlfriend,” Lando studies your reaction. The way you instinctively school your face to not give a reaction before your brain reminds you who you are with, then a smile creeps onto your face.

“I would love to meet your friends as your girlfriend, but this isn’t you bringing me with you as an advantage?” you ask just to be sure and because you are still processing that he asked you to be his girlfriend.

“Well, it is a plus, but I just want them to know how awesome you are and rub it in their faces,” Lando sets his food on the coffee table and moves closer to you so your knees are brushing.

“Lan,” your voice is soft, overjoyed at the thought. You set the food aside and lean in to kiss him.

“So, what do you want me to do first?” Lando looks around the room at the boxes, ready to help with whatever you need.

“Lando, you just finished your season. Don’t worry about the apartment,”

“I want to help my girlfriend set up her new home,” he insists.

“Well, in that case, let’s start… in the bedroom,” your sly smile turns to a grin as Lando chases you into the bedroom, his arms wrapping around your waist to pick you up and carry you to bed.

You lay under the sheets together, bodies pressed against each other, the darkness of the room inviting for deep conversation.

“Why weren’t you ready when we first met?” Lando asks the question that he’s wondered since seeing you in Singapore.

“Every guy who I got close to, every friend I made, always did one of two things: try to use me for my money, and or ghost me because they thought I was a criminal,” you admit, allowing yourself to come to terms with it. You answer a question Lando never dares to ask aloud - why Oscar and Lily seem to be your only friends. His heart hurts for you, you don’t deserve that treatment, even if he hurt you in a similar way before.

“There is nothing wrong with your career. You play legally and honestly, no one has a right to judge,” Lando reassures you, you whisper thanks and savor the comforting silence of the room.

Lando rarely leaves your apartment those few days, only going to retrieve the essentials. Now you sit in his friends apartment, liquor flowing as you are deep into the card games.

Lando whispers in your ear, a mixture of flirting and telling you to stop sandbagging yourself. His leather jacket covers your shoulders, he claimed to be too warm with it on while you were a little cold in your t-shirt.

“Read it and weep,” you show your hand, grinning as the boys groan and Lando laughs. He wishes real money was being spent, you already ran a couple of his friends out of the game - including himself.

“Where did you find her? She’s much better than you,” one of the guys teases Lando, who wraps an arm around your chair. Your cheeks flame a little as you nod in agreement.

“It isn’t hard,” you laugh, swatting Lando’s hand away as he lightly pinches your shoulder.

“Didn’t any of you do a background check on my girlfriend? You need to learn from every girl group ever,” Lando shakes his head, placing a soft kiss behind your ear.

“Hm, we do tend to know everything about a guy our friend is seeing,” you hum.

“Detectives, all of them,” one of the guys agrees as another is furiously google searching you.

“Holy shit. You are so much cooler than he is,” another tells you, making your cheeks even more red. Lando captures the moment in his memory, how adorable you are when you blush.

“I make more than him, so he’s my WAG,” you tease as an outlet for the mix of embarrassment and flattery.

“And I’m proud of it,” Lando doesn’t lie, he would rather be your WAG than have any other girl by his side. Another round gets dealt and you hone in on the game.

“You’re so sexy when you play wearing my clothes,” Lando whispers in your ear and it takes every bit of willpower in you to not react. It’s like a game to see how far he can push your limits. “I can’t wait to take you home,” he says before resting his chin on your shoulder, his hand moving down to rest on your hip.

The alcohol in your veins makes it hard for you to control yourself. His jacket weighs heavily on your shoulders, as he continues to whisper his plans for you later that night. Your skin is alight as his fingers trail the bit of exposed skin at your hip.

You fold, having a bad hand and your mind spinning with desire. A fake yawn gives Lando a cue to cut in.

“I am afraid it is past our professional’s bed time,” Lando’s eyes shine playfully as you avoid the smirks on his friends faces, the ones that tell you they know why you are leaving.

“Well, this isn’t a casino, no need to be up this late,” you yawn again, playing along as you stand. Lando gives his goodbyes as you exchange the always awkward ‘nice meeting you’s’.

You hand is warm as your fingers interlock with Lando’s. He leads you down the stairs and out to his car, giggling as you tell him to slow down before he breaks an ankle. Pure bliss is how Lando would describe it. Just the two of you in the empty street, stars twinkling in the night sky, Lando pinning you against his car with your hands around his neck. You would give anything to stay there forever.

[badbihsemiluvr]

hi can you please make a jealous se-mi x fem! reader au like smut+some angst and fluff at the end for it like se-mi gets jealous when she sees reader talking or (whatever you prefer) with other girls but it’s just bcoz reader saw some random girl hitting on se-mi and se-mi didn’t right away turn off them so it ended up like se-mi showing that she only has eyes for reader with kinda rough s3x (but only if you’re comfortable with it!) no pressure at all and thanks in advance! your writing is saurr great!!!

jealousy is a drug 🚬 𖥔 ݁ ˖

semi (player 380) x fem reader

!! cw/tw !! 18+, dom semi x sub reader, flirting with other women, jealous + possessive semi, yelling/fighting, mentions of alcohol + cigarettes, car sex, rough sex, degrading, strap on usage (r! receiving), semi refers to her strap as her dick, semi calls the reader a slut often, reader crys during sex, oral (r! receiving), hickeys (giving + receiving), princess treatment once you get home <3

overview: your gf, semi has always been overprotective of you. especially when you talk to/have encounters with other women. but when she does it, it’s ok? jealousy is a two way street, so you decide to teach semi a lesson in jealousy during your night out at the club.

!! an !! hey guys this is a bit of a long one, so prepare urself. if u love toxic angsty smut this one’s for u. also!! this took me HOURS to write, because the entire smut portion got deleted after i spent 2 hours on it, i had a major crash out moment and got such bad writers block after that. anyways, regardless of that incident i feel like this is one of my best works yet, hopefully you guys enjoy it as much as i do! 🤞🏻

you and your girlfriend, semi, live very stressful lives. you guys are in severe debt so you live paycheck to paycheck. it’s rare the two of you have a night out to forget about all the worries of your world. but tonight, the two of you decided to go out to one of the craziest clubs in seoul, club pentagon.

you put on a white slip dress that looked angelic against your skin tone, and your favorite thigh high boots. semi’s glossy eyes were practically glued to your figure, she stared in awe.

“like what you see?” you say, a slight smirk forming on your lips. “mhmmm” semi hums, eyes still observing every inch of your body.

“isn’t that a little too scandalous to go out in?” semi says with a hint of protectiveness in her tone. “no i don’t think so, it’s a club everyone will be dressed like this.” you say with firmness in your voice, knowing you weren’t gonna change your outfit to make your girlfriend happy.

“let’s get going then.” semi said as she slides her hand behind your waist, leading you out the door. once you arrive to her car, she opens the door for you like the gentle man she is. she gets in the drivers seat shortly after.

semi cranks the engine, and turns on the radio. the two of you yap, and admire the beautiful sights of seoul as you make your way to the club. it’s quite a drive from your shared apartment.

finally, you arrive to the club. semi pulls in the parking lot and finds a spot. “you ready, love?” semi says. you nod with a gleam in your eye, ready to drink away all your problems. you and semi walk hand in hand to the line to enter the club. after what felt like forever waiting in the line, due to the club being the most popular in seoul, the bouncer lets the both of you in.

the second you and semi enter the club, she grabs your wrist, immediately leading you through the haze of neon flashing lights to the bar. she orders the both of you some shots of soju, to start the night off.

the bartender slides the glasses her way, and semi hands you two shots to take. you throw them back in unison, the burn of the alcohol lingered in your throat. you take a moment to look around, taking in the crazy environment of the club. there were girls throwing up in corners, people putting god knows what in their drinks, and a thick smoke filled the air.

you look semis way, and see a gorgeous tall brunette girl approaching her. you didn’t think much of her, until she started flirting with your girlfriend. she slid effortlessly onto the empty seat beside semi, and drunkenly muttered “well aren’t you something.”

semi let out a chuckle, brushing her fingers through her messy black hair. “is that supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing?” she says with a slight smirk on her lips. you felt a fire growing inside of you, how could she be so naive. this woman was clearly flirting with her, and she didn’t even turn her away. she was playing into it, and that made you pissed.

“I don’t know wanna find out?” the woman said, eyes black with lust. semi shook her head, with an amused look on her face. “well aren’t you bold?” semi says eyes wide. you roll your eyes at her comment, grabbing semis wrist pulling her back into reality. the reality that she was in a relationship, with you.

semi finally turned the woman down by saying, “sorry, i’m actually in a relationship.” signaling to you. the woman is slightly taken aback when she sees you with a cold look on your face, apologies quickly escape her lips. you brushed off the apology, not necessarily mad at the woman. but more so mad at semi, for leading her on. it made you wonder, does she do this often?

semi turned to you, seemingly unfazed by the encounter and unaware of how mad it really made you. she mutters “i’m gonna step out for a quick cigarette, that ok?” you roll your eyes, wondering if she was gonna go sneak out to hook up with the woman from earlier. it’s not like the club cared if people smoked inside.

as semi slipped away to smoke, you sat at the bar filled with anger and frustration. “can i get another round?” you uttered in a low tone to the bartender. he nodded and slipped you another round of shots. ?you downed the alcohol faster than you could think of all the possibilities of what your girlfriend could be doing.?

as the alcohol from earlier started to kick in, your angry demeanor loosens up. you think of a idea that surely will give semi a taste of her own medicine. a subtle smirk forms on your lips, knowing what you were about to do was slutty, but you didn’t give a fuck.

you get up from the bar, making your way to the dance floor. the air was heavy with with sweat, lust, and smoke. the loud bass of the music and people yelling were so loud you could barely think straight.

you spot a woman in the distance with short black curly hair, slightly covering her face, and a cold composure that reminded you a lot of semi. she looked like she was alone, and could use some company from a pretty girl like you.

you approached the woman, tapping on her shoulder. she turned back to face you, her eyes looking you up and down taking in the sight of your beauty.

“you looked lonely, wanna dance?” you say in a low tone, returning the stares she was giving you. she nods, agreeing to the offer. you grab her by the wrist and pull her closer to the door, making sure semi would see you guys when she came back. the woman shakes her head in confusion at your sudden actions.

she grabs your waist and you wrap your arms around her neck, the two of you start dancing. “you drag me across the club like a maniac, don’t i at least get the privilege of knowing your name?” she whispers in your ear as the two of you sway to the music. you smirk at her words, and mutter “it’s y/n, and why does that matter?” “because i needed a name to put with this pretty face.” the woman says as her rough, calloused hands grazed over your jawline, tucking some loose hairs behind your ear.

as the two of you dance and make meaningless conversation, semi comes back into the club after her smoke break outside. her eyes scan the club, looking for you, clearly no longer at the bar anymore. she finally spots you in the distance, dancing with the mystery woman.

semi couldn’t even form coherent thoughts when she sees the woman all over you, the way you were smiling at her, the hand placement. semi angrily walks over to the two of you. she grabs you tightly, instantly removing you from the woman.

“and who the fuck are you?” she shouts passionately at the woman. “uhh, i’m saebyeok? and who are you.” the woman says with confusion evident in her tone. “i’m your worst nightmare. get the fuck away from my girlfriend” semi curses at her, dragging you outside of the club by the wrists like a kid that’s about to get scolded.

“what the fuck was that about?” she yells at you, her voice filled with intense anger. “just a friend, i was dancing with to pass the time while i waited on my girlfriend to finish doing god know what.” you say, your voice shaky. hearing your words, semi gets more heated.

“excuse me? i told you i needed a smoke, what the hell else did you think i was doing?” she mutters slowly backing you up to a nearby wall. you felt an ounce of fear take over, you’ve never seen semi THIS jealous to the point of physical anger.

tears slowly escape your eyes, smudging your eyeliner as semi continues to yell at you. people on the streets were looking at the encounter as you just stood there and took it, scared of what semi might do next. you knew she would never get physical with you, but with the alcohol in her system, that might change things.

semi noticed the stares, and didn’t want the police called for causing such a disturbance. she grabbed you and whispered “we’ll continue this conversation in the car.” with an annoyed look plastered on her face, acting like the people staring were interrupting something.

you and semi head back to the car, not speaking at all, but a heavy unspoken anger filled the air. the second you got to the car semi unlocked it, this time not opening the door for you. she scoffs and gets in the drivers seat.

the second the two of you are both in the car, the insults continue “you are such a slut, y/n? you know that. i step out for one second and your already over there with a new bitch.” semi practically barks in your face.

you finally snap at the way she’s treating you, practically sobbing you say “why do you think i did it, semi? i don’t have any fucking interest in that saebyeok. i did it to make you jealous.” semi’s demeanor slightly changes when she hears your muffled words. “what? why would you wanna make me jealous?” she says with confusion in her voice, acting naive like she didn’t know what she did to you.

“oh my god semi, don’t be fucking stupid. that woman from the bar earlier, she clearly wanted you and you were feeding into it.” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. when you say that, semis eyes soften. “baby, i had no clue you felt that way about that little encounter. i truly thought it was a meaningless interaction with a drunk girl. i mean i was laughing the whole conversation.” semi says, her demeanor switching from mad to understanding.

“well, it really did hurt me. it made me feel ignored, and worthless. especially when you had to leave the second after talking to that woman.” semis hand locks with yours, the other brushing the loose hairs behind you ears. she gently says “baby, i will always be yours. no other woman could compare to you. and i wouldn’t risk my future with you for some with some stupid drunk whore.” she laughs, eyes glazing over your body.

the heavy breathing and tears stop, as semi comforts you. her fingers ghost over your thigh, and she places a light peck on your lips. “i love you so much, princess.” she whispers, her face inches from yours.

you pull her in for a more passionate kiss, the sympathy in the air quickly turning to lust. semi pulls away from the kiss and whispers in your ear “how about i show you who you really belong to?” you nod, biting your lip. semi signals you to move to the backseat. you immediately crawl to the back, sprawling your body across the seat already needy for your girlfriends touch.

out of the corner of your eye you catch semi shuffling through the passenger seat console. your mind wonders what she could be looking for in this moment. semi finally pulls her 8 inch black strap out of the console, a devilish smirk forming on her lips and she crawls to the backseat to join you.

“you just casually keep a strap in your console?” you laugh. “well you never know, especially with a whore like you.” she utters, while throwing her shirt and pants off. she throws the strap on the floor board, wasting no time to get your clothes off.

“hands up.” semi says pulling your dress over your head, leaving you in just your bra and panties. semis eyes glaze over the sight of your nearly naked body, only the lacy fabric of your lingerie covering you. she fiddles with your bra straps and says “you wore this for me, huh?” you nod your head at her words, knowing it was true. you loved dressing pretty for semi.

“well you know just what i like, such a pretty girl.” semi says as her long fingers ghost over your body. semi pushes you back down, hovering on top of you, she leaves you feeling trapped due to the size difference.

semi loved the authority she had over you in this moment. her lips make their way to your neck, sucking the sensitive skin. light moans escape your mouth as semi leaves her mark. you feel her teeth every now and then bite the skin on your neck, making you squirm.

you feel semi smirk against your skin as her marks trail down your neck. she pulls away for a moment and you ask if you can mark her up. semi says “of course baby, i want everyone to know exactly what we did in this car.”

your soft, pink lips wrap around semis neck. she lets out low grunts as you suck on her sensitive skin. semis hand trail over all your curves as you mark her up. when your done you pull away, letting semi take control again. “good girl.” semi mutters, making you feel butterflies in your stomach. it was rare semi praised you during sex.

semi wastes no time, unclasping your pretty lace bra with one hand, sliding off your thong or with the other. which by the way, was completely soaked and ruined. she threw your undergarments to the floor board, shortly after taking hers off and sliding the strap onto her waist.

semis dark glossy eyes scan over your body in complete lust as she hovers over you. “i wanna fuck you in missionary, so i can see your tits bounce up and down.” semi says in a raspy low tone. semi positions her strap in between your thighs, her tip teasing your already soaked entrance.

she slowly sinks her strap into you, letting your tight pussy adjust to the size of her big cock. you let out a yelp, due to the suddenness of her entering you. “god, your so tight, you’d think a slut like you would already be stretched out by now.” she mutters as she slowly starts thrusting her cock in and out of you.

her pace is slow and passionate, which shortly would turn into the complete opposite, rough and merciless. a string of moans and curses escape your lips as her speed starts to increase. you want to feel her dick, in every inch, every crevice of your body. you didn’t care how sore you would be the following day, she could put you in a wheelchair and you would thank her.

semi grabs your boobs, and started playing with them as she slammed her cock in and out of your squelching pussy. “mmmm” semi hummed, loving the sight of your boobs bouncing up and down with every thrust. you loved how rough she was with you, you didn’t care if it hurt, you just wanted to feel her, deep inside of you.

your practically screaming in pleasure as semi speeds up her thrusts by the minute, you are a complete mess for her. lewd sounds of your pussy being destroyed and your desperate moans fill the car. semi puts a tight grasp on your waist to create a rhythm with her thrusts. “stop squirming, god why are you so sensitive.” semi says as she cocks her head to the side. you throw your head back in pleasure, and your back arches as her rhythm is hitting you in just the spot you need her most.

your breath hitches, tears can’t help but escape your eyes from the feeling of semis rough pounding into your cervix, repeatedly hitting your spot. semi notices your crying and says sarcastically “that’s what good dick does to a slut like you.” well, what she didn’t know that the tears were a mix of intense pleasure and pain. your eyes roll back into your head at her sarcastic comment, god she’s so hot.

sweat causes semis hair to stick to her forehead as she’s fucking you, mercilessly. she can’t take her eyes off of your boobs and the pretty faces your making, every inch of your body being explored by her.

you feel your body getting weaker at her mercy. semi’s dick was hitting spots you didn’t even know existed. you were in complete ecstasy. your a moaning mess, that can barely form coherent sentences, you manage to get out a weak “i-im getting close, semi, don’t stop.” “already? god that’s pathetic.” semi mutters. her pace slows down, and speeds back up leaving you on edge.

you were practially in heat. your jaw hanging open in bliss at the feeling of semis dick deep inside of you, fucking you dumb. you couldn’t manage to get out any words besides loud cries of pleasure. you feel your body tremble, your walls start to clench around semis cock. you arch your back in complete bliss as semi smacks your ass, leaving a slight sting. your vision goes fuzzy and you throw your head back, you scream as you release all over semis cock. she continued thrusting throughout your orgasm to make it last longer. she pulls out and your juices coat her plastic cock.

