I'll mostly write crack but I'll throw in x reader if yall guys want.; I take requests for all jjba parts except six and eight cos I haven't seen them yet
“I’m going to tell you something, Padmé.” He leaned even further forward, and she let her eyes fall closed. “I don’t want you to feel shy with me. You can tell me what to do, whenever you want, and however you want me to do it, and I will do what you ask. Whether it's work, or…” She shuddered slightly, and he attempted to say the next part of his sentence, his voice faltering. ”Do you understand what I mean?”
Padmé counted out three breaths, and nodded.
“Yes.”
“Then tell me what to do, Miss Naberrie.” She opened her eyes slowly, and locked eyes with him, his expression frankly… desperate. Yearning. Eager to hear what she was going to say.
-
got a tad obsessed with the idea of an anidala au based on The Secretary (2002). wrote 30k words of straight freak about it. also, if you’re confused — i’m anidalaafterdark! (i just separate my accounts to break up the insane blotch that adds to my digital footprint. PFFTTT) you can read about it now :)
summary: haunted by his past, anakin discovers comfort in your forbidden touch
warnings: SMUT, dirty talk, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it), multiple orgasms f!receiving, fingering f!receiving, heavy bionic arm mention, anakin yearning, confessions of love, forbidden romance, fluffy aftercare, let me know if i missed any!
a/n: this is my first anakin/star wars fic ever i recently got into anakin and i can never go back anyways i hope u all enjoy!!
The Jedi Temple always had a way of making you feel cold.
Despite the Coruscant sun filtering through its high windows and the polished stone warmed by thousands of footsteps, there was an emptiness in the air that training and discipline could never fill. It was silence masquerading as peace. And you—barely a Jedi, no longer a Padawan—were beginning to see the cracks in the Order’s perfectly composed exterior.
And then there was Anakin Skywalker.
He wasn’t a crack. He was a rift.
The first time you met, he had just returned from a campaign in the Outer Rim. His robes were scorched, hair damp with sweat, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. You were in the Archives, studying doctrine you were no longer sure you believed in. He passed by you—then paused.
“You’re not just reading that,” he said, voice low, tinged with amusement. “You’re trying to believe it.”
You looked up, startled. His gaze pinned you. Not unkind, but sharp. Intimate. Intrusive.
You didn’t respond. He smiled anyway.
“Don’t worry,” he said, walking away. “I don’t believe it either.”
You should have let it go. But that one sentence lodged in your chest and stayed there like a live wire.
Since then, he’s been everywhere.
In the Temple, brushing shoulders in hallways. On missions, volunteered for with what he insisted was coincidence. His presence charged the air around you. He didn’t flirt—Jedi weren’t supposed to. But there was something far more dangerous than words.
A glance held too long.
A breath caught in his throat when your fingers brushed.
The way his hand hovered at your lower back, never quite touching—but gods, you wanted it to.
And tonight, the line between restraint and surrender is thinner than ever.
⸻
The war is quiet, for once. You’re both stationed on a Republic cruiser, en route back to Coruscant after assisting with negotiations on a neutral system. Anakin had done most of the talking—charismatic, unpredictable, disarming even when he was furious. You just stood beside him, your voice calm, your force presence grounding his.
You’re in your quarters now. The lights are low. You haven’t slept.
A knock.
You hesitate, heart racing.
The door slides open and there he is—hair a tousled mess, dark robes loose around his shoulders. There’s a tension in his jaw, a heat in his eyes that doesn’t match the calm expression he tries to wear.
“You’re awake,” he says softly.
You nod. “So are you.”
He glances down the hall as the door closes behind him, sealing you both in quiet.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
He takes a slow step forward. You don’t back away.
“You feel it too,” he says. Not a question.
Your pulse thrums. “It doesn’t matter.”
His hand—the real one—lifts and brushes your cheek with such care, it shatters the wall of silence between you. “It does to me.”
His voice is rough with restraint. The force trembles faintly around him, echoing his unrest.