“suck it.” semi demands you, like your some kind of dog or something. but you obey, you wrap your big pouty lips around her cock. semi pushes your head down, practically making you choke on her dick. not missing a single drop of your cum.

once you’ve sucked her dry, you lay on the sweaty car seat exhausted and absolutely fucked out. feeling lifeless, you look over at semi sat on the seat beside you, her messy black hair sticking to her face, catching her breath after fucking the living shit out of you.

you get up to grab your clothes, and semi grabs your wrist tightly. “we’re not done here, understand me?” she says demandingly, you nod and sit back on the car seat. semi slides the strap off of her waist and throws it in the front seat. she crawls to the front to push the seat forward, providing us with more room. you wonder what she has planned next to do to you.

semi gets on her knees, positioning herself in front of your closed legs. “you really thought we were done here, i haven’t even had my dessert.” semi says a slight smirk playing on her lips, signaling you to spread you legs. you throw your legs over semi, your knees resting on her shoulders. her face inches from your pussy, you can feel hear breath.

“so pretty baby, all mine.” she says as her fingers tease your already wet folds. you are a needy mess for her, all this teasing has you feeling like an absolute whore. after what felt like forever, semis lips attached to your cunt. you let out a loud moan, and throw your head back at the sensation of her cold lip piercing against your pussy.

semi’s tounge began to move at unimaginable speeds, eating you out like she’s an animal. you moan out semis name, barely able to think straight. at this point, the car windows are foggy, lewd sounds of your pussy being ate, curses and moans fill the air.

semi hums “mhmmm.” into your pussy as her tounge motions continue. you feel vibration pulse throughout your body as semi lets out little hums now and again. you are trembling, barely able to keep your legs open “s-semi, baby i’m getting close.” you moan lightly, tilting your head back from the intense pleasure of semis tounge swirling against your clit.

semi didn’t even realize you said anything, she was completely pussy drunk, with her head buried in between your now closing thighs. her strong hands grasping them open. she was eating you out like it was her last meal.

semi pulls away for a second and says “don’t look at the ceiling, look at me. i wanna see your pretty face when i make your cum.” she wasn’t even eating you out anymore yet just her words formed a giant knot in your stomach. she pressed her lips back against your soaked cunt, and picked up where she left off.

her motions slowing down and speeding up, helping you reach your climax. your eyes locked onto hers as you grabbed her hair, trying to resist the urge to tilt your head back. your body can’t stop shaking and loud moans escape your lips.

semi hummed against your pussy, and before you knew it the knot in your stomach broke. you cry out loudly, releasing all over semis face. she licks your fluids off of her lips, and wipes some of the cum off her face onto her fingers. “open up.” she says placing her fingers in your mouth. your eyes widen as you suck your release off of semis slender fingers.

semi places a kiss on your lips afterward, tasting the juices your lips were coated with “your mine, every inch of you. no one will ever fuck you as good as me.” semi says. you let out a light chuckle agreeing with semi as she gently helps you put your clothes back on.

shortly after, she puts her own clothes back on, adjusting herself before crawling into the drivers seat. you follow, crawling into the passenger seat. semi starts the car looks over at you and says “i think we should just go home baby, nothing in that club is more exciting than what we just did.”

you nod in agreement, saying “yea, i’m absolutely exhausted, i wouldn’t mind another night in.” semis face lights up by the light of her phone typing in your apartment address on the navigation app. semi shoots you a soft smile before pulling out of the club parking lot, heading home.

semi places her hand gently on your thigh. you stare out the window, as the radio hums lightly on the lowest volume notch. the two of you are silent the entire car ride, but a comforting warmth fills the air. even though the two of you aren’t physically saying it, you feel very loved in this moment. it’s the little gestures like this that matter, so much.

semi pulls the car into the parking lot of the apartment complex, she gets out of the car and makes her way over to the passenger side. she opens the door for you and picks you up bridal style, you laugh at the sudden gesture. but deep down you found it cute.

once the two of you arrive at your apartment, semi shuffles through her pockets for the keys. at this point, she’s holding you with one hand. you wrap your arms around her neck for extra support, so you don’t go falling flat to the floor. but somehow she manages to hold you in one hand and the other rummaging for the keys.

you wonder how she does that, she’s so strong. finally, semi finds the key, she jiggles it into the lock. she takes you inside, straight to the bedroom. semi places you on the gently on the bed, like you were the most delicate thing in the world.

she places a sweet kiss on your forehead, admiring your flushed face. semi whispers in your ear “how about we get you all cleaned up.” you agree, feeling gross from the club and sex with semi, a bath is just what you needed.

semi swiftly exited the room to start the bath for the both of you. you wait patiently on the bed, slightly tipsy and exhausted. you see semi walking back into the bedroom with a pack of makeup wipes. she says “let’s take this pretty makeup off baby, before we get in the bath.”

semi’s body slightly hovers over yours, gently rubbing the makeup wipe over your smudged eyeliner and mascara. “all done” she utters as she places a soft kiss on your lips. “your even prettier without makeup.” she says. you feel your cheeks glow red at her words.

semi picks your weak body up bridal style, taking you to the bathroom. once you arrive, semi sits you down on the counter, slowly taking off your dress and undergarments. she then lightly places you in the bath, and starts stripping herself.

after semi takes her clothes off, she gets in the bath with you. the two of you sit in the bath in a comforting silence, the only light in the room provided by a singular candle. “do you want me to help clean you up, baby?” semi offers. “yes i would love that.” you say, letting semi know your gratitude for her caring act.

semi takes the shampoo bottle sitting on the side of the tub, and squeezes some out into her rough hands. she then starts massaging the shampoo through your beautiful hair. the feeling of semis long fingers massaging your scalp sent you into an instant relaxation.

you were so thankful for semi taking care of you. even though she showed no mercy on you in the bedroom, she really does treat you like a princess and would do anything for you.

“relaxed, baby?” semi chuckles, noticing your state of bliss as she massaged her fingers into your scalp. “yea haha, your hands are magic.” you softly exclaim. a smile forms on semis lips. she grabs the small pink cup on the side of the tub, and dips it into the water, pouring it into your hair.

once semi has washed all the shampoo out of your hair, she washes her own hair. you sit and relax staring at semi as she washes up. the light glow of the candle, lit up her face. she was so beautiful, even doing the most simple things she was just otherworldly.

once semi finished up, she grabbed the nearby loofah and put some of your vanilla scented body wash on it. she moved your wet hair out of the way, and started washing you up. not making you lift a finger, semi washes your entire body. now and then she would ask you to turn around or sit up. you silently let semi clean you and when she’s done you thank her with a short, but loving peck.

semi washes herself off after. you admire the way her body looked as the soap bubbles covered it, her soft fair skin looked beautiful. semi finished washing herself off and gets up out of the bath. she then grabbed you out of the bath, your naked bodies pressed against each other. she sets you down, and wraps a big fluffy towel around your wet body. “you smell so good.” she mutters softly.

you smile at her sweet remark as the two of you walk to your bedroom. you shuffle through the drawers and ask semi if you can wear one of her oversized t-shirts. “of course baby, you’ll look so cute in it.” semi says. you put on some underwear and semis t-shirt and immediately crawl into bed as semi gets herself dressed.

you stare at your girlfriend as she puts on her grey sweatpants and black t-shirt, such a simple outfit yet she made it look so sexy. you can’t help yourself but stare. she looked in the mirror, brushing her wet messy back beside out of her face.

she noticed your reflection staring at her in the mirror, she didn’t say anything but it warmed her heart. she shortly joined you in bed, wrapping her big arms around you. she placed a gentle peck on your forehead saying “feel better baby? i could tell you needed some time to relax, after the night we’ve had.” you nod and exclaim “yea semi, that was much needed. thank you for pampering me.”

semis cheeks light up crimson red at your words. spoiling and taking care of you just came so naturally to her, but she appreciates it even more knowing it makes you feel loved. “i’m glad, i think we both needed it.” she exclaimed softly.

you feel yourself slowly drifting off, from the extremely emotionally exhausting day. you feel so safe in semis arms. as your nearly asleep, you feel semis hand brushing through your hair, making you open your eyes. “i really love you, y/n you know that.” semi says with pure love and adoration in her voice.

butterflies fly around in your stomach at her words, she said i love you a lot but those 3 words made you feel so secure. “i love you too, semi. and ill never love anyone else.” you say as semi places a soft but passionate kiss on your lips. “good, cause i almost beat a bitch up tonight.” semi chuckles sarcastically. you smile into semis arms, drifting off into a peaceful sleep.

semi’s fingers ghost over your lower back, tracing lazy circles as you sleep peacefully in her arms. she knows deep down in her heart, she wants every night to be as sweet as tonight, forever. . . ♡

TYSM FOR READING I REALLY PUT MY HEART AND SOUL INTO THIS!! MORE FICS COMING SOON :p

[lara4eclipze]

» Gameboy

sypnosis: if crying was fun, ill be having the time of my life — if loving you was a jump, yeah, i probably died a hundred-ten times

warnings: angst, fluff, implied relationship, jelousy, comfort and etc

talks: I'm in an angst mood so.... smut and fluff reqs might take longer

taglist: @ohmyhaely @nyssalvr @vrtualstar @c-yerim @jellaaa @nakylvr @chuugetmesohigh

lara had taken you as her plus one in a hybe artists party — the night was truly a dream, music blasted all throughout the venue as lara was hand in hand with you

yet lara was close to her friends to be specific yunjin — hugging, pet names even small playful jokes, you drowned out your simmering jealousy with a smile and hugs

you thought to yourself that they were just close — maybe you are just less social, perhaps lara was just missing her friend — you are practically arm candy at this point anyways you shouldn't overthink it

yet as you stand at the corner of the venue you could argue is the best spot all you can see is her and lara, her and lara having fun — when you're the one she's supposed to be having fun with, you're the one she should be with

lara barely recognized your presence the rest of the night — she paraded around with yunjin clinging to her arm, laughing about a joke that was too cheesy for you to remember, what you do remember is a feeling that you didn't belong there, you didn't like the place nor the people

music blasted through the speakers, as everyone did cheers to katseye — as you ran up to congratulate your girlfriend, a hand pushed you away a guard to be specific "hybe idols only sorry" the guard stated, "I'm lara's plus one you can..." you looked again at the desi girl — there she was again ms,huh hugging lara and screaming loudly over the music, "nevermind, thank you" you cut off the rest of the sentence walking off

you sat at the table once occupied with the katseye girls now only you and a couple of unfinished plates of food — you didn't care about anything anymore, you wanted to come home — hug lara and ask for reassurance, that you were still who she wanted

of course, you fought yourself to stop overthinking don't mind it, yet the feelings overwhelmed you — you couldn't speak to anyone cause you were practically no one in this room, and you couldn't stand to look at the red-head at all

"hey you alright?" you heard the filipina ask you — snapping you out of your thoughts — you couldn't make out her features well because of the colorful lights blaring all around yet you knew she was worried

"yeah..just drained" you lied, the older girl knew you, you lived for parties like these — that the main reason you met lara, "come with me let's get some drinks" sophia eases and with enough convincing you agreed

you two walk to the bar, sophia orders a mango sunset for both of you — a mocktail cause shockingly the leader didn't like alcohol much

the feeling of loneliness left for a moment — as you and sophia talked, "hey i know lara can be so much sometimes — but she's never been better... you've changed her you know?" sophia says before bidding a short goodbye walking back to the middle of the room to interact with some illit members

you let the words sink in for a bit — has lara changed? has she changed for the better?, sophias words really strung a chord in your heart

until you felt warm tears paint your face — the trickled down like shiny diamonds embezzling your face, you really couldn't handle not being with lara neither

you've changed her the same way she changed you, you wipe away the tears yet they wouldn't stop falling, embarrassingly fast

"my love? where have you-" lara mutters before taking a look at your face "my god are you crying?!, are you alright my love I'm sorry i was just so caught up earlier" lara sputters an apology even though she didn't know what she exactly did to extract such emotions from you

you shush the girl only clinging to her — hiding your face at her neck as you inhale the familiar scent of home — safety and love

"i love you" you both say — lara nuzzles into your hair, smelling that coconut and vanilla shampoo she first offered you

lara would never know what hurts you — cause you didnt even know what did hurt you, its all a part of growing together — improving and nurturing each other even if that meant hurting

[kind-of-a-writer]

the usual

Gator Tillman x fem!reader Gator takes you in the shitty bathroom at your shitty job. wc: 3k a/n: hello i am back missed y'all sm<3 lmk if i missed a tag.

contains: mean gator, power play, harassment, name-calling, bathroom sex, p in v, creampie, slight dubcon if you squint?, rough sex

The bar wasn’t known for its quality, to say the least. And nor were you its finest waitress. But the alcohol was cheap, which attracted even cheaper people, and things conveniently managed to slip under the radar around here. It wasn’t exactly ideal, but you needed it to get by, and that’s all that mattered. 

Which, of course, had all come crashing down today. Your boss had pulled you aside before your shift, saying tonight was going to be your last shift. Something about not working hard enough, receiving ‘one too many complaints’ from one of the regulars. When you asked who it was, all he said was that it was one of the cops that frequented the bar.

You knew exactly who your boss was talking about, and it angered you like you couldn’t believe. 

Truth be told, you couldn’t give a shit, and there was no denying that. It was a shitty fucking job at a shitty bar. You earned just enough to pool together your hourly minimum wage and the crappy tips to be able to afford rent. But it was a job, it was something at least. Now you had nothing, and it was all thanks to that stupid deputy who found amusement in your misery.

It was another long, dreadful night. You had grown accustomed to the loud music and dim lights by now; this job had been your routine for months. Still, your feet were aching and your head was starting to pound, and your shift was nowhere over tonight. At least it’d be your last. Except, that meant you had nowhere else to turn, and even landing this shitty job had taken you so long. Still, you had to suck it up for the next few hours.

The bar wasn’t slow, but it was a Thursday night. Not exactly packed either, which meant less tips. You wished your boss had at least given you till the end of the week, but there was nothing you could do. He’d already hired someone new, she was replacing you tomorrow.

You had heard him and his friends enter before you even turned, they somehow had managed to be louder and more infuriating than the shitty bar music. They were rowdy, loud, messy, and the worst kind of table you’d want on a night like this. Or any night, really. But tonight specifically. You didn’t want to see him, the reason you had gotten fired. 

Gator Tillman was, of course, leading the pack of cops, with his stupid deputy vest and cargo pants as he strutted into the bar with confidence. His hair was slicked back, albeit starting to come undone. They must’ve just gotten off work. 

Unfortunately for you, Gator and his group of dumbfucks were regulars, often making your already-excruciating shifts more miserable. Often claiming you’d got their order wrong, whistling at you like a dog or yelling at you to catch your attention, bumping into you and spilling drinks on the floor which they’d relish in watching you mop up. It was worse when the bar was packed; full of drunk sweaty men who didn’t take kindly to the floor being sticky.

And Gator was, of course, the worst of them all. You’d never hated someone more. Even the sleazy customers who’d grab at your ass or hit on you were manageable; you knew how to handle them. But there was no handling Gator. He was, quite literally, the law. It was his way, or you were getting no tip (not that he was very generous), or a drink spilled on your clothes or shoes.

With a deep breath in, you approached the table, hoping tonight would have semblance of normalcy - whatever normal was with him.

He was the first to notice you, his signature smirk plastered on his face when you approached. “There she is,” Gator drawled, as if he was excited to see you. Excited to ruin your night probably. Well, the joke was on him. Tonight couldn’t get any worse. He seemed to notice the fatigue in your stance, reaching out and tugging on your half apron harshly. “This new?”

You tried to step away, but his grip only tightened, as if he had anticipated your move. 

“What can I get you guys?” you asked, trying to keep your tone neutral. Subtly, you glanced down at your outfit. You were wearing a white t-shirt and a little red skirt, nothing too special. But you were irritated, how did he know it was new?

“The usual, a round of beers for everyone,” Gator replied, his fingers still digging into your skirt. “I like this on ya, sugar. Though I gotta say, it does make you look a little slutty. Or d’you like that? Is it gettin’ ya a lot of tips?” 

You wanted to yell at him, call him names. Your patience tonight was already at an all-time low, and it didn’t help that his friends were cocksuckers who loved giggling at every single thing Gator did to piss you off or rile you up. But you held it in; you didn’t want to cause a scene and your shift to end early. You couldn’t afford to miss out on any cash now; even the minimum wage you received hourly at this stupid fucking job. 

With a tight-lipped smile, you turned away. You guessed that was a mistake, because his hand dug down into your tights, causing it to tear with a loud rip. You glanced down in disbelief.

“Oops,” he said smugly while his friends laughed loudly, causing your cheeks to burn. “Butterfingers.” 

Maybe it was the fact that you had just been fired tonight, or maybe it was that you were tired of Gator’s antics, but your eyes stung with tears. Before he or his dumbass friends could notice and give you shit for it, you turned away quickly, walking to the bar. 

You returned with their drinks, sliding over the glasses of beer. In the corner of your eye, you could tell Gator was watching you closely, but you pretended not to notice. God, you wanted tonight to be over. 

With another forced smile, you had started to turn away. But Gator wouldn’t make your life that easy. Swiftly, he lifted his beer and splashed onto your chest and down your skirt, the cold liquid making you flinch. Your ears were starting to ring, overwhelmed by the sounds of his friends laughing like he was the funniest man ever; their leering eyes on you as your white shirt clung against your bra, the beer seeping into the fabric.

“Oh, clumsy,” said one of Gator’s friends with a sneer. “Givin’ us a real nice view though.”

Frustration bubbling up, you turned to look at him, your lips parted to cuss at him. “You fucking asshole,” you snapped before you could help yourself, stepping back. That caused a low whistle from someone in the group. You’d surprised even yourself. “You’re so-”

Gator blinked up at you with a scarily blank expression, as if challenging you to say anything else. The clench of his jaw shut you up, and you walked away to grab a rag. 

After you were done with cleaning up the table and floor, Gator and his friends watching with amusement, you had finally managed to enter the bathroom to clean yourself up. 

Your cheeks were burning with humiliation and you were almost trembling with anger. You didn’t know why; you were used to Gator being an asshole. It was nothing new. 

Dabbing at your skirt with wet tissues, you knew it was a lost cause. You were going to have to endure being sticky and stinking of beer for the rest of the night. 

You glanced up when the door swung open hard, hitting against the wall with a loud thump. In strided Gator. 

“You’ve got a mouth on ya tonight, huh?” he asked, watching you continue to dab at your soaked skirt. “What, you think you can swear at me-”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Gator blinked, momentarily surprised. He was closer now, leaning against the sink beside you. He wasn’t used to seeing you like this; fiery and snappy. For the sake of your job, you’d mostly managed to keep your mouth shut and endure his stupid little games. But now, you couldn’t give less of a fuck. You wanted to offend him, make him feel as angry as you were.

To your surprise, however, Gator was suddenly grinning, as if he found all of this very amusing.

“Ah, look who’s finally snapped,” he smirked. “There’s that bitchy attitude.”

You turned back to your skirt. You snatched your hand away when he tried taking the tissues from you. “Fuck off, Gator. I’m not in the mood.” 

“Jesus, what crawled up your ass?” he questioned, eyebrows furrowed. “Just tryin’ to help your sweet little ass clean up, it’s a sexy fuckin’ skirt.” 

Before you could register what you were doing, your palm made contact with his cheek, the loud smack echoing through the walls of the bathroom. He let out a soft grunt, clearly caught-off guard. “Fuck you.”

He didn’t move. His jaw clenched as he towered over you, taking a step closer. “Try that again and see where it’ll land you.”

“This is all your fault!” you snapped. “Because of you, I’m getting fired, and you always have to be a fuckin’ asshole-”

“Whoa, hey, whoa,” he smirked. “It’s not my fault you’re a shitty waitress. Y’know, maybe if you flashed a smile once in a while, you wouldn’t be getting fired.”

You knew that was partially true, but you were too blinded by rage to even care. 

“Fuck off, Gator, I know it was you who complained to my boss.”

“Look, it ain’t my-” He shot you a confused look, pausing. “What the fuck are you even talkin’ about?”

“Stop fuckin’ lying, I know it was you. My boss told me it was one of the cops.” You lifted your arm again to slap him, but he was faster. 

Gator grabbed your wrist before it could reach his face, his fingers digging into your flesh. “Now,” he said lowly, his eyes darkened, “normally, I might’ve felt sympathy for a hot thing like you gettin’ fired, but you’re pissing me off.”

You squirmed, trying to lift your leg to knee him, but he was quick to push you back.

“You’re really askin’ for it, huh?” he grunted, all the amusement from before vanished now. He took another step closer.

Blinking up at him, you scoffed. “What are you going to do? You’ve already snitched to my boss like a little bitch-”

He swiftly turned you and slammed you against the nearest wall, causing your chest to squish up uncomfortably against the cool tiles.

“I warned ya,” he snarled in your ear, causing a shiver down your spine. “Don’t say I didn’t. And for fuck’s sake, it wasn’t me.”

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought of this. As much as the Gator infuriated you, made your shitty job even shittier, you couldn’t deny the attraction you felt towards him. You hated it. 

You swallowed thickly as his large, calloused hand drifted up your skirt, ripping your already-ruined tights even more.

“Gator-” you said, voice slightly shaky.

With haste, he tugged the tights down so it pooled around your shoes. His hand was back up your skirt, squeezing the supple flesh of your ass. His fingers brushed against the fabric of your panties, causing a soft noise to leave your mouth. 

You could feel the heat growing between your legs, clit starting to pulse. A small part of you wanted to push him off, but really, you didn’t. Now that he had started, you didn’t want him to stop, and you hated yourself for it.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your neck as he tugged your panties off. “Been wantin’ to do this for a while. What a pretty fuckin’ pussy.”

“Wait, hold on,” you started as he started tugging your panties off down to join your tights, his fingers dipping between your slick wet folds, drawing out a moan from your lips. “You’re- you can’t be serious-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Gator groaned, biting at your neck as his fingers circled your swollen, pulsing clit, making you whimper. Then he pulled his hand back. 

You squeezed your thighs together at the sound of his belt unbuckling, groaning when you felt his hard, leaking cock press up against your ass. You glanced back, heart pounding and eyelids heavy with pleasure, licking your lips. You knew he had to be big, but the sight of his large cock pressed up against your ass made you moan loudly. 

“What a pretty fuckin’ sound,” he said as he pressed his leaking tip up against your folds. “You want it, huh? You try to act so uninterested, yet here you are…” 

“Fuck you,” you breathed, your palm grasping at the tiles on the bathroom wall. Your voice had no real conviction in it, and it seemed like he knew.

His free hand tugged at your hair harshly, tilting your head back. “You’re such a fuckin’ bitch, don’t know when to shut the fuck up.”

Gator let out a soft groan as he pushed his thick cock inside you, pain and pleasure swirling together, causing your eyelids to flutter. He kept his grip tight on your hair, the feeling of his cock burying  himself so deep you were sure you could feel him in your stomach was making it hard to care about how much you hated him. 

You pushed your hips back to meet his, causing a moan to leave his mouth. You hated how it made your stomach flutter, his breaths hot in your ear, gripping your hip tightly it was starting to hurt. His grip on your hair loosened, just slightly enough to let you press your forehead against the wall.

“Oh, God,” you whined as he started fucking into you, giving you almost no time to adjust to his length.

“What a cockslut,” he said lowly. “What if someone walked in right now? Saw you taking my cock raw and deep like this? What would you say? I bet you’d want me to keep goin’ like the slut you are, huh? Not such a bitch now that I’m fuckin’ you?”

“God, shut the fuck up,” you managed to say through rapid breaths, each thrust causing your breasts to press up against wall uncomfortably. You whimpered when he shifted behind you, slamming into a new angle that made your eyes roll back. “You- you want this just as fucking bad-”

He laughed, breathlessly, like he was struggling to keep his composure. “Don’t flatter yourself, darlin’...” he said, which was a lot less convincing than he intended, because he whined as soon as you thrust back against him. 

Gator’s whine sent your stomach swirling with pleasure, your clit throbbing at the sound. As defiant as you tried you sound, however, you found yourself glancing back at the door, like you had just realized the possibility of someone walking in. 

“Aw, you worried?” he crooned, not slowing down his movements, each thrust more aggressive than the last. “Worried someone’s gonna see you takin’ it so good for me?”

He glanced down at you, and it felt like your eyes meeting for the first time, properly. His eyes were heavy and slightly glassy. The intensity of his gaze made your cheeks flush, and you turned back to face the wall.

It was pathetic, how you were starting to drool, clenching around his cock tightly, biting your lip to stop yourself from making a sound, but it was useless. His fingers were starting to bruise your hips by how firmly he was keeping you in place. The sloppy, wet sounds of skin against skin echoed through the bathroom, along with your moans.

Gator released your hair, moving his hand to your mouth as he felt you clenching around him tightly. “Mhm, shut up,” he grunted, as if he wasn’t just moaning a second ago. “God, you’re takin’ it so well. Should’ve just done this a long time ago.”

“Gator,” you whimpered against his hand, tears forming in your eyes.

It was embarrassing how loudly you cried into his large hand as you climaxed, white hot pleasure surging through your body as your thighs trembled. Your fingers were gripping at the wall helplessly, trying to stay upright. 

Hot spurts of cum coated your walls as Gator let out a soft groan, his breaths heavy as he came inside you with no warning. He bit at the crook of your neck as he rode out his orgasm, his thrusts sloppy until he finally came to a stop.

Breaths heavy, you stayed leaning against the wall as he pulled out. You could hear the sound of his belt being buckled. Cheeks flushed and eyes barely open, you turned your head to watch him fix himself back up.

“You better take a fuckin’ pill, you hear me?” he said harshly as he zipped his trousers on. You couldn’t help but notice the slight flush on cheeks, despite how neutral his expression was. Like he wasn’t just moaning and whining in your ear. You almost wanted to laugh in his face, but you couldn’t, too spent from your climax. 

Then, without another word, he left the bathroom. Leaving you there standing, his cum still dripping out of you, your skirt still stained with beer.

Somehow, you had gone home that night with a generous tip from Gator’s table. They were gone before you’d even managed to clean yourself up and leave the bathroom.

And two days later, to your surprise, your boss had called you up, practically begging you to come back and work for the bar again. You noticed that one of Gator’s cop buddies had black eye and cut lip, avoiding eye contact when they showed up at the bar again - this time, to your surprise, without Gator.

You knew what this meant, though. It meant you owed him.

[starlost-maniac]

I Slept with My Boss - Ch 7

Warnings/genre: SMUT, piv, pia, protected sex, one night stand, mxf, mxm, multiple orgasms, multiple partners, club/drinks, voyeurism, pet names, daddy kink, double pen, oral, color system, squirting, some angst

Pairing: ot8 SKZ x fem!reader

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS, DNI

You were still breathing hard as you made your way to the elevator. You had no idea your job would be so…active. You didn't really mind it though. Your breathing finally evens out when you make it back to Chan's office. Stepping inside, you see Minho placing some files on Chan's desk. He grins when he sees you.

"There's my kitten." He steps over to you when you get to your desk. Placing his hands on your waist, he holds you in place and kisses your neck. "I know I had you this morning, but I'm already craving you again. I just want to bask in your beauty."

"Chan said I'm free to go home early today. He and Felix are still in their…meeting." You look up at Minho, cheeks flushing.

"You mean they're fucking." He chuckles when you stare at him, eyes wide. "No need to hide it from me. Sometimes Chan and I fuck in here, sometimes I have Han or Felix in my office. Sometimes both." He shrugs nonchalantly.

"I can tell they had a little fun with you too, kitten." His breath warm on your neck when he leaned down to kiss your hickies from your other boss and their boyfriend. Your cheeks flush again as you shiver a bit.

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir." You state.

"Mhmm." He hums, gently nipping your neck. You hold back the gasp that threatened to slip. "So, Chan-hyung said you can go home early?"

"Yeah. I'm probably going to get cleaned up and either go to the gym if it's not too busy, or take a nap or something." You breathe out. Minho hums softly.

"I'd offer to take you home, but I'd probably want to come inside." He gently nips your ear, wrapping his arms around your waist. You shiver as he speaks directly into your ear. He chuckles as he lets you go. "I'll see you in the morning, kitten?"

You nod. "Yes sir." Minho turns you around and hands you some money.

"Would you mind getting Chan and I drinks and something for breakfast? You're more than welcome to grab something for yourself as well." He smiles and winks at you.

"Of course, sir. Just text me what the order is, and I'll get it for you." You smile and bow.

——

You're finally back home, body a little sore from taking Felix then Chan right after. You had forgotten how big Chan was. You go to your room to grab clean clothes to change into. After a quick shower, you call Yoonae, knowing she has the day off.

"Hey, Y/n. Aren't you supposed to be at work right now?"

"Yeah. The boss let me go home early." You say, walking out of your bathroom. You head to your kitchen to find something to eat. "Both the CEOs were..touchy today."

"Oooh, really now? Did you enjoy it?" She giggles.

"I can't say I didn't." You laugh. "It was just a little tiring. It was the other CEO this morning, then one of their boyfriends was teasing me during lunch, then the first CEO and one of the other boyfriends."

"Ooh, you've really got it going on, girl." She laughs.

"I blame you for this honestly, Yoonae." You tease her. "You took me out to those bars, and recommended the gym and art class, in which one of the boyfriends owns the gym, and the other attends the art class." You recall seeing Hyunjin there not long after your meet up with the two. You go out to your living room with your food.

"Oh really? I swear I didn't plan that, but it's a really nice coincidence." You knew she was being genuine. "But speaking of bars, wanna go out tomorrow after work? The weekend starts tomorrow and I wanna see my best friend." You hear her pout.

"I mean, you know where I live." You laugh. "But yeah, I can come out tomorrow." You pull the phone from your ear when she squeals in excitement.

"Who knows, maybe we'll see some of your boyfriends while we're out." She teases.

"They aren't my boyfriends, Yoonae." You roll your eyes and eat. She lets out a teasing 'mhmm'. You talk for a little longer before she has to go run some errands.

You finish eating and decide to day a trip to the spa. It's been a while since you went, and you felt you deserved a day to relax, especially after today.

——

You enter the spa, having done a bit of quick searching for a good one in the area. The receptionist smiles at you and checks you in. She sends you in when there is someone available. They do a full body deep tissue massage—which does absolute wonders for your aching body—before doing a scalp massage. They did a few other services for you, before sending you out to go to a hot tub. When you step out of the room, you see Han at the other end of the hall, towel around his waist. He grins wide and waves to you.

"Y/nnie! Hi!" He pads over to you and envelopes you in a hug. You hug him back, cheeks red as you weren't expecting to see him here and see you in just a towel. When he pulls away, he laughs at your red cheeks.

"I've seen you naked, tasted you and been inside you. Why are you so flustered now?" He smiles and cups your cheek with one hand. "Did we reverse roles? I remember being flustered and shy when we first met."

"I'm sorry. That time, I wasn't expecting to see you again, so I was more confident and out there." You say, avoiding eye contact.

"Well, I'm glad that we got to meet again. I was so sad when we parted ways that morning. I wanted to do more of this." He smiles softly.

"More of wh—" You start but are cut off when he places his lips on yours. You forgot how soft and full his lips were. He steps closer to you, wrapping his other arm around your waist as he kisses you deeper. You melt into his arms and kiss him back, your own arms wrapping around his bare waist. He softly bites your bottom lip before pulling away. He chuckles when you chase his lips.

"It seems you wanted more of it too." He says quietly. Your cheeks flush more, looking into his eyes. "I don't want to keep you from where you were going though."

"I was going to the hot tubs." You point behind you, down the hall.

"Really?" He smiles. "That's where I was going. I'm going to a private room though. Come with me?" He brushes his thumb along your cheek, still holding you close. All you can do is nod. He turns you around and leads you to the private room he has.

"Do you come here often, Han?" You ask as you enter the dark room. The room was illuminated with a blue light that ran along the baseboards of the room, and blue lights in the hot tub.

"I do. Channie-hyung and Minho-hyung actually own this spa." He chuckles when your jaw drops open. "They had it built for their employees to have someone nice to go to relax. Weren't you wondering why you got in so fast and why you got a discount?"

"I…didn't even think about it.." You mumble. Han just chuckles again. Coming up behind you, he wraps his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"You're so adorable, Y/n. You know that?" He gently squeezes your waist. You lean back against him, cheeks pink. He kisses your cheek and let's go. Stepping up to the hot tub, he kicks his spa slippers off and hangs his towel on a hook on the wall. Your cheeks darken a bit, looking at his bare backside over in the blue light. He steps in the tub, making a sound at the hot water. He sinks down fairly quickly and sits on the built-in bench.

He waves you over and you slowly walk over, kicking your spa slippers off next to his, hesitantly taking your towel off. When you turn to step into the water, Han is looking up at you, eyes wide as he takes in your naked form.

"You're so much more beautiful than I remember, jagi.." Han whispers, his eyes travel down your body as he stands up, water just above his pelvis. You let out a quiet whine at his compliment, your cheeks burning. He reaches a hand out to you to help you into the water. You take it and he helps you step into the hot water. You gasp at how hot it is but quickly adjust. As soon as you're in the water, Han turns the temperature down some.

"Thank you." You say, settling on the bench across from him. He sends you a wide smile.

"So, what are you doing here during work hours?" He sits back a bit, letting the jets blow against his back.

"Oh, Chan let me go home early. I had an…eventful day and he wanted me to relax a bit." You place your hands on your cheeks, the hot water not helping any to cool your warm cheeks.

"Ohh~" Han smirks. "It was that kind of a day?" He wiggles his eyebrows.

"You are just like Yoonae." You laugh lightly. "I think you would actually like her, honestly."

"What if I said I liked you?" You look at him, his face serious. You were silent for a moment.

"Why though? You have seven amazing boyfriends. Why would you like someone as plain as me?" You said quietly.

You were starting to remember what your ex told you. How you were so boring and plain, that his new 'girlfriend' was so much better and so much more adventurous in the bedroom than you. It was the first time you thought about him in months. Han moved to be in front of you, brows furrowed when he saw you start to look upset.