“Anakin…”
His name on your lips pulls a soft groan from his throat. His head dips—close, so close, but he doesn’t kiss you. He hovers.
“I dream about you,” he whispers. “When I’m gone. When I’m in battle. Every time I close my eyes.”
You can feel the heat of him, smell the dust of the stars and war clinging to his skin. Your body aches for him like a song with no words.
“You’re a Jedi,” you say, but even your voice is trembling.
“I’m human,” he replies. “And I want you.”
The words hit like a tidal wave. You gasp softly, the sound swallowed between your bodies. His bionic hand, usually hidden beneath a glove or sleeve, is bare. The metallic sheen of it catches in the low light. It rests at his side—still, but alive with tension.
Your eyes drop to it.
He sees.
And for the first time, Anakin Skywalker looks… uncertain.
“It’s not just a weapon,” he says, voice low. “Not with you.”
Your fingers reach for it, hesitating only once before brushing against the cool metal. His breath hitches. You trace the edge of his palm, slowly, reverently.
“Then show me what else it can be,” you whisper.
He swallows hard, jaw clenching.
He doesn’t move for a long moment—then steps back.
“Not here,” he murmurs. “Not rushed.”
You stare at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I want you,” he says, as if it physically hurts him to admit it. “But I don’t want to take. I want you to give.”
Your body feels lit from within, but your heart stutters.
He’s always been intense. But this is different.
“Then take your time,” you say, voice barely audible.
He looks at you like he’s drowning in everything he shouldn’t feel—but he’s not letting go. Not this time.
He brushes your cheek again, and this time he does kiss you. Soft. Lingering. Like a promise sealed with heat and desperation.
And when he leaves—just for now—your lips are still tingling, your body thrumming, and you know this tension won’t hold much longer.
⸻
Three days pass.
Three days of war briefings, close quarters, and the kind of silence that vibrates with everything unsaid.
Anakin doesn’t touch you again. Not in the hallways, not during missions, not even during quiet conversations shared over rations and datapads. But his eyes never leave you. They follow you like shadows: watching, wanting, waiting.
You can feel the tension winding tighter each day—until it finally snaps.
It happens late at night, when the ship is running on low power and everyone’s settled into uneasy rest. Your quarters are too small for the way your body tosses beneath thin sheets, haunted by the memory of his mouth on yours.
A soft chime.
You don’t think. You answer.
He slips in without a word, his cloak shed in one motion. The door seals behind him, and for a breathless moment, all he does is stare at you. Hair mussed. Shadows under his eyes. Chest rising and falling with a rhythm that speaks of war—not the one outside, but the one inside him.
You whisper, “Anakin…”
He crosses the room in three strides and kisses you like a man starved.
No pretense. No delay. His hands—flesh and metal—wrap around your waist, anchoring you to him as his mouth claims yours with a force that steals air and thought. You whimper into the kiss, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic as he walks you backward, bumping gently into the edge of the bed.
He pulls back—just far enough to speak. His voice is a growl.
“Tell me to stop.”
You don’t. You can’t.
You arch up to kiss him again, nails dragging lightly down his chest, and that’s all he needs.
He groans, deep and guttural, and suddenly he’s everywhere—mouth mapping your neck, hands exploring like he’s trying to memorize every inch. His flesh hand pushes up your tunic, the warmth of his palm a contrast to the chill of metal as his bionic hand slides up your bare spine.
The first full contact of it makes you gasp.
It’s cold, precise—and somehow just as reverent as flesh. It follows the curve of your spine with shocking delicacy, each joint moving fluidly like water over skin. The sensation is overwhelming. Alien. Erotic.
He watches your reaction carefully. “Too much?”
You shake your head, heart thundering. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
The bionic hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your face so he can kiss you again, deeper this time. His tongue explores your mouth with hungry strokes, matching the rhythm of his thumb—cold, calloused, metal—brushing over your pulse point.
You moan into his mouth.
He breaks the kiss to pant against your jaw. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me…”
Your hands find his shoulders, pushing the robes off slowly. Beneath, his body is heat and muscle and scars. But your fingers move to the base of the bionic arm—where metal meets skin. You touch the seam gently.
He shudders.
“You hate it,” you say softly.
He freezes.
“No,” he breathes. “I hate what it represents. But you…” His forehead touches yours. “You make me feel like I’m more than what they made me.”
The ache in your chest is almost worse than the ache between your legs.
You guide his bionic hand down your torso, pressing it over your breast, your nipple already hard beneath thin fabric. His breath catches. His fingers twitch, adjusting pressure.
He’s learning you.
The hand shifts—fingers spreading, curving, applying pressure with maddening precision. It’s like being touched by a machine programmed to worship you.
You grind into him with a needy moan, your body begging.
“Anakin, please—”
He lifts you like you weigh nothing, settling you on the bed. His knee nudges between your thighs, his body covering yours, and you’ve never felt so consumed.
But even now, even while trembling with want, he pauses.
“You can stop this any time,” he whispers. “You say the word, and I walk out that door.”
You look up at him—his wild hair, flushed cheeks, lips swollen from your kisses. His body is tense above you, like a dam about to break.
And you whisper, “Don’t you dare.”
His mouth crashes into yours again, and this time, there is no holding back.
Anakin’s weight settles over you, his heat pressing into every line of your body. His kiss deepens, bruising and wet, his tongue claiming every soft sound you make. You arch into him, desperate for contact, for friction, and he gives it—his hips pressing into yours, clothed heat grinding against the aching center between your thighs.
“Force,” he gasps against your throat. “You feel… you feel like—”
You cut him off with a kiss, panting. “Touch me. I need—I want—Anakin, please.”
The last thread of control inside him snaps.
He pushes your tunic up and over your head, baring your chest to the chilled air. His eyes drink you in like he’s memorizing, worshiping, burning.
“Maker,” he breathes, running his real hand down your side—soothing, grounding—but it’s the bionic one that moves with intent. The sound of shifting metal is soft, intimate, as the arm flexes above you. It moves with uncanny precision, brushing your nipple with the pad of his thumb, adjusting pressure when you gasp and arch into the touch.
Every motion feels calculated—deliberate—but not detached.
“Does it feel good?” he murmurs.
You nod, breathless. “More than good.”
He smiles against your skin, mouth warm as it trails lower, nipping at your sternum, then dragging his tongue down between your breasts. The bionic hand explores further—cool metal gliding over your ribs, down your belly, to the band of your pants.
“Let me…” he starts, voice raw.
You lift your hips before he finishes the sentence. He slides the fabric down slowly, savoring every inch he reveals. When you’re bare beneath him, he just… stares. Like you’re something sacred.
His human hand cradles your thigh. The metal one trails from your knee to the inside of your leg. He spreads you with inhuman strength masked by delicate control.
You shiver. “You’re staring.”
“I’ve imagined this so many times,” he confesses hoarsely. “But I never thought it would feel this… real.”
Then he moves.
His metal fingers slide down to your center, parting your folds with aching precision. His index finger—cool and deliberate—presses slow circles against your clit. He watches your face, absorbing every twitch, every gasp, every moan as his pace adjusts.
You choke on a whimper. “Anakin—”
“I know,” he says, voice shaking. “I know. Let me take care of you.”
His middle finger sinks into you.
The sensation is unreal—hard, smooth, and perfectly curved. It’s not the warmth of flesh, but something different. Something more intense. He pumps slowly, curling just so, brushing against your inner walls with devastating accuracy.
“Oh—Force—”
“That’s it,” he pants, eyes dark. “Let me feel you like this.”
You writhe beneath him, hips chasing each stroke. He adds another finger—his hand strong enough to stretch you without pain. You’re slick and pulsing around him, your moans getting louder with every thrust of those bionic fingers.
You clutch at the sheets. “I’m gonna—”
“Come for me,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. “Let go. I want to feel you come apart around my hand.”
You do.
The orgasm hits you like a shockwave—tightening every nerve, arching your back, mouth falling open in a wordless cry. His fingers don’t stop until your legs shake, until you’re trembling beneath him like a live wire.