"Hey..you are not plain, Y/n. You are amazing, beautiful and so, so sweet." He gently grabs your chin, making you look at him. Tears were threatening to spill from your eyes. He moves to straddle your legs, something he normally does with the older men he dates, and gently cups your cheeks. He leans forward and softly pecks your lips a few times, pulling back, he smiles at you. When the tears spill over, he kisses them away on your cheeks up to your eyes, making you giggle.

"Whoever told you that, is a complete moron, and needs to get their eyes looked at. And they definitely don't deserve you." He peppers your face with kisses, making you giggle more.

"Thank you, Han. I definitely appreciate it." You smile up at him.

"No need to thank me, Y/n. It's the truth." He smiles wide at you. "Now, I know you really haven't known me, or the others for that matter, that long, but how would you feel about me coming over. We can watch movies and do some skin care." He watches your face. "I don't think you'd wanna be surrounded by 8 men outside of work just yet." He laughs softly.

"Honestly, that sounds nice. Thank you." You smile softly.

"Perfect. I'll have one of the others pick me up, and I'll meet you at yours?" He moves his hands to behind your neck, interlocking his fingers. You nod at him, a soft smile on your face. You only just realized that you could feel his hard length on your stomach. Your eyes widen a bit and your cheeks flush again. He looks at you confused before understanding.

He laughs, smiling wide. "Again, you've seen me naked, Y/n. No need to be nervous around me." He kisses you softly before climbing off your lap to sit next to you. He reaches for your hand under the water, gently interlocking his fingers with yours and giving your hand a soft squeeze.

You talk about mundane things, just properly getting to know each other without the others teasing you. When it was time to go, you gave him your address and you part ways for now. You were surprised you were only in the spa for an hour and a half.

——

You decided to go to the store for a bit, wanting to pick some snacks and more skin care products for tonight. You grabbed a cart and started walking through the aisles. You weren't sure what he liked, as neither of you thought to mention it. You sent him a quick text to ask what snacks he liked and what kind of skin care products he used. While you waited for a response, you went through to get snacks you liked, as well as a few things you needed for your place.

Han texted you back listing a few things, but said you didn't need to go out of your way for him. You smiled at the text, texting him back. You went back through the snacks, grabbing things he liked as well as going back to the cosmetics to get a few things for him, as well as a few face masks you didn't see before. While you were looking through the drinks, you felt a pair of muscular arms wrap around you.

"Hi, bunny." A kiss planted on the back of your head. You jump at the initial contact, not expecting someone to come up behind you.

"Hi, Changbin. You startled me." You turn your head some to look at him over your shoulder.

"Oh, I'm sorry, bunny. I saw you and got a little excited." He laughs softly, placing a kiss on your cheek. He rests his head on your shoulder, standing in the aisle with you. "Hannie told us that he's going to your place tonight. He's really excited about it." You feel Changbin smile against your shoulder. You smile and laugh quietly.

"Yeah. We are going to watch some movies and do some skin care and eat snacks." You point to the snacks and skin care products that sit in your cart.

"Maybe one day we can all do that together." He kisses your cheek again. "Obviously when you're more comfortable." He adds.

"It's possible." You smile when he squeezes you lovingly.

"Well, I'll let you get back to shopping. You have fun with Hannie tonight, ok?" He squeezes you once more before letting you go, playfully patting your ass a few times. "I'll tell Hyunjin you said hi?"

"Please." You turn towards him to give him a proper hug. "Thank you, Changbin." You smile sincerely. He hugs you back and waves as he walks off to do his own shopping. Once you finish shopping, you head for the check out, before heading home to clean up quickly and change into your pajamas.

Taglist:

@honeyybbuubblleess @gnabnahcbby @skzittomebabyuhhuhx3 @kenia4 @sweetprincessleah @tenshimara @annafeebou

[sesmiq]

a night to remember Underneath the sheets, you enchanted me And whispered sweet nothings in my ear ‧₊˚🖇️ pairing: bottom male reader x secret one night stand ⤹warning: mister/sir kink ?, y/n being bratty,, soft/gentle sex, v vanilla, drunk reader, no condom D: (be safe aa), blowjob (receiving), fingering (receiving), door>table sex,,, aftercare!! always have aftercare ,, age gap(reader/y.n 21, one night stand 32) rlly rushed in general, not proof read, if this flop ill simply explode (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ word count: 3.3k

today was a shitty day. for y/n, at least, it started when his brand new shoes, in the worst color possibly, white- getting completely ruined when he stepped into dog’s poo. then, he checked his grades on his phone, only to see a big red F. on the class he needed to pass in order to graduate. the reason? one of his groupmate didnt do their part, even worse- they dont even attend the class! and now, because of that person, y/n wasnt going to graduate on time. y/n asked his other teammate who was the one that didnt do their part, he made sure to write down their name into his note app to (maybe) beat them up one day,, just when he thought his day couldnt get worse, he was on his way to his part time job before getting a text from his boyfriend. the message was short, a simple, “lets breakup.” he read the text over and over again, his boyfriend of 2 years- ending things without even a word of explanation, over text at that. y/n didnt go to his part time job that day, asking for a sick leave from his manager. his friends noticed that he looked down, then dragged him to a bar to distract him from whatever was in his head. shots. beer. loud music.. y/n drank everything his friend poured him as he listened to the other’s rant about how can his boyfriend just dump y/n like that. he just wanted to forget. after a few drinks in, feeling a little tipsy, y/n told his friends that hes gonna step out for a smoke and maybe fresh air. he leaned against the cold brick wall, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking a long drag as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. ..its cold. maybe he shouldve borrowed his friend’s coat, He exhaled, watching the smoke curl up into the dark sky, when something warm and heavy draped over his shoulders. “??” he blinked, turning his head. Ah, this guy is handsome, he thought to himself, the stranger stood beside him, he looked like he's a few years older than y/n (maybe around his early 30s, he thinks.) , with messy dark hair, piercing black eyes and only wearing a black turtleneck with slacks. “youre shivering.” the man said, voice low and smooth, y/n glanced down at the coat, then back up at the man “‘m fine.” he slurred his words, swaying on his feet like hes gonna fall any moment. the guy huffed out a quiet laugh, “you sure?” “..’m not that drunk.” “mhm.”

“what are you? my mom?” the guy let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, “go back in, you’re gonna freeze.” “dont wanna.” “dont be stubborn.” he huffed. “I’m not-” y/n stopped, blinking, as the words caught up with him. “..you’re annoying.” on impulse, y/n yank him forward, grabbing the front of the guy’s collar, pulling him down his height and then his mouth was on his.  it wasn’t graceful. hell, it wasn’t even all that romantic. just messy. sloppy. drunken. but the guy kissed back. like hes not going anywhere. y/n wasnt sure how theyd get from the bar to an apartment? or motel, he couldnt tell. the door clicked shut behind and he barely caught it before nearly tripping over if it werent for the other’s steadying him by the waist. “you alright?” the man murmured, before he could say anything, he was pushed against the door, the man covering the back of head with his hand, his back hitting the wood with a soft thud, and then the guy’s lips were on his before pulling away, “you talk too much.” y/n groaned, alcohol still buzzing through his system. he stared back at the stranger, before asking, “whats your name?”

the man paused for a second before tilting his head to the side, as if thinking what to say, he leaned in- just a little closer to touch his forehead with y/n’s,

“does it matter?” he murmured. y/n shouldve said yes, but instead, he pulled the stranger in for a kiss. before he could pull away, the guy already had his hands underneath y/n’s shirt, the sudden warmth against his cold skin sent an immediate jolt through him.

the man's lips left his for a brief second, the man's mouth moved to y/n’s neck, lips hot against his skin, sucking and biting just enough to leave a mark.

“m-mister..”

upon hearing this, the other raised an eyebrow, eyes flashing with amusement. “mister?” he repeated,

y/n only shrugged, before tugging at the man’s shirt once again, as if wanting it off. “mm.”

the man’s hands slid lower, teasing the waistband of his pants, then pulling him closer again, grinding against him in a way that made y/n gasp.

y/n’s hands, impatient and shaky, pushed at the other’s shirt again. “off,” he mumbled, tugging at it.

“eager much?” the man dropped onto his knees, taking off his own shirt before throwing it somewhere in the room.

y/n's breath hitched when the man dropped to his knee, staring politely at the other’s body.

hands firm on his thighs, pressing them apart just enough to show the man his hardening weewee, his fingers tugged at y/n’s waistband once again, tugging it off along with his boxer.

y/n face flushed, his member standing proudly, feeling shy, he meekly hid his crotch from the other man.

“perv.”

the man laugh, before forcefully pulling apart y/n’s thigh. he lightly caresses y/n’s inner thigh, while his other hand strokes the younger’s member,

y/n let out a whine when the man swallowed his length in one go, he immediately covered his mouth with both his palm, stifling any whines that would come out.

gently, he started bobbing his head up and down while grabbing a small bottle of lube from his pocket pants.

y/n noticed the lube, it was almost sweet, like he was handling something fragile. he let out a breathless laugh, “hah, you were really prepared for this?” he murmured, eyes half lidded as the man continued on sucking him and pours the lube into his hand. “i guess you really are a perv.”

the man sighed around y/n’s length, he brought up his hand towards the younger’s entrance, teasingly circling two of his fingers around it.

y/n shivered at the cold feeling against his rim, he was starting to get impatient, “just—” his words suddenly cut off into a whine as the tip of the man’s fingers slid in.

the older of the two hummed, sending vibrations to y/n’s member. he let out another whine when the man curled his fingers, pressing against a spot that had y/n arching his back,

y/n lightly hits the man’s shoulder when he pulled off his member, giving it a small kiss on the leaking tip,

with his head thrown towards the door, y/n covered his mouth with his palm once again, hoping nobody can hear them outside the door. flush spread around his chest, barely hidden from his low neck hoodie.

“feeling shy now?” the older teased, rising from his knees, he grabbed one of y/n’s thigh and hooked it around his waist, fingers still pressed deep onto that one spot, twisting his finger just to hear y/n sigh.

y/n scoffed, hiding his face in the man’s shoulder before letting out a muffled moan, his hand never stopped massaging y/n’s prostate.

when the man pulled his finger out, the younger one let out a huff as if in annoyance, before he could let out another snarky remark, he felt something stiff and warm under him.

glancing down, he noticed the man’s breath growing heavier and heavier, he moved his hips, the tip of his.. weapon? prodding against y/n’s hole.

he paused at the sight ‘thats going in me?’ was the only thing he could think at the moment, the man noticed y/n’s stare, nuzzling into the younger’s shoulder, “im getting impatient.” he murmured, his voice low and raspy as he gripped onto y/n’s waist.

“really?” y/n laughed, wrapping his arm around the man’s neck so he doesnt fall. the man’s breath hitched, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips,

“yeah,”

the man lines himself up against y/n’s, him kindly enough had poured a generous amount onto his length, before slowly pushing himself in.

y/n yelped, while he did have experience, its been a while he had taken anything like the man’s size.

he took his time, moving slowly, one of his hand gripping y/n’s leg, one gentle hand strokes y/n’s back, circling around his back, his movement slow, as if he werent going anywhere.

pressing a soft skin to y/n’s neck, he slowly pushes his length inside inch by inch, taking note of how y/n whine or gasps.

the man grunted when he finally fit his entire length in that tight warmth, he noticed how quiet y/n have been (besides letting out a few whines here and there), concerned, he placed y/n on the nearby table.

he pulled back just enough to check on him, “still with me?” he muttered, brushing a hand though y/n’s hair, though, all he got was a, “mhmm..”

y/n’s face was still buried in his neck, his lips parted slightly as he lets out small, breathless whine, his arms still hung around the man’s shoulder,

the man let out a low curse, yet he gently cupped y/n’s jaw to take a look at his face-, y/n’s eyes were half-lidded, unfocused and dazed (?)

he was about to pull out, thinking maybe the alcohol had made y/n tired, he can just jerk himself off later.. but before he could, he felt something wrapped around his waist, as if not wanting him to go,

“mister..” y/n, still clearly out of it, voice was barely above a whisper surprising the older, “whyd you stop?”

the mans heart skipped a beat, something about y/n’s expression, how his face flushed and how y/n wrapped his legs around the man so he wouldnt go.

he let out a small smile, clearly caught off guard yet amused, the younger one could be so cute when hes isnt letting out sarcastic remarks— but even if he does, the man wouldve still found it cute anyway. “i told you,” he chuckled softly, “im not going anywhere.”

the man chuckled again, he cupped y/n’s face gently, tilting his head to meet his gaze, “i-”

“stop talking and keep moving.” y/n muttered, giving the man a lazy smile.

oh..

slightly amused, the man let out a laugh, his fingers brushing against y/n’s cheek almost tenderly. “alright.”

y/n didnt want to wait, he clenched onto the man’s length, making the older groan.

the man shook his head, “impatient,” he said, his voice soft making something tingle inside y/n’s stomach.

y/n whined when he felt the man pulling away, he was ready to snap something snarky, but his words got cut off into a moan when the other suddenly thrusted into him,

y/n let out a soft, startled gasp as the man’s hands found their way back to his waist, pulling him flush against him, the tip of his member directly pressed against the bundle of nerves inside of him.

the man occasionally lets a low grunt, his hands moving to hike up y/n’s hoodie just enough to see his abdomen and chest, he leans down, his lips ghosting over his skin before nipping at one of y/n’s perked up nipples.

the younger inhaled sharply, the soft whimper that escaped his throat betraying him. his face flushed, trying to bite his lips to hold back another whimper when the man continued his pace.

y/n couldnt help but arch his back whenever the man pulled out so slightly, then bottomed inside him in one go— or the way his hips instinctively move by itself whenever the man pulls away.

y/n’s eyes snapped open just in time to catch the soft smile tugging at the man’s lips. before y/n could protest, he was pulled into a kiss—soft, but deep, silencing the whimpers and desperate gasps that were about to spill from his lips.

he couldnt help but melt into the kiss,, muffling any moans that would leak out whenever the man’s length grazes his prostate.

he relaxes under the man’s touch, hands moving from the older’s shoulder to his back, scratching slightly at his skin.

each movement from the older man was slow, yet y/n felt like he could feel his length in him so deep. pushing y/n closer to edge, he pulled himself away from the man to catch his own breathe,

“fuck-” y/n gasped, his insides tightened, making the man above him grunt. his back arched again, clinging onto the man on top of him, hands desperately gripping the man’s shoulder.

“im gonna..” he squeezes his eyes shut. “M-mister!”

his body tensed up, his eyes slightly rolling back to his skull. thick, white ropes fell onto his own abdomen, some even getting to the man’s body.

the man slowed down for a second, his lips curling into a small smile, he watch y/n’s face contort into pleasure before leaning down to kiss him again.

“you did so well.” he murmured.

y/n, still dazed, only hummed in response.

the man wished he had the stamina to keep going, the sight of y/n in his arms and the noises he makes whenever he moves are just so addicting.

his movements grows erratic, he felt himself throbbing inside of y/n, his grip tightening around y/n, enough to leave a bruise.

his hips stuttered, a deep groan escaping his throat as he buried his face into the younger’s neck. just before he was about to climax, he pulled out and jerked himself off. spilling his come all over y/n’s stomach.

and for once, y/n forgets everything around him, the break up, the bad day he was having,, and the fact he doesnt even knows the name of the man he just spent the night with.

but it doesnt matter, right?

while he felt himself drifting into sleep, he was carefully carried to the bathroom, he felt his hoodie being taken off and before he knew it, the man had gently put him in a bathtub filled with warm water. by the time the man had finished bathing him, he was already half asleep. he was tucked in into the bed, the man climbed into the cover with him, “are you really not gonna tell me your name..?” y/n murmured, too tired to care anymore, but still slightly curious. the man simply laughed, his voice sending butterflies to y/n’s stomach, his hand gently brushing through y/n’s hair. “maybe later.” y/n hummed one last time, before drifting into a well needed sleep. the next morning, y/n woke up with a headache that felt like a hammer to his skull, his body ache from the waist down- though not in a bad way, enough to remember what had happened last night.

he looked around the room, noticing theres nobody else but him. next to the bed was the nightstand, his half lidded eyes landed on whats on top.

a bottle of hangover medicine and an energy drink.

huh, how nice.

so the guy, whoever he was, hadnt left him butt naked and was nice enough to actually give him a bath and dress him up.

y/n exhaled, running a hand through his hair and dragged himself out of the bed,

theres no sign of the man last night, no note, no nothing.

maybe that was the best decision, at least y/n doesnt have to see him again.

with a huff, y/n took the hangover medicine and drinks it in one go, then grabbed his bag (making sure he still have his personal items..) and left.

the motel was coincidentally near his dorm apartment, letting y/n have just enough time to change his clothes from last night, making sure to bring a coat before heading out. (hed rather be caught dead than wearing the same clothes from yesterday ;; )

eventually, with enough convincing from himself, he hauled himself to his university. his friends were already waiting for him, one of them raising an eyebrow at him and his appearance, “you look like hell.” “thanks,” y/n muttered, having no energy to even fight back, sipping his coffee as him and his friends trudged to class. on the way to class, his friends were talking about a rumor, something he have no interest in unless its about him, “have you heard about the new TA?” one of his friend asked, poking y/n from the side for a reaction, y/n only grunted in response, barely paying attention to their conversation (& nearly walking into a pole if his friends didnt tug him aside with his bag.) “they say hes young,” another chimed in, “and apparently hes hot.” y/n only hummed, almost falling into a bush if it werent for his friends pulled him by the collar of his coat. “so?” someone scoffed, do y/n even know him..? maybe hes a friend of another friend. “he probably has those “im better than you.” mindset being so young.” ..whatever he said immediately went into y/n’s left ear and left from the right ear. when they finally reached their class, they sat in their usual place in the middle, all of them still talking except for y/n— whose mind kept drifting to last night, the warm hand, soft kisses, the aftercare.. “dude you’re zoning out again.” his friend lightly waved his hands in front of y/n, finally snapping him out of it. “ugh,” y/n groaned, “and whose idea was it to go to that bar yesterday-” before he could say anything else, the door clicked open, the room immediately went silent as footsteps echoed against the floor, some of the students instantly murmured about the person who had just entered the room, some complimenting their look, some talking about some rumors. y/n looked up from the table, eyes widened at who was standing in front of the lecture hall. the same man from last night? dressed in a crisp shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking the same as he had when y/n last saw him. he nearly ran out of the hall, but he needed that attendance. “good morning, everybody.” he greeted smoothly, the same deep voice that y/n heard last night. “ill be your TA for this semester.” you gotta be kidding me he screamed internally, panic shot through his veins, y/n yanked his hood up, tugging it so low it nearly covered his eyes, his friends, thinking hes having another episode, just shrugged it off and continued talking. he slumped forwards, elbows against the desk,, trying to hide himself. please don’t recognize me. please don’t recognize me. he glanced up again, trying to take a peek at the man in front to make sure hes not going coo coo crazy— but to his dismay, the same man from last night- now his TA was staring directly at him, smiling as if they were best friends. y/n froze, his brain short circuited, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA as if on cue, the man introduced himself to the class once again. “you can call me Seo Seungjae.”

y/n nearly choked.

a/n hooo leee sheet i finished this. hooe lle sheet. smut took me,, 4 hours. aha. stared at my google docs like a madman whenever i typed something since id get distracted to something else TT ( ´ ω ` ) hopefully you guys enjoyed this ;; based on a real story of mine? harhar (excluding the TA part,) but i actually loved writing this,, i liked y/n and oc's dynamic here,! if anyone else liked this character,, ill probably write a second part ; i recently updated my carrd! feel free to check it out at the description,, my inbox r open as well ^^ goodnight everyone!! mwa

[00valentina-writes00]

✞⛧ Playful Banters ✞⛧

Yes another inspired by @imsofreakingtired

The Leaky Drop was always a chaotic place after sundown. The usual mix of laughter, grumbling, and clinking glasses filled the air as patrons came and went, drowning their worries in whatever alcohol was cheapest on the menu. As the only bartender on duty tonight, you were busy behind the counter, trying to keep up with orders, pouring drinks, and making small talk with a few of the regulars.