When he finally pulls away, your thighs are wet and twitching, your chest heaving.
He kisses your temple. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
But you’re not done.
Your fingers fumble with the clasp of his belt. “I want you now.”
He freezes as you tug his pants down. His cock springs free—hard, flushed, thick and pulsing. You look up at him through your lashes, then down at his length, reaching for him. He gasps when your hand wraps around him—soft skin to skin.
“You’re perfect,” you whisper.
He groans. “I’m not. But… I am yours.”
You tug him closer. “Then show me.”
He slides into you slowly, with reverence, both hands braced beside your head. His bionic arm supports his weight with ease, letting his flesh hand stroke your cheek as he sinks deeper.
You both moan—finally, finally joined. The stretch is intense, but you take him easily, your body greedy for his weight, his heat, him.
Anakin rests his forehead against yours. “You feel like home.”
And then he moves.
His hips roll, thrusting into you with smooth, deliberate pace. The tension between you builds again—sweat, panting, the wet sound of bodies moving in perfect sync. His mouth finds your neck, your lips, your jaw—desperate and scattered.
“Say my name,” he begs, voice unraveling.
“Anakin,” you gasp. “Anakin—yes—”
He thrusts harder, deeper. His bionic hand grips your hip, holding you in place. It’s too much and not enough. You’re drowning in him. He groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a man whose soul is already half lost.
When you clench around him, tight and close to the edge, he loses control.
“Gonna come—can’t—stars, I—”
“Come inside,” you whisper. “Please. I want to feel you.”
He growls and buries himself to the hilt, trembling as his orgasm rips through him. You feel it—his cock pulsing, his breath stuttering, your name a broken chant on his lips.
You come again just from the sound of it.
This one is quieter, deeper, your body clinging to his, pulling him closer. You ride it together, shaking, crying, gasping.
And then… stillness.
You don’t know how long you lie there with him, tangled together in the dark.
Anakin hasn’t moved. His breath fans warm against your shoulder as he presses soft, barely-there kisses to your skin—each one more like an apology than a reward. Your fingers rest in his damp hair, gently carding through the curls at his nape, grounding you both in something too real to name.
The war, the Temple, the galaxy—it all feels very far away.
Only this exists now. This moment. This impossible, forbidden peace.
He shifts just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, lashes long and dark against his flushed skin. He looks younger like this. Less like the war hero. Less like the Chosen One.
More like a man who’s just been loved.
“…Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly.
Your lips curve. “No. You were perfect.”
His brow creases, and his gaze flicks toward the bionic hand still curled gently against your thigh. He flexes the fingers experimentally—checking, calculating. “I tried to be gentle,” he murmurs. “It’s… hard. Sometimes I forget it’s not like my other hand.”
You take it in both of yours.
His breath catches.
You guide the metallic fingers to your lips and kiss the cold knuckles—one by one. “You didn’t forget. Not once.”
He swallows thickly, the tension in his shoulders softening like melting ice. He doesn’t say thank you—but the way he closes his eyes as you cradle the prosthetic says everything.
Silence settles between you again. Not heavy this time, but tender.
He lays down beside you, pulling you into his chest. The sheets are barely tugged over your hips. His skin is warm against yours, his heartbeat fast but steady beneath your ear.
“This shouldn’t have happened,” he whispers eventually. But he’s still holding you.
“I know.”
“Jedi aren’t supposed to love. Not like this.”
You tilt your head to look up at him. “Do you?”
He hesitates.
Then—his thumb brushes your cheek, gentle as a breeze. “I think I always have.”
Your chest tightens.
You reach up and touch his face, your fingers tracing the scar beneath his eye, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.
“Then let’s not pretend it didn’t happen.”
He nods—slowly. “Okay.”
You lay together like that for a long time, limbs entangled, breath synchronizing, bodies soft and sore and utterly spent. His nose brushes the curve of your shoulder as his hand—his metal one—moves to stroke your side in slow, featherlight lines.
Not passion now. Not hunger. Just presence.