It wasn’t glamorous work, but it paid the bills, and it kept you on your toes. Plus, it gave you an excuse to watch Sevika strut around the bar like she owned the place—which, let’s be honest, she pretty much did.

Sevika wasn’t exactly the kind of person to let anyone forget her presence. With her tall, imposing figure, scars etched into her skin like a warrior’s battle armor, and those sharp eyes that missed nothing, she had a way of commanding attention without saying a word. She usually sat at the bar, nursing whatever drink she was in the mood for, keeping her space but always making her mark on the night.

You weren’t quite sure when it had started—your fascination with her, that is—but every time she walked into the Leaky Drop, you couldn’t help but watch. She wasn’t exactly the warm, cuddly type, but there was something magnetic about her. Something in the way she carried herself, like she had a thousand stories hidden beneath that rough exterior, like she could tear you apart with a glance and still have a moment to spare for a drink.

And tonight, as always, you found yourself a little entranced by her presence.

She was sitting at the end of the bar, slouched slightly in her usual seat, one elbow propped up on the counter as she watched the chaos unfold around her. A bottle of something dark and strong was in front of her, and judging by the way she was swishing it around in her glass, she was already a few drinks deep.

“Hey,” you called over the noise, wiping down the counter. “Need a refill?”

Sevika glanced up at you with a raised brow, the glint of mischief in her eyes. “Why? You tryin’ to get me drunk, sweetheart?”

You smirked, leaning on the counter slightly. “I’m just making sure you’re well taken care of. Don’t want you to be parched, do I?”

Sevika chuckled, low and almost dark, before she took another sip of her drink. “Yeah, yeah. Top me off.”

You filled her glass, taking extra care as you slid it across the bar to her. As you did, a thought popped into your head—one that you’d had more than once since you started working here.

“Do you ever get tired of everyone fawning over you?” You asked, only half-joking. “I mean, you walk into this place, and the whole bar goes quiet. Must get old, right?”

Sevika laughed again, her lips curling into a grin. “Fawning over me?” She shook her head, looking amused. “Nah. I like the attention. Means I’ve got their respect.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “Respect? More like fear.”

She raised an eyebrow at you. “Fear, respect… it’s all the same in the end.”

The conversation lulled for a moment, the noise of the bar filling the space between you. You kept working, fixing drinks and occasionally glancing back at Sevika, who was now swirling the ice in her glass absently.

That’s when it happened.

Sevika leaned forward, her face slightly flushed from the alcohol, and fixed her eyes on you.

“Can I ask you something?” She asked, her voice a little quieter than usual, though still laced with a mischievous edge.

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Sevika’s gaze lingered on you for a moment before she took another sip of her drink. “What’s your sexual orientation?”

You blinked.

Out of all the questions she could’ve asked, this was the last one you were expecting. But you kept your cool, leaning against the counter and crossing your arms.

You’d worked with Sevika long enough to know she wasn’t the type to shy away from asking uncomfortable questions. Hell, she’d practically made a career out of making people uncomfortable.

So, you decided to have a little fun with it.

“You sure you want to know?” You smirked, cocking your head slightly. “I could give you a potentially offensive answer.”

Sevika’s lips twitched into a grin. “I guess that would be fair. You’re always messing with me anyway.”

You leaned in just a little, lowering your voice for effect. “You have fabulous tits.”

Sevika’s expression froze for a split second—eyes wide, mouth slightly open—as if your answer had completely short-circuited her brain for a moment. Then, the smallest, strangest laugh escaped her lips.

You couldn’t help but grin at the sound. “I’m sorry,” you said, trying to suppress your own amusement. “Did I catch you off guard?”

Sevika, still laughing in disbelief, held up her hand in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought you were gonna tell me you were into men or something, not… that.”

You leaned back, pleased with your work. “You asked for the offensive answer.”

She shook her head, her grin slowly turning into a smirk. “I should’ve known better than to ask you anything serious. You’ve got a mouth on you.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning in just a little closer. “You’re telling me you don’t like it?”

Sevika raised her hand to her forehead in mock exasperation. “I’m not saying that. But damn, I don’t know if I can handle you teasing me like this.”

You chuckled, leaning back again, feeling the heat of the moment ebbing away as you got back to your usual playful rhythm. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t enjoy it.”

She shot you a look that was part teasing, part challenge. “I could probably out-tease you any day, sweetheart.”

You grinned, uncrossing your arms to grab another bottle behind the bar. “Is that a challenge?”

Sevika took another swig of her drink, her eyes narrowing in amusement. “Maybe. You should know by now, I love a good challenge.”

You poured the next drink, sliding it toward one of the other customers, before glancing back at her. “Alright, Sev. We’ll see who’s really got the upper hand here.”

She leaned in, her voice dropping lower. “Oh, I think we both know who’s in charge here, sweetheart.”

You gave her a mock glare, though you couldn’t help but smirk.

“Careful now, Sevika,” you said, voice playfully challenging. “You might just find out I can handle way more than you think.”

She leaned back in her seat, taking another drink and looking you up and down with that same familiar, calculating expression she always wore.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea,” you replied, wiping down the counter with exaggerated care.

Sevika chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You’re lucky you’ve got that smart mouth.”

You leaned in with a wink. “And you’re lucky I think you have fabulous tits.”

Her grin spread wider. “Keep it up, and you might just have me wrapped around your finger before the night’s over.”

You shot her a look, feeling that familiar heat in your chest. “Is that a promise?”

“Maybe it is,” Sevika said, her voice full of mischief.

The night went on, the banter continuing between you two as the Leaky Drop hummed with life.

[fandombandomfics]

The Club (Su-bong/Thanos x Female!Reader)

Summary: going to the club to celebrate....what could possibly happen?

Warnings: drinking, mentions of drugs, slight smut

Y/N’s POV 

I sigh as I look at myself in the mirror, Su-bong wants me to go to the club tonight. Him and Namgyu are hosting a party for Su-bong moving onto the next round of the rap battles. I smooth out my bodysuit and leather shorts, putting on my boots. It’s summer time so it's a little humid out. After grabbing my purse, I head out towards the club. Once I get there, I walk over to the bouncer and he nods at me. I walk in and can hear the music thumping against the walls as I walk in. 

“Hopefully Thanos isn’t high yet…” I mutter to myself as I descend down the stairs. The smell of alcohol and sweat hits my nose, along with the blaring of the music. I make my way to the bar and order myself a drink, scanning the room to see the familiar purple hair that will stand out to me. I spot him and Namgyu at the vip section, laughing with drinks in their hands. 

“Y/N! Over here!” Su-bong yells over the music. I walk over to him and nod at the bouncer that is guarding the VIP section. He lets me pass and I step over to him, him pulling me into a hug. I hug him back and give Namgyu a small wave. 

“You made it señorita,” He says with the same grin on his face. I give him a small smile and nod, hoping that tonight will go smoothly. 

“Of course I would, wouldn't miss this for the world,” I say and he smiles, gesturing me to sit down. I sit next to Namgyu and Su-bong sits next to me. The night goes smoothly for the most part, Su-bong hitting his vape occasionally and chatting with me and others who join us. 

“You know you look good tonight,” Su-bong says, eyeing me up and down. I look at him as I feel my heart pounding in my chest. 

“Thanks..” I say. Him and I have been friends for years now, he always looked at the women he wanted to hook up with in that way. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” He says, whispering in my ear. I look at him confused and look at him. 

“Like what?” I ask 

“Like you want me to take you, make you mine,” He says, tucking some of my hair behind my ear and resting his hand on my hip. 

“I’m not into hookups, you know that Su,” I say, moving his hand away. He pouts and pulls me closer to him.  

“Who said this was a hookup señorita?” He asks and I look at him dumbfounded. 

“W-w-what?” I ask and he smiles. 

“You heard me, gorgeous,” he says with a playful grin, pulling me closer as he wraps his arm around my waist. Our thighs brush against each other, sending tingles of warmth racing through me. He trails delicate kisses up my shoulder, lingering at my neck, and across my cheek, before finally pressing his soft lips against mine. I kiss him back, and in that moment, everything feels so utterly natural, so right. My heart races as I think, God Y/N, what are you doing??? But just as suddenly as it began, the kiss is gone, leaving a whirlwind of emotions in its wake.

“Taste for later tonight,” he whispers, his voice laced with anticipation.

“Fucking tease,” I say, coming off as more of a desperate whine. He chuckles and looks at Namgyu, signalling that he’s leaving. He nods, giving Su a slight grin before he grabs my arm, taking me to one of the dimly lit backrooms of the club. Once we are inside, he slams the door shut and pins me against it. 

“God, you’re absolutely breathtaking, Y/N,” he breathes, gently cradling my face in his hands. His gaze sweeps over every inch of my features and traces down my body, igniting a thrilling shiver that dances through me. 

“Su-bong…” I whisper, my voice trembling with longing, aching for the warmth of his touch, the intoxicating scent that envelops me, the electric brush of his lips against my skin—his very essence is a balm to my soul.

"No more words are necessary my love....tonight I    will make you truly mine, and I      swear it with all my heart," he declares, his voice filled with unyielding determination. 

(use your imagination for the rest my fellow delulu Squid Game lovers)

[deans-baby-momma]

Chapter 4

Summary: When Jensen admits to going home with someone else, will his and Y/N's marriage survive?

Warnings: Angst, heartbreak, smut, language

Over the next few days, you and Jensen work on your relationship; him apologizing profusely for the whole ordeal.

You just want to forget about it and move on. All marriages have bumps in the road, none were ever paved with smooth sailing.

But alas, you can't just forget because you have meetings with the lawyer plus Jensen asks you to accompany him for support when he meets with the showrunners to set the story straight.

Jensen explains the situation to Andrew Dabb, Sera Gamble, and Jeremy Carver along with Robert Singer, Philip Sgriccia and a few other producers in the conference room at the studio.

They all agree that while the subject matter wasn't the best of news they are behind him 100%.

After the meeting is over, Jensen kisses Y/N thanking her for being there before he heads to set to film.

On the way home, Y/N decides to stop at her favorite bistro to grab a drink and a light lunch. But the lunch is soon forgotten.

Y/N steps up to the counter, smiling at the young man behind the counter. His name is Brad according to the nametag.

“Hi. Can I get a cup of your Raspberry tea and a turkey in rye with cold jack cheese?”

“Sure,” Brad says as he punches in the order. “Will that be all?”

“Yes,” she says as she hands over her credit card.

He hands her a cup of the chosen beverage and she slides out of the way to wait for the sandwich.

The bistro isn't very large, just a few tables sat in the middle of the open space with a couple of booths along the back wall.

There are a few people sitting further away from the front, enjoying their food or just talking amongst themselves. Y/N pays them no mind as she takes a drink of her tea.

A group of five girls walk in and are standing in line, waiting their turn to order. Y/N notices Brad behind the counter, looks at them and a smile forms on his face.

He is apparently very enamored with one or more of the females

Y/N turns to silently watch the scene unfold in front of her.

“I can't believe you,” one of the girls says.

“Well, believe it.”

“So, do we get the juicy details? You've been incognito since that night,” one of the other girls prods.

“Let's order and then I'll tell you everything,” the blonde says. They step up to the counter and order coffees and pay, not paying any mind to Brad.

‘Poor thing,’ Y/N thinks as he hands them each their order and they walk away to sit at the nearest table.

“Okay, spill. How did you get him back to your apartment?”

“I told him I had an album I wanted him to sign-” the blonde confesses. “But I had left it at home. He was just drunk enough to believe me. He offered to come home with me to sign it.”

Y/N holds her breath as she realizes just who she is eavesdropping on. This is her, Athena Haligan, the girl who claims to be pregnant by her husband.

Y/N studies the group, they all look so young to her. Not a single one of them looks to be over 30, more like early to mid-20s.

“So, we get back to the house and I invite him in. He makes himself at home on my sofa. I go to my cabinet to look for the album and while I'm bent over, he comes up behind me, grabs my hips and just begins rutting into me. Like he is hard and he’s pressing up against me.”

Y/N squeezes her fingers around the cup in her hand but continues to listen.

“So I stand up and turn around and he kisses me. It was soft and sensual and dreamy.”

The four girls swoon and Y/N rolls her eyes.

“He tells me he noticed me as soon as he got to the bar and that he wanted to get to know me better. And I can tell by the way he says it, he wants to fuck.”

“Wait,” one of the girls interrupts. “Isn't he married?”she almost looks skeptical of her friend.

“Yea but I’ll get to that in a minute. Anyway, we kiss and he starts running his hands all over, grabbing my tits and my ass and before I know it, he has his hands down my pants and is playing with me,” she shoots her cronies an evil grin.

“I tell him I wanna suck his dick so he pulls back and unbuttons his jeans and pulls it out. Girrrl, the ‘dick flop of doom’ video wasn't lying! It's huge! So I dropped to my knees and blew him.”

“You did not!” one of the girls exclaims, but Y/N can’t be sure which one because she also has the hint of a buzzing in her ears, as though her body knows she doesn’t want to hear this conversation anymore.

Athena ignores the protest and continues. “Then he bent me over the couch and fucked me hard. He was spouting crap like ‘Baby you're the best pussy I've ever had.’-” Athena lowers her voice to a deep timbre “-and you're so tight. Gonna fill you up, It was a scene right out of a Tumblr fanfic,” she continued with the biggest grin.

The girls all swoon again as Y/N feels like there is smoke coming from her ears. This little bitch sitting here, lying about fucking Jensen when she knows good and well it ain't true.

“Did you let him?”

Athena laughs and looks at her questioning friend. “What do you think, Krissi. I'm pregnant, aren't I? I mean, it didn't take long for him to get there, but my god, that man knows what he's doing. It only lasted a few minutes, but it was the best sex I've ever had!

“Unfortunately,” Athena continues, her tone sad. “As soon as he was done, he pulled out and called someone to come get him. Roughly a half hour and bam, I'm pregnant.”

The sound of a cup dropping to the floor interrupts the friends as they all turn to see a woman's figure quickly exiting the shop.

Athena shrugs and then turns back to her friends.”I'm going to get every red cent I can.”

NEXT CHAPTER PREVIEW:

“Y/N, I swear.” Jensen said, pleading. “I've only been with you.”

“Somehow, I don't believe you’” Y/N cries before turning back to the bed, where her suitcase lays open, half packed. “I'm going to Candy's for a few days. I can't be around you right now.”

Jensen seethes as he stands in the doorway. “Fine! You don't believe that I didn't fuck her? You want to think I'd throw all of this away for a cheap piece of ass? Go ahead. I am done trying to prove to you that I've been loyal since we began dating.”

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Tagging: @spnbaby-67 @sea040561 @delightfullykrispypeach @larajadeschmidt13 @atc74 @vicariouslythruspn @squirrelnotsam @ironreviewangel @blacktithe7 @hoboal87 @mogaruke @supraveng @lyarr24 @kazsrm67 @chriszgirl92 @deanwithscissors @raisinggray @fanfic-n-tabulous @hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @purpleeclipseeggsland @kmc1989 @leigh70 @nancymcl @muhahaha303 @justwhisperingfantasies @jackles010378 @monkey-d-hoshizora98 @deanna45 @ozwriterchick @mandee7 @spnaquakingdom @impala67rollinhtgroughtown @generalmoonpolice @1313diana @roseblue373 @palerogue1 @deansimpalababy

[all-pacas]

not sure where this came from but did you want a story from the fifteenth annual oncology benefit? of course you did!

featuring chase md in his element (lying to strangers), park/adams, and violence!

-

The benefit has a vague eighties theme, and Chase watches with interest as Dr. Thurmel, the new head of Oncology, makes a joke about it in his welcome speech. He listens as long as he figures is minimally polite and then slides towards the bar to beat the post-speech line: “Vodka tonic,” he says to the man at the nurse’s station-turned-bar, and then, joking to Park, who is lingering with her elbows on the counter already: “Planning on getting wasted?”

“Isn’t it disrespectful?” she asks. Chase has no idea what she means: Park has the bad habit of starting conversations mid-sentence, but she nods towards Thrumel.

Chase wracks his brain and comes up with nothing. “I wouldn’t say the comb-over is a good look, but not sure how it's disrespectful.”

“This is the first oncology benefit since Dr. Wilson… you know,” Park says. “Why is it eighties themed?”

“We’re here to earn money for the hospital, not memorialize,” Chase points out: he very much doubts Wilson would have minded the purple streamers and Duran Duran soundtrack. He takes his drink from the bartender and takes a sip: watery, not much actual alcohol. Foreman had sent him an e-mail reminder this morning: As a department head, you are expected to attend the benefit; annoying, because Chase actually had been planning on it without the reminder, thanks.

Looking around, he’s not entirely sure why. Coworkers in fancy dress, rich donors from the university or schlepped down from Manhattan, lackluster decor, watery drinks. He’s struck by an embarrassing impulse for nostalgia: to tell Park about the time House dragged them all from the party to chase some white whale.

Chase drains his glass too quickly, wincing at the burn. “I didn’t think parties were your thing,” he teases lightly; Park is still, well, parked where she is, elbows on the counter.

“It’s important to have good relationships with your colleagues,” Park says, and something about the way she says it, pointed, makes him frown —

“You avoiding neurology?” Chase guesses, scanning the crowd for her former colleagues. He catches a glimpse of Adams, dressed nicely, complete with pearl earrings, talking to some rich looking older men, then finds Park’s old boss schmoozing it up with Foreman.

“No need,” Park says glumly. “I haven’t existed to them for twenty months.”

“Huh.” A relief, honestly. Chase isn’t sure enough of his new-ish job as department head to know if he’s supposed to defend his employee’s honor — or something — in the case of conflict. House probably would have declared all-out war, but. “We could do something about that,” he offers gamely, but he’s relieved when Park’s mouth thins and she shakes her head no.

He orders another drink.

“What about you?” Park asks. “I thought parties were your thing.”

“This isn’t a party,” he smirks: in truth he’s been going to hospital benefits as long as he can remember, paraded around in support of his father; this sort of thing is boring but it’s an environment in which Chase knows he thrives.

“There’s girls,” Park says pointedly, probably trying to tease him: she waves her hand, accidentally gesturing at Adams as she laughs coyly at a donor’s joke. Chase wonders: rich girl, were her parents the rich donor type? He doesn’t know. He probably won’t bother to ask.

“You’re a girl,” he says.

“Sorry, but I no longer have any sexual interest in you,” Park says, very seriously.

He blinks, puffs himself up with mock outrage. “What? But, Park, after all this time, I…“ Chase laughs at her expression, unable to keep up the act any longer. Park scrunches up her face in annoyance, her gaze darting away —

A-hah. “Dr. Adams looks good, doesn’t she?” he muses. She is, there’s no doubting that, and her dress is tight-fitting and he very much enjoys looking at her in it.

“From our boss, that’s inappropriate,” Park reminds him.

“True,” he says, remembering dimly Cameron, years and years and years ago, fuming that House had compared her to lobby art. He tries not to smile. “It’s fine from you, though.”

Park glowers. Chase pretends to be busy with his drink and watches her glower, take a loud breath through her nose… and glance back over at Adams.

“You should ask her out,” he says, partially in the spirit of friendship and partially because it would be very funny to watch.

“Didn’t you once tell me it was inappropriate to go out with a colleague?”

“And as you so prudently reminded me, I also once was married to a colleague, so who’d take my advice?”

“She’ll say no,” Park says, annoyed. “And if she doesn’t say no, it’ll be a pity date, or a friend date, or a bad date. Or it will be a good date, and we’ll break up because we are very different people who want different things in life, and then you, as our boss, will have to deal with the repercussions of our bitter falling out. Every day.”

“Well, your contracts only last another six months,” Chase jokes, although actually he hadn’t considered that at all and feels a shudder of horror at the idea of Park and Adams, both very obnoxious when in a bad mood, heartbroken and punchy about it.

“I’ve never gone out with a girl before,” Park adds, deflating.

“It’s not that difficult,” Chase tells her, although part of him is still worrying if he’s made a bad call and should stop this train before it goes any further. “You talk to them like you’d talk to anyone else.”

“I think, since I am actually a girl, and you’re not, that I probably know more about talking to girls than you do,” Park snaps, clearly flustered.

“But I’ve dated way more of them,” he points out wryly, and Park glares up at him: from her expression — more petulant than angry — he doesn’t think he’s in immediate threat of being punched.

She glances over at Adams again, realizes what she’s doing, and crosses her arms in a huff, turning her back to Adams and the bar counter entirely. “My bisexual crisis is not the same as you sleeping with half the nursing staff.”

He tries not to pull a face. “It’s not a crisis. You like her. She’s into you —“ Park glances up: Aha, he thinks again—

“How do you know?” Park asks, suspicious of Chase lying.

He is lying, actually, so he shrugs. “From how she acts, I suppose.” When he thinks about it, Chase decides it could be true. Adams complains about Park frequently, but goes out of her way to keep talking to her: they enjoy bickering way more than Chase ever could. “I asked her a while ago,” he admits, a little reluctant. “After the Russo case. If you two weren’t… getting along, yeah?” It had been intensely uncomfortable: Chase was, is, determined to be a more hands-on boss than House was, to actually try to manage his employees, but actually having a talk about interpersonal affairs? He’d put it off for months, but Park and Adams had a shouting match in Russo’s room and Foreman had more or less ordered him to sort them out. Chase had said something like if you have a problem with Park, and Adams had blinked up at him: I don’t, she’d said, honestly surprised. “She said she liked you,” he says, which isn’t true, but was his general impression all the same.

“You’re lying,” Park says.

“I am not,” Chase lies.

“You’re a shitty liar,” Park says.

“Want me to ask her out for you?” Chase grins. “I will. It would be very funny.”

Park whacks his arm. Lightly, for her, so it still stings. “No!”

“I think I’m going to,” Chase decides, draining his glass —

“No!” She hisses, slapping at him again. “Chase!”

Chase shrugs her off — Park is violent but small — and strides with purpose in Adams’s directly, walking slow enough that Park can overtake him or rush ahead if she chooses. Disappointingly, she does neither, and he reluctantly lets her call his bluff: he does still have to work with them both another six months, after all.

He finds himself in the middle of the party, surrounded by small groups of threes and fours, the DJ now playing John Mellencamp. Alone, undistracted, Chase feels the stirrings of nostalgia — fourteen, fifteen, sneaking into the bedroom of his first girlfriend and her stacks of Madonna and Kylie Minogue tapes… sneaking out of the oncology benefit with Cameron one year, when things were good between them… avoiding her and at the same time desperately wanting to find her another year, which looking back on it seemed like premonition…

He regrets his conversation with Park. Dimly, distantly. He should have stayed near the bar, but he can’t go back now; that would be giving up in some way. That would be admitting he feels…

“Dr. Chase,” Adams suddenly calls, as he’s standing around like an idiot: he blinks and she’s waving him over to her, twenty feet away, still with her donor couple. “This is my boss. The head of Diagnostics,” she says, warm and formal and very fake:

“Fantastic to meet you,” Chase says brightly, approaching and shaking hands with her donors, who introduce themselves as Mr and Mrs. Morse.

“Head of Diagnostics? Are your age?” Mrs. Morse clucks.

Chase accounts for her husband and age as he grins over at her. “I’m good at what I do,” he jokes, correctly: they both laugh.

“I was just telling them about the sort of work we do,” Adams says primly, her expression letting him know she doesn’t find him all that charming.

“Diagnostics sounds simply fascinating. Like you’re medical detectives or something!” Mr. Morse enthuses. “And you hardly see any patients?”

“We do a lot of consulting for other departments, but our patient load is necessarily low,” Chase explains smoothly: his smile feels plastered on, and Adams chimes in to elaborate on his point. Her parents were definitely rich donor types, he decides: she’s good at this.

So is he. He answers the couple’s questions, wondering how much of this Adams has already told them, that Mr and Mrs Morse simply needed reiterated by a man, joking and smiling indulgently whenever Adams talks — she’s mad, getting madder, great, she’s going to tell him off later, probably, but in the meanwhile Chase just keeps talking. He tells the couple about the time House treated the Black Death — it’s always popular with these types — and hopes Adams doesn’t stomp on his feet anytime soon, because she’s wearing at least three inch heels: “On it like, well, fleas on a dog,” he’s saying, and then sucks in a breath as his prediction comes true.

“Oops,” she says, pretending to have been jostled by some invisible passerby.

Chase thinks about it for half a second, and decides what the hell. “No problem. Hey, would you mind getting me a drink?” Her eyebrows go into her hairline, and oh, he’s so dead, but he can’t help but smirk at her outrage. “Thanks,” he adds, turning back to the Morses: “The mad thing is, the black death isn’t even the oddest disease we’re run into over the years.”

Adams turns and goes, radiating outrage from her pores: he’s so dead, but it really was very funny. Mrs. Morse asks Chase if he’s ever worried about catching one of these deadly illnesses, a question so common he has a standard answer prepared: he assures her of the low risks, the safety precautions they adhere to, his spine twinging with remembered pain. As he talks, Chase keeps an eye on Adams’s walk to the bar, the way she drapes herself angrily over the counter, turning to Park to complain and commiserate.

Park looks unsubtly in Chase’s direction, glaring. “It’s really a fantastic job,” Chase says insincerely, his best smile plastered on as he gives Park a subtle thumb’s up. Worth it. “I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

[ceph-the-ghost-writer]

Heads Up, Seven Up

Tagged by @k--havok! Gently tagging @angsty-prompt-hole @pertinax--loculos @izzyspussy @thatndginger @thespacelizard @kaiusvnoir & @ghost-town-story (from whose Spotify Wrapped ask these lines spring)

How-To: Post seven lines from something you're writing. Tag seven other people to play.

One sported the elaborately embroidered white and gold vestments and towering, pointed hat of a…bishop? Yes, if his memory of chess pieces served. A sinkhole yawned open in Isaac’s middle when he recognized Quinn’s tall form in line behind the bishop, continuing the clergy theme with a humble brown friar’s robe. Eir long red hair was tied back in a loose tail, green eyes dulled in undeath. Motley was in attendance as well, of course. It lived up to its name in tights and a tunic stitched together from random pieces, just like its skin. The bells on the ends of its jester hat gave a soft jingle each time it moved.

[seilon]

pro: ran into a coworker at a bar last night who I don’t really talk to usually (he works upstairs, I work downstairs) and we talked and im pretty sure we were highkey flirting and he bought me a drink and the bar merch shirt i was interested in and thanks to the power of alcohol i guess i asked for his number and he gladly gave it to me and. yeah

con: i have the second worst hangover i have ever had and have been fighting for my fucking life just to eat saltines

[brewscoop]

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[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k] 

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall 

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic. 

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand. 

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.” 

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?” 

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls. 

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work. 

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could. 

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily. 

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be. 

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds. 

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet. 

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip. 

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly. 

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn���t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

｡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❤︎

[joelsdagger]

that’s the way road dogs do it || one

joel miller x f!reader

a/n: this one is a little wild; part two is already shaping up to be even more wild. many smooches to my beloveds: @pedrospatch for all the reassurance and support and for beta’ing this bad boy for me, and to @dinandwhiskey for screaming with me about this idea many many moons ago <33

pairing: ex-boyfriend’s dad!joel x f!reader summary: on a night out with friends, you run into someone from your past. warnings: [no-outbreak au], big girthy age gap [reader is in her 20’s, joel is 50’s], alcohol consumption, allusions to cheating [not by joel or reader], no sarah or ellie but joel has a son, joel has tattoos and is a biker, pet names [darlin’, baby, kiddo], sexualization of the term kiddo [from the deepest darkest pits of my soul…idfc], a little bit of humiliation, panty sniffing, a teensy bit of fingering, a little manhandling, pervy!joel [he’s also a little fucked up and really unhinged but so am i so whateva], pussy pronouns, dirty talk [umm it gets weird lol], daddy kink, degradation, semi-public sex, rough unprotected p in v sex, mirror sex, hair pulling, dubcon [joel takes pictures of her that she doesn’t verbally consent to], smidgen of angst [ofc bc it’s me], creampie, body marking/writing [use of a pen], soft!joel, reader wears a skirt, has hair, wears makeup, and has two tattoos that are described within the story word count: 8.6k

masterlist || ao3 || follow @joelsdaggerupdates for fic updates!

Bad Habits is the bar where you spend every Friday night after work with your friends. It’s always too loud and too bright for your liking. But they serve good booze for a reasonable price and it’s on the way back from your office. Your Friday night usual; stopping at the bar with some friends from work before you bore yourself to sleep by looking over briefings and finalizing notes you need to send over to your boss in time for Monday’s nine am meeting.

You excuse yourself from the booth and head for the bar, plopping yourself on the velvet cushion of a creaky bar stool as you set your purse on the sticky bartop, ordering yourself another drink. Your phone chimes, and you sigh as you pull it out of your purse along with a pen and notepad, knowing it’s an email with a list of requests from your boss. He did tell you he’d send it to you before the end of the night. 

It’s when one of your hands is pressed to your temple, the other scribbling down your boss’ requests on paper when you hear it — a low, gravelly Southern drawl, a voice laced with honey — that you thought you’d never hear again. 

“This seat taken?”

Your pen freezes for a moment; you could pick that voice out of a suspect line-up. It never left you. But you willingly ignore him and decide you’re going to have a little fun of your own with him, so you continue finalizing your thoughts on paper as he situates himself beside you and orders a glass of whiskey while he’s at it. 

“What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ sittin’ in a place like this all by herself?” 

“I’m not alone. My friends are over there,” you throw your thumb, pen in hand, over your shoulder, jutting to your booth. “Just needed another drink,” you say, your eyes never leaving the notepad. 

“Why won’t you let me see your face, darlin?” he asks, head tilting to the side, assessing you. 

You snort. “Why. So you can decide whether or not my face is pretty enough to fuck — Mr. Miller?” Your voice drops an octave at the end of the sentence. 

You finally turn your head so you’re face to face with the man beside you, the father of your ex-boyfriend. 

Surprise flashes across his face; his mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. You watch as the Adam’s apple bops slowly in his throat. For once, the father of your shit-eating, cheating ex-boyfriend doesn’t have a comeback. He clears his throat as he attempts to recover. 

“Didn’t realize it was you, darlin’,” he says gruffly, a hand coming up to scratch his beard. 

You chuckle to yourself a little. “Of course you didn’t. The last time we saw each other was what? A year ago? Maybe more?” you quip. 

“You look different,” he says matter-of-factly, eyes glossing over your figure so quick you almost miss it. 

You raise an eyebrow at him; the corner of your mouth kicks up as you tilt the rim of your glass to your lips, hiding your smirk behind a sip.

“Good. I mean — you look good,” he tips his glass on its heel, eyeing it as he toys with it. 

You tilt your head in a shrug, “I needed a change.”

After Joel Miller’s son cheated on you and broke your heart, after you let the hurt linger for a few weeks and told your sob story to your friends who happily listened, you took their advice. 

You need something new, something fresh, babe. 

It really does help.

You’ll feel like a whole new person. 

Trust me, it’ll be good for you. 

You dyed your hair a few times, until you found a shade that felt more you. You got yourself a whole new wardrobe, something a little less fucking prudish and a little more slutty, and despite the cliché of it all, their suggestions did help to leave that shy, agreeable girl in the dust. The breakup was the last push you needed to leave it all behind. 

And now here you are, a little over a year later, sitting beside your ex’s father, whom you once hated to admit to yourself — no, you never really admitted it to yourself, but you found him attractive. Fuck. Who were you kidding? You didn’t just find Joel Miller, the father of your ex-boyfriend, attractive; you found yourself wanting to open your legs for him more than you did for his son, whom you had been dating for eight months. 

His eyes fall to your chest, trailing down the low cut of your top, and fixating on the peaks of your nipples beneath the tight fabric, and your heart stutters. “Quite the change,” a hint of a glint swimming in his hazel eyes. 

You can’t say the same for him.

You take him in now; he looks almost exactly the same, apart from a few more wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. Still, he’s somehow more handsome. 

His tousled salt-and-pepper hair still sits messily on his head, though his beard is lined with more silver than you remember. 

Fuck. 

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes trail down his body, thick shoulders and thick arms deliciously clad in his black leather jacket, and beneath that, his white t-shirt pulls taut across his broad chest.  

 And oh. 

Joel’s head turns, peering over his shoulder at the sound of glass breaking. Your eyes flick back up and catch a curl of black ink on the tanned skin beneath his collar. That’s new. 

When he turns back, he raises the glass to his lips with a scoff, clouding the inside of it, and the dim light from above the bar catches on the square face of a gold band on his marked pinkie finger. That’s also new. Your eyes don’t miss that his fourth finger still remains devoid of a wedding ring. 

“I have your son to thank for that." You drop your phone, pen, and notepad into your purse, giving him your full attention.

A muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks. Flicks his tongue across his bottom lip before he bites it. Is it a show of anger? Disappointment? You’re not quite sure.

But there is one thing that you are sure of: Joel Miller liked having you around. You knew it. You were aware that his eyes lingered whenever he saw you. You caught it from the very first time. When you showed up at his house, in jeans that clung to you like skin, how you bent at the waist to fish your keys out of his sofa cushion, and in your periphery, caught the subtle tilt of his head to get a better look at how the denim hugged your ass just right, feeling his eyes boring into you, your skin sizzling with heat.

If you’re being honest, you didn’t care. You didn’t feel guilty or shameful for how Joel looked at you. You basked in how he made you feel; you certainly weren’t getting that kind of attention from his son. He had his eyes (and his dick) on someone else. 

You liked how that very last night you spent at Joel Miller’s house — a fortnight before you broke up with his son — you padded down the hallway to the bathroom in an old skirt that you had outgrown (wearing it only because it was the last of clean bottoms before laundry day), and you overheard Joel Miller in his bedroom, fucking his fist and coming with a gruff groan of your name on his lips.  

You just weren’t sure if he knew that you knew.  

His body twists, props a leg up on the footrest of your bar stool. “What happened between you two? He never talked about it,” he inquires. 

You scoff. “He gets that from you, you know, not talking about things. Think he knows it too.” 

Confusion floods his features. 

Your eyes drop to the inside of your glass. “Your divorce. Jason complained all the time about how neither of you talked about it.”

“There was nothin’ to talk about. She left,” he quips. 

“She cheated on you,” you retort. 

“How did–” 

“He knew, and he watched when you didn’t fight it. Think that’s why he did the same to me.” 

“That kid. Always fucking trouble,” he huffs, then takes a short sip. 

 “Hey, you raised him,” you joke. 

“I didn’t raise him to be a piece of shit,” he bites, shakes his head instantly, eyes meeting yours, and there’s something behind them that you can’t quite place yet.

“I’m not saying it’s your fault, I just—" You sigh exasperatedly, “I think seeing how you didn’t fight for your marriage, for your wife, messed with him. And as much as I hate him for getting his dick wet in another girl, I think... well, now I know why he did it." Right shoulder tips in a slight shrug. 

Joel’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. 

“What?” you ask. 

 “Nothin'—I didn’t expect I’d ever hear you say that.”

 You look at him pointedly. 

 “Gettin’ his dick wet,” he repeats. “I’m not used to hearing you say things like that s’all,” he says with a breathless laugh, shaking his head a little. 

You sigh. “Told you, heartbreak is a hell of a thing.” 

“You didn’t deserve that darlin’, M’sorry,” he soothes. He leans towards you, a heavy hand dropping to your bare thigh, fingers wrapping tightly around it. It takes everything in you not to squeeze your thighs shut at his touch. 

You avert your eyes, scanning the crowd in the bar, your eyes eventually landing on your friends all crammed in the booth before looking back at Joel. “Everything happens for a reason, I guess.” 

His head dips, eyebrows go up in surprise, his expression a slight mixture of shock and guilt. “You really believe that?” 

You flash him a soft smile. You’re not sure that you do, but selfishly, it’s easier than the truth, and whatever it was, you’re not concerned about it anymore. “It’s fine, Mr. Miller, honestly," you clarify. 

His calloused thumb rubs small circles on your thigh; heat radiates there. “How many times, I gotta tell you, it’s Joel,” he insists.

Your eyes roll, “alright. Joel, it’s fine. I’m much happier now.”

“Oh yeah?" His hand releases your thigh; your body feels like it’ll wilt without the heat of his touch. His arms cross over as he leans forward on the bartop. The cuff of his left sleeve raises, revealing ink curling around his wrist. Did he complete his sleeve? You swallow thickly, your eyes lingering. 

"Got yourself a new boyfriend?’” He asks. 

You finally peel your eyes away, arching your brow. “What makes you say that?” 

His boot brushes against your bare ankle as he turns towards you; electricity sparks up your leg and up the base of your spine, awakening a long-dormant need. “Nothin’, just reckon that a pretty thing like yourself has a new stupid college fella.”

You chuckle. “I don’t date, it's not worth my time anymore.” You take a swig of your drink, swallow the tang down, and it mixes with the lick of heat, slowly spreading its way into your veins. You’re trying to tame the surge of energy zipping through your body, but it’s so damn hot beneath the lights lining the bar. And the chatter buzzing around the room, coupled with the weight of Joel’s gaze, isn’t fucking helping. It’s overwhelming, the nerves and arousal taking over, lacing with the alcohol in your system.

“That so?” His voice is a low rumble, dangerous. The corners of his lips twitch; your eyes dart down to them. 

You set your glass down on the dark wood with a clink, and your fingers begin tracing the rim of the glass. “And you?” Your body is warm and humming, something churning deep in your core.

His hazel eyes slowly rake down your body, a hint of hunger in them as they pause at the hem of your skirt, barely covering the place where you need him most; your skin is on fire under the heat of his gaze, and for a moment you have to resist the urge not to pounce on him right there in a bar full of people.

His voice cuts through your reverie as he answers. “Not in the cards for me, darlin’,” his eyes crease before he tips the glass to his lips.

“Guess we got one thing in common,” you sigh and mirror him. 

His eyes never leave yours as he takes a sip, and your chest blooms. Black takes up the hazel hues in his eyes, full of lust, and you think back to all the times you’ve had his attention; only now it’s worse because you can act on it. And maybe it’s the liquid courage in your blood. Maybe it’s some stroke of desire for revenge. Maybe it’s just that — desire. Maybe it’s because you know him. Know by all those times you racked up in your brain of longing stares and fleeting tugs of every nerve of your body.

So you think, with the very obvious throbbing in your core, with desire turning molten and pooling between your thighs that you can no longer ignore, that now is your chance; you’ve got nothing holding either of you back this time.

“You want to get out of here?” Your eyes fall down his body and bite your lip as you take in his broad form again. 

He chuckles darkly. “Can’t leave my crew, sweetheart,” he juts his chin towards an area behind you. Your body twists, and laughter threatens to bubble in your chest when you spot them. Three men, all silver-haired and scruffy beards that cover surly faces, all clad in tethered leather jackets, sit in a corner towards the back of the bar. 

You turn back to Joel with a hint of smirk on your lips. “Aren’t you getting a little old to still be biking around? Shouldn't fossils be encased or padded up or something? You know as they age they don't hold up very well,” you tease. 

He bares his teeth with a crooked grin; the corners of his eyes crease. “Careful, kiddo,” voice a low warning, but there’s a hint of playfulness behind it.

You knock back the rest of your drink swiftly, ignoring how it burns the back of your throat. “Well, that’s too bad,” you start. Driven by the alcohol coursing through your burning veins and the painful ache at the apex of your thighs, your left hand grabs his, rested beneath the bar, and guides it under your skirt and towards your dripping sex. He stiffens, inhaling sharply through his nose as he feels the way the wet fabric clings to the lips of your pussy. You bring your lips to the shell of his ear and drop your voice to make it more deep and velvety — more enticing. “She’s already wet.”

You drop his hand and hop off the barstool and onto wobbly legs, your right hand looping your crossbody over your shoulder, and before your leg even brushes past his, his hand snaps out and wraps around your wrist, dwarfing it in his grasp. 

Without another word, he tugs you behind him, past your table of friends, all too loud and too drunk celebrating the end of another work week to notice the two of you sauntering by. He drags you down the dimly lit hall, and you’re biting your bottom lip, containing the smile that threatens to spread across your face as he shoves you into the bathroom. 

Within seconds, he’s on you, pressing into you so your back slams into the tethered wooden door. Your hands find his hair, tangling your fingers in the strands streaked with gray.

And with his mouth flush with yours, the taste of whiskey and cheap cigars is warm on your tastebuds, and you cannot get enough of it. You've dreamt of what he'd taste like for so long, and it's everything you've ever wanted. His tongue is heavy and hot as he pushes it into your mouth, swirling it around and cutting across your gums, leaving no inch of your mouth uncharted. It’s all rushed and sloppy and hungry, and very quickly does it become clear to you that he’s wanted this — wanted you, just as much as you had from the very beginning. 

Somewhere in the heady haze, you manage to remove your left hand from his dark curls, drifting it south behind your back to slide the greasy lock shut behind you, sealing your fate. 

The sound of the lock clicking in place has Joel maneuvering you towards the sink, your heels scraping against the tile as the both of you drift backwards, tongues still intertwined. 

Your hands fumble with his belt, and at the same time, your mouth skates down his neck, tongue darting out and lapping at the inked skin there. You hum at the taste of warm, salty sweat. As you try to drag the leather out from his silver buckle, you move to drop to your knees. You don’t even get halfway before he’s reaching for your wrists, pulling you back up to stand. “‘S much as I’d like that kiddo, I've been waitin’ too long to get inside this cunt,” he says bluntly, and then he’s taking a step forward, trapping you against the cold ceramic. “If m’gonna come, s'gonna be inside o' her.” 

Your stomach flips at his words, and you can’t deny that the use of that word again makes you want to drop to your knees for him twofold. Instead, Joel drops to one of his, grunting as his denim-clad knee hits the cold tile, and it’s what he does next that manages to shatter all essence of confidence you had tonight.

Joel flicks up your skirt with one large hand while the other grips the back of one of your thighs, and one of your hands finds one of his shoulders, fingers already clinging onto him for dear life as you try to anchor yourself. You’re throbbing for him as his hand drifts north to cup your sex through your damp panties; he tears his gaze away to peer up at you. “How many dicks has this pussy taken since my son?” 

His words strike you hard, and your blood runs as cold as ice. Your breath kicks out of your lungs. That was the last thing you expected him to say. Despite the fact Joel’s eyes often lingered and his breath often wavered in your presence, he always managed to compose himself. You never imagined he'd act on those impulses.

“I–I don’t–” you blink a few times, your brain malfunctioning, trying to find the words. 

“How many,” he taunts, his fingers prod at your lace-covered slit, his thumb applying pressure to your clit through your underwear. 

“I– I don’t know. I can’t remember,” you whisper.

Joel sniggers. “I figured. She’s just a little pocket pussy for us, ain’t she?” A shiver runs up your spine, and he watches you, hazel eyes glimmering in the soft yellow glow of the bathroom, gauging your reaction for a tell, a tick, something, that’ll give him a reason to stop. When you don’t, his head dips down between your thighs, and his strong nose presses up against the damp stain on the front of your skimpy black thong, which was doing a rather poor job of covering your cunt. His eyes close slowly, and he inhales. Long and hard, so hard you can feel his nostrils contracting against you as he breathes in your scent. And it’s not your fault a measly whimper spills from your lips when he does so. 

“This all for me now?” He coaxes, his fingers strumming up and down your slit through the lace. Words fail you as you look down and find his eyes already on yours. You nod once for him. 

“Words, darlin’,” his voice dark, thick fingers shifting your panties aside, exposing you to the cold air and spreading your soft folds apart, toying with your wetness. 

Oh fuck, sneaks past your lips in a whisper, and one of your arms snaps out behind you, hand wrapping around the edge of the sink.  

He tilts his head up, and your eyes fixate on his middle finger that reads, clutch, as the tip pokes into your aching hole. "S’this what you wanted? You oughta ask for it, pretty girl.”

“I want you. Fuck– I want you to fuck me, Joel.” You choke out. 

“Attagirl,” he starts, knees cracking as he stands. “Bend over ‘n let me see her up close this time,” he says with a smirk. 

You obey, and turn to drop your purse beside the sink before placing your hands on the wet countertop. But your eyes don’t find your own reflection in the mirror. Instead, they fall on Joel’s movements behind you and gulp down the near-pathetic excitement and nerves sizzling over you. Joel’s too entranced by the sight before him to pick up how your breath hitches in your throat when his calloused hands push your skirt over the curve of your ass and up to your waist. His sly smirk kicks into a low chuckle as he catches sight of your tattoo on your left ass cheek that reads, daddy’s girl.

You go perfectly still, and a firm hand between your shoulders pushes you forward, your upper body now parallel to the dark countertop. Your heartbeat thrums loudly in your ears, but you can still hear the low whistle he sings from behind you. And then–

“Jesus,” he breathes as he pauses and marvels at you, his gaze shifting up and down your form, goosebumps erupting across your skin as the knuckle of his index finger traces down the small of your back, cold metal from the ring on his pinkie grazes the meat of your ass by happenstance. “Pretty little thing, ain’t ya?” 

And it’s almost like he can’t believe he’s here — with you, thirty years his junior, and his son’s ex-girlfriend, in a bar bathroom, about to ruin not only you but every other woman for himself for the rest of his life.

The liquid courage must’ve kicked into overdrive because you don’t know what compels you to do it, but before you can stop yourself, you call out his name–

“Joel.”

His dark eyes flit upwards to meet yours in the mirror. 

“You gonna stand there and stare all night, or you gonna fill her up?” But the tone of your voice doesn’t make it sound at all like a question, and you don’t mean it to be. 

That seems to pull him back. He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ Christ, I didn’t think you’d be this filthy.”

His reaction manages to bring back your confidence, and your lips curl in turn. 

Joel doesn’t waste anymore time. You feel the rough drag of denim against the back of your thighs and hear the metallic clang of his belt and the buzz of his zipper as he frees himself from the confines of his jeans. When he hooks a thick finger underneath your panties, tugging them to the side and over one cheek, you can’t help but clench, and Joel definitely doesn’t miss it. 

He tuts. “Needy little thing too,” he grips his length, thick and heavy in his hand, and lines up the blunt cockhead with your throbbing hole; it winks at him. “Tiny hole’s begging for me to fuck her, ain’t she? Look at her flirtin’ with me,” Joel gloats. 

And the sane part of you wants to cringe at that, but your cunt betrays you and clenches around terrible emptiness again. Joel doesn’t wait for you to respond; his eyes flicker back down to your hole, pushing the wide head of his cock inside, and that spark from earlier ignites. 

“Oh, Christ,” he exhales, his jaw falling loose and eyes going hooded as he enters your warm, wet cunt. You gasp as your own eyes fall shut at the stretch, your face twisting upwards at the sharp sting. You didn’t get to look at it before, but you can feel him. He’s big. Bigger than anything you’ve ever had, and for a second you’re not quite sure he’ll be able to fit. But Joel being Joel means he’s a stubborn bastard. He makes it fit. He pushes himself in, in, in, and you whine, and he groans as your pussy wraps perfectly around every inch of his thick length, sinking in like a dream.

He bottoms out inside your cunt, his tip kissing your cervix, and you’re gripping the edge of the sink so tight that if it weren’t for Joel fucking you, you’d be worried if your knuckles would break the skin. “Fuck, that’s good,” he breathes, ragged and hard. 

And it is. He feels so good. Stretching your cunt out and carving a place for himself after all this time. All the wanting and pining. Shared glances and stolen moments that you believed to be over the moment you broke up with that bastard of a son have finally led you here with him. 

“Daddy,” pours from your lips involuntarily. Your eyes snap wide open, and you freeze. Joel draws his hips back, cock pulling out from your gaping hole and catching onto it’s head, and before you can scramble your brain for a pathetic excuse of an apology, his lips curl into a snarl, and he slams his hips forward, cock ramming into you full throttle. The force of his thrust so hard, your body jolts forward, and your pelvis collides with the sink.

He doesn’t give you time to recover; Joel sets a fast, unforgiving pace, and with every strong, expert roll of his hips, the edges of your vision begin to blur. And it doesn’t matter how fast he bucks into you; the size of his cock never fails to fill you up to the hilt on every long, punishing stroke. He’s fucking loving it. And so are you. Letting him use you and yanking you back onto his cock by the thin material of your thong, hips snapping back into his like a rubber band. The air quickly fills with delicious wet sounds of your skin slapping against his, your moans and his, and the sharp clink, clink, clink, of metal rattling against you as the movement of your bodies colliding increases. 

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he says, voice rough with arousal. “Been dreamin’ of this pussy since the first time I laid eyes on ya,” he pants, eyes never leaving where the two of you are connected.

Desperate whimpers and breathy moans spill from your lips, his left hand bruising on your hip. “Caught a glimpse of that pretty young pussy under your skirt. Couldn’t get it out of my damn head. I thought about you n’ fucked my fist every night to that image of you in your slutty little skirt. Too fuckin’ short to cover anything.” Your cunt drools with slick with every word that spills from him; you can feel it on the tops of your inner thighs. The wet suction of your cunt around his cock getting louder and louder and louder. It’s borderline pornographic. 

His voice cuts through the lewd sounds. “Some nights I heard those sweet sounds you made–fucked my fist then too. Were you fakin’ it, baby? Huh. Were you fakin’ it with him? My son ever fuck you this good?” He rambles, grip smarting your flesh. 

Your stomach jolts. Scratch that. That’s the last thing you expected him to say. If your ex-boyfriend’s father fucking you wasn’t going to send you spiraling, then him bringing up his own son while he fucks you dumb certainly will. 

Your mind is abuzz; your brain has gone completely blank. There’s no way you could form a proper word in response, even if you tried. There isn’t a single thought inside your head. It’s too much. Too many things are happening at once. For one, he’s never been this talkative; you were lucky if you got two sentences out of him a year ago. And now he’s asking you if his son fucks as good as he does. 

You don’t answer. You can’t. And he’s not expecting you to. All you can do is whimper and moan while he fucks you with abandon, the way you should have been fucked all those times by his son.

“You don’t gotta answer. I know he didn’t. That boy didn’t know what was good for him if it hit him til he was blue in the face.” And you moan in agreement, still not able to think of a response while his tip jabs at your most sensitive spot. 

“S’okay, you were made to take my cock,” he grits, his ringed finger digging into your skin by the unrelenting grip on your waist. “Made to take mine, not his. Tell me, my cock bigger than his?” 

“Daddy–” you gasp, your cunt flutters around him, and Joel laughs a little at you, a low mocking sound that fuels the fire roiling low in your belly. 

“Course it is,” he murmurs. “You were made for me. So fuckin’ pretty n’ perfect n’  – fuck – so goddamn tight. Tighter than a fleshlight, baby.” He hisses in between sharp thrusts.

“N-” you choke on your words, fresh tears pricking your eyes by the force of him fucking you so hard. 

He clicks his tongue. “You don’t like that, baby? You tellin’ me if I say it again, she won’t fuckin’ squeeze the hell outta me?”

Your cunt answers for you, giving him exactly what he wants and fluttering around him in response.

“S’okay, you can like it. You oughta. This sloppy cunt’s gonna be my new cocksleeve. Gonna blow my load in ya, pump you so full o’me.” 

You squeeze painfully tight around him again and bite your bottom lip to muffle the obscene, broken moan that escapes you. You can’t help but picture what Joel looks like thrusting himself into the toy. Was he using it that night? When you heard him coming with a groan of your name, was he pretending to paint your cunt instead of the inside of faux flesh? Or did he pull out and imagine covering your face in his cum? Your back arches as you push yourself up by the heels of your palms on the ceramic, your head topples back onto your neck, eyes rolling back into your skull, the walls of your cunt tensing at the thought. 

His fingers unhook themselves from your panties and his hand finds the back of your skull, and with a firm grip, he angles your head, so you are face to face with your own depraved reflection. “Look how fuckin’ sexy you look takin’ me,” he growls.

And you do; your vision refocuses on the wrecked girl in the mirror: hair wild yet pulled back by Joel’s tight fist, lipstick stained around your swollen lips, mascara smudged by wet tears at the corners of your eyes, temples glistening with beads of sweat as you’re split wide open, perfectly filled to the brim by your ex-boyfriend’s father’s cock. 

Joel’s fist tightens on your makeshift ponytail, pulling you back into him, and with your back now pressed flush to his chest, he brings his lips to your ear, his breath hot against your skin, eyes watching each other in the mirror. “You’ve got a velvet cunt, kiddo, s’damn shame my son didn’t know what to do with it.” 

You squeak, your body jostling and rolling with pleasure on every shift forward, the edge of the countertop bruising your hip bones. You’re blissfully unaware of the spit drooling from your lips and dripping all over the sink faucet until Joel points it out.

“Look at you, wanted it so bad you’re fuckin’ droolin’ f’me, naughty girl,” he pants, hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. “Wanted me to use you like this, huh?”

“Mmm,” you mewl in response, everything beneath your navel tenses while his cock grazes the opening of your cervix on each harsh thrust.

He tuts. “Aww, poor baby, you were all talk before. But you can’t talk back now, huh? You all cock dumb, s’that it? Daddy, fuckin’ ya stupid?” 

"So – good – Daddy,” you force a choked moan. Your cunt clamps down around him, and it burns, flames running wild, scratching away at your nerves as the fat head of his cock brushes against your g-spot again. As if he can feel it too, the snap of his hips grows more desperate. Faster. Harder. Deeper. 

“Keep doin’ that, doin’ so good for me, kiddo. Just a little more, give it to me, come on daddy’s cock, c’mon,” he rasps. Your stomach twists and your chest tightens, his cock hitting you so deep each time his hips swing, and the weight of his balls slapping wetly against your clit has you hurtling full speed towards your release. 

“Daddy – oh f– fuck,” your voice all broken and hoarse. Your entire body goes painfully tight, thighs quivering, and something deep within you snaps. Your eyes screw shut as the energy thrums through your blood. Your mind is a dizzying blur, white light streaking behind your eyelids, and there’s a low ringing in your ears as your orgasm fully engulfs you. 

"Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, kiddo, there you go, let her soak me,” Joel praises as he fucks you through your high, cunt throbbing while your hips move lazily back and forth on him. 

As your orgasm settles, your body goes limp, and your head begins to dip, but Joel tightens his grip on you, shifting your body like a ragdoll until you’re on your tiptoes, the perfect angle for him as he fucks relentlessly into you. 

And with the blissed-out daze of the afterglow and the roaring music from the otherside of the bathroom door getting louder, you can just barely make out Joel’s low rambles of obscenities — almost like he’s mumbling to himself — and the quick, wet, smack, smack, smack of his hips against the plush of your ass as he pummels your cunt, desperate for release — as if his life depends on coming inside you. 

He grunts and through bleary eyes, you watch him through the mirror. He looks wrecked as he chases after his high. He must feel your eyes on him because then his eyes lock with yours in the mirror, and your cunt squeezes him unconsciously. That sends him overboard. His movements become sloppy, and you feel him twitch inside you. His jaw slackens, his eyes pinching shut while his head lulls back, and a breathless chant of, oh shit, fuck that’s it, fuck, escapes him as he comes undone.

His hands clamp, hips finally stuttering, a deep groan slipping past his lips, and then you feel the heat spreading inside you as thick spurts of his seed spill deep inside your cunt. His body falls forward over yours, his sweaty forehead falls into your shoulders, and you let him stay there as his cock continues to pulse, hips lazily rutting into you and pumping you full of his load. Your spent cunt spasms around his throbbing cock, and your wet and his, gathers at the base of his girth and trickles down his balls. 

His hips finally come to a stop, but he doesn’t pull out. Instead, his hand drops from your hair and begins rummaging through your purse. It only takes him a few seconds to find what he’s looking for. Your pen. You watch through watery lashes as he pops the cap with his thumb and brings the tip to the small of your back; your body flinches at the feeling of the cold tip. 

As the ball of the pen drags and tugs across at your skin, for a brief moment you try to surmise what he’s writing, but it takes him too long, and the intensity of your orgasm finally catches up with you. You drop your head on your hand and wait for him to finish whatever the hell he’s drawing on your skin. 

You feel his body shift behind you again, but it’s not until you hear the familiar sound of a low click that has you snapping your head up to the mirror. 

Joel Miller has his phone in his hands. 

And he’s not just doing anything with it. He’s not scrolling through it. He’s not opening up the contacts app. He’s not typing on it.

You catch a bright white flash in the mirror. He’s taking pictures of you. But not just of you. He’s taking pictures of your wasted cunt still plugged full of his cock. 

And for some reason — you don’t move. You don’t stop him. You don’t turn around and snatch the phone from his grasp and call him a dirty old dog. You stay perfectly still, and you let him do what he wants. Letting him take a series of pictures.

But it’s the last few that have his lips curling into a smirk, and he begins mumbling under his breath, gawking at the mess he made of you. 

With his phone poised in his right hand, his left drops to your left ass cheek, his fingers splay across your flesh, pulling your cheek back, and the shutter sound goes off. "Fuck, she’s so pretty like this.” 

Heat blooms in your chest. No one’s ever made you feel like this. But there’s no room for shame when he makes you feel this warm and beautiful... and so fucking sexy. 

And then it hits you. 

No one’s ever made you feel like this. There’s a sudden pang in your heart, tears stinging in your eyes. You’ve always known it. But you never admitted it because it never mattered. How could it? When you’ve never had someone who made you feel worth their time. How could you know what you were missing out on if you’ve never had it to begin with? 

Your head tips back between your shoulders, forcing the tears back into your skull, and to keep them at bay, you redirect your attention on Joel; watch him as he presses his hips flush to your ass so he’s filled you to the hilt. With your body still trembling, you wince and close your eyes in overstimulation. Your body sags forward on the cold surface, melting into submission.

You hear a series of shutters coupled with Joel’s mutters of, Jesus, look at her, the prettiest little pussy, look at this messy little hole swallowin’ up my cock, while you feel his hand moving along the small of your back, no doubt getting different angles of the place where the two of you become one. 

It feels like hours have passed by when Joel seems to have gotten his fill. One of his hands finds your hip again; you shiver and gasp in unison as he slowly slips himself out with a wet squelch. He pumped you so full of his release that you already feel it beginning to trickle out. You didn’t think there’d be that much of it for a man his age.

When his cockhead fully slides out from your hole, you have to fight the urge to whine at the loss of it — of him. But it’s what he does next that stops you from reveling in that; his hand quickly reaches down between your bodies, and two thick fingers catch the cum dripping out of you and push it back inside. You whimper tiredly. 

You stay bent over the sink, and suddenly, for a very brief moment, you feel the heavy weight of his cock slap wetly against your left ass cheek, and for the last time, the camera shutters. 

He quickly pockets his phone, and then he’s pulling your panties over the ache between your thighs, and his hands tentatively pull the skirt back down over your ass, smoothing out the rumpled fabric. You can hear the low rustling behind you — the buzz of his zipper and the clang of his belt buckle, tucking himself back into his pants.

And then Joel Miller surprises you again. He leans forward over you and places a chaste kiss to your clothed shoulder before his hands are on you, gently tugging your body upright and turning you around to face him as he murmurs a low, Let me look at ya. 

His eyes scan over your face, grinning immensely, like he can’t help being proud of himself for ruining you. And you smile bashfully in tandem as you bring a weak hand up to your face. Joel shoos your hand away and rubs his thumb under your eyes, gently wiping away your tears and smeared mascara, then doing the same to the smudged lipstick at the corners of your mouth. 

He’s always been rather soft with you, but it’s a stark contrast in comparison to his earlier behavior; it almost gives you whiplash thinking about it. How he fucked you so full you could feel him in your chest, the stream of profanities he cursed under his breath, moaning the dirtiest things  — comparing himself to his son while inside you, taking filthy pictures as evidence of what the two of you have done together, then cleaning you up like it’s second nature to him. All of it was filthy. He’s filthy. But there was always a softness to him, and there’s no doubt about it in this moment.

You take the opportunity to mirror him and caress away the lipstick that stained his lips from your kiss, you smile and he sighs at the contact. His thumb swiftly pads over your bottom lip, his gaze lands on your lips, a sort of hesitance, perhaps deciding if he wants to kiss you again. Then, his thumb catches on your plush bottom lip. Joel’s lips twitch, his eyes go dark as he drags the flesh of your bottom lip down, eyeing something he knows he almost missed. He scoffs slightly and shakes his head in near-disbelief. You smirk knowing exactly what he’s reacting to. 

His entire face blossoms with cherry red as he does another once over on the black ink inside your mouth. 

“Angel, my ass,” he mutters under his breath before wetting his lips. Already hungry for more. 

He tilts your chin upwards and leans forward to kiss you. It’s softer, slower this time, but of course, he still nips gently at your bottom lip, and at the same time, he slips his free hand down between the two of you once more. It moves beneath the hem of your skirt, fingers shoving your panties to the side, the pulp of his middle finger pushing through your puffy folds and into your dripping hole, until the black ink that reads, brake, is entirely sheathed inside your worn cunt, making sure his come stays where it belongs. You whimper against his lips, bucking into his hand.

“Keep that in there, f’me,” he mutters, his hot breath fanning over your lips. “Want you thinkin’ o’me when it drips outta ya tonight.” 

You whine faintly when Joel removes his hand. He brings it up to his face, and his tongue darts out to glide across the tip of his digit, licking his finger clean of your wet and his, all while keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. 

There’s a long beat of silence between you, and then he drops his hand, pulling away. Your heart falls, already missing the warmth emanating from his touch.

“We oughta get back before people start looking for us,” he murmurs as he steps back. You smile softly and nod. You’re not sure you’ll see him again. And you don’t have the heart to ask him, nor do you have the strength to handle it if he rejects your offer. You have nothing else to give. 

You love how he made you feel, but your chest twinges — one that twists deep. And no matter how much you try to quell that deep-seated fear, it never truly leaves you. A little voice in the back of your mind that repeats on a loop like a broken record, telling you: He’ll break your heart. They all do. But he can’t hurt you if you don’t let him. You resist the urge to turn and run. And instead, you turn to glance back in the mirror, sure to tame your disheveled appearance, giving Joel a chance to leave before you, slipping back into someone from your past.

He makes his way to the door, sliding the lock open; his hand curls around the handle but pauses before pulling it open. He turns to face you. “You okay?” he asks. 

It shocks you. It’s more than his son ever did. Certainly means more to you after he’d ask, Was it good, after coming in you before you even got started. Everything Joel did tonight is more than his son ever did; asking you questions all night and listening attentively while you answered them — whether it was with the hope of fucking you or not — doesn't matter. You fought tooth and nail for a sliver of his son’s attention, but with Joel, he just fucking gave it to you. 

You do your best to ignore that gnawing feeling of fear, clawing its way up your chest by the only way you know how; you press your lips to Joel’s, pushing your tongue into his awaiting mouth, and licking along the rim of his teeth. A strong hand curls around your jaw, fighting for dominance over the kiss, but you don’t let him for long, though. Reluctantly, you pry yourself off him, but not before Joel’s teeth softly graze your earlobe, nipping the flesh there.

You flash him a quick smile, looping the strap of your purse over your shoulder. “Perfect.” 

He smiles softly at that, eyes dancing across your face. “Yeah,” he whispers and moves to the side, letting you step out first and following you out. 

You head straight to the booth where your group of four awaits you, but not before peering over your shoulder and seeing Joel stalk towards his crew. You smile to yourself and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear as you approach your friends. As you shimmy in beside one of them, they ask where you were, and their brows pinch when you mumble, I was feeling a little dizzy. Which isn’t a total lie, but no one presses you for more, and you’re glad they don’t. 

It’s not until your friends start collecting their belongings and announce they want to check out the new bar a few blocks down the street when you feel the weight of tonight’s actions sinking into you. You’re about ready to call it a night; your eyes are heavy, your brain is still fuzzy, and your body still has not recovered from Joel railing you. 

You mull over sitting in the booth until the car you plan to order shows up to take you home. But the thought of waiting around in Joel’s presence makes your chest tighten. You don’t want to find out if he’ll be like the rest of them. Something to scratch an itch, and then wiping you from memory. That urge to flee loops back, and your legs force you to stand.

Collectively, you amble through the bar, still bubbling with energy, and as you make your way to the exit, you can feel the heat of a stare on you. You don’t need to turn to know who it is; his broad form ghosts along the edges of your periphery.

You walk against that pull you feel towards him, ache festering, skin burning, and bones grating with every heavy step, your eyes locked on the door like a missile to a target, not letting your eyes wander over to his booth, trying to keep what’s left of your dignity. Resisting. Resisting. Resisting. 

Lucas steps out first, holding the door open for another group of younger twenty-somethings as they saunter into the bar. While you hang back, you quickly mumble over your shoulder to Nell that you’re thinking of heading home. Worry cuts across her face, and she extends an offer, At least let me drive you home, hun. 

Your answer is cut off by the chime of your phone in your purse. You still and fumble for it and see a message from Mr. Miller. You had forgotten you never deleted his number. 

Holding your phone close to your chest, cautiously away from your friend’s curious eyes, you click on the notification.

He’d sent you two of the pictures he happily took at the top of the hour with a message that reads, Look damn sexy on my cock, kiddo. 

Your mouth falls open in a gasp, and pride swells in your chest as you glance at the first picture: Joel plugging your used cunt full of his length, his graying pubic hairs drenched and the base of his shaft gleaming with a white ring of creamy release. Your eyes flit upwards, and you finally get a chance to read the dark permanent lines he’d written on your skin.

Joel had crossed out the latter half of your tattoo on your ass cheek. It now reads, daddy’s fleshlight, in sloppy penmanship. With his grip porcelain white, the cross on his thumb makes an appearance as his digit digs into your hip at the corner of your tattoo. Your eyes drift further north, and above the globe of your ass, the small of your back reads, mine. 

Your thumb swipes across the screen to the second picture. With his cock poised in his hand, he had pressed the swollen mushroom head, only a hairsbreadth beneath the ink on the plush flesh of your ass — black ink shiny with a pearly film, he had smeared it in your mixed juices. Your cunt clenches at the images — at his absence, missing the warm, thick stretch of him. And suddenly, you feel his cum beginning to dribble out of you and pool into the gusset of your already ruined thong. 

When you don’t answer. The message bubble appears.

A beat, then two, and then—

There’s a place for you here.

You swallow down the twinge, the ache, press your thighs shut around emptiness, and feel another slight trickle escape your lower lips when your pussy releases more of his cum. You lock your phone and look back up at Nell in front of you. You feign nonchalance and wave her off, telling her you can’t go home just yet. Tell her that you received a few more requests from your boss and you, Don’t wanna take work home. 

She asks how you’ll get home, you lie, and swiftly mention that you just saw Mr. Miller across the bar and that he’ll drive you home. Another tiny white lie. Your place is a solid halfway point from the bar to his house. And when she asks if you’re sure you’ll be okay alone, her hand gently squeezing your arm, brows furrowed with worry, bless her heart, your gaze follows that pull like a magnet and lands on Joel. 

He’s already watching you. 

Your eyes lock with his, one hand resting to the side while the other tips the glass he’d been nursing towards you, winking as he takes a short sip of amber liquid. 

And there’s no pang in your chest. No urge to flee. Just the warmth of his gaze that in any second now will radiate through his touch, turning your bones to ash. 

You flash Nell a smile. Yeah…You’ll be fine.