His voice is rough with sleep when he says, “I don’t want this to be the only time.”
You smile, lips brushing his. “It won’t be.”
He kisses you then—slow and sweet, like there’s no war to return to, no council to defy, no fate hanging over his head like a blade. Just you. Just this.
When you finally fall asleep, wrapped in him, the galaxy fades into nothing.
And for the first time in a long, long time, Anakin Skywalker dreams of peace.
summary: haunted by his past, anakin discovers comfort in your forbidden touch
warnings: SMUT, dirty talk, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it), multiple orgasms f!receiving, fingering f!receiving, heavy bionic arm mention, anakin yearning, confessions of love, forbidden romance, fluffy aftercare, let me know if i missed any!
a/n: this is my first anakin/star wars fic ever i recently got into anakin and i can never go back anyways i hope u all enjoy!!
The Jedi Temple always had a way of making you feel cold.
Despite the Coruscant sun filtering through its high windows and the polished stone warmed by thousands of footsteps, there was an emptiness in the air that training and discipline could never fill. It was silence masquerading as peace. And you—barely a Jedi, no longer a Padawan—were beginning to see the cracks in the Order’s perfectly composed exterior.
And then there was Anakin Skywalker.
He wasn’t a crack. He was a rift.
The first time you met, he had just returned from a campaign in the Outer Rim. His robes were scorched, hair damp with sweat, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. You were in the Archives, studying doctrine you were no longer sure you believed in. He passed by you—then paused.
“You’re not just reading that,” he said, voice low, tinged with amusement. “You’re trying to believe it.”
You looked up, startled. His gaze pinned you. Not unkind, but sharp. Intimate. Intrusive.
You didn’t respond. He smiled anyway.
“Don’t worry,” he said, walking away. “I don’t believe it either.”
You should have let it go. But that one sentence lodged in your chest and stayed there like a live wire.
Since then, he’s been everywhere.
In the Temple, brushing shoulders in hallways. On missions, volunteered for with what he insisted was coincidence. His presence charged the air around you. He didn’t flirt—Jedi weren’t supposed to. But there was something far more dangerous than words.
A glance held too long.
A breath caught in his throat when your fingers brushed.
The way his hand hovered at your lower back, never quite touching—but gods, you wanted it to.
And tonight, the line between restraint and surrender is thinner than ever.
⸻
The war is quiet, for once. You’re both stationed on a Republic cruiser, en route back to Coruscant after assisting with negotiations on a neutral system. Anakin had done most of the talking—charismatic, unpredictable, disarming even when he was furious. You just stood beside him, your voice calm, your force presence grounding his.
You’re in your quarters now. The lights are low. You haven’t slept.
A knock.
You hesitate, heart racing.
The door slides open and there he is—hair a tousled mess, dark robes loose around his shoulders. There’s a tension in his jaw, a heat in his eyes that doesn’t match the calm expression he tries to wear.
“You’re awake,” he says softly.
You nod. “So are you.”
He glances down the hall as the door closes behind him, sealing you both in quiet.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
He takes a slow step forward. You don’t back away.
“You feel it too,” he says. Not a question.
Your pulse thrums. “It doesn’t matter.”
His hand—the real one—lifts and brushes your cheek with such care, it shatters the wall of silence between you. “It does to me.”
His voice is rough with restraint. The force trembles faintly around him, echoing his unrest.
“Anakin…”
His name on your lips pulls a soft groan from his throat. His head dips—close, so close, but he doesn’t kiss you. He hovers.
“I dream about you,” he whispers. “When I’m gone. When I’m in battle. Every time I close my eyes.”
You can feel the heat of him, smell the dust of the stars and war clinging to his skin. Your body aches for him like a song with no words.
“You’re a Jedi,” you say, but even your voice is trembling.
“I’m human,” he replies. “And I want you.”
The words hit like a tidal wave. You gasp softly, the sound swallowed between your bodies. His bionic hand, usually hidden beneath a glove or sleeve, is bare. The metallic sheen of it catches in the low light. It rests at his side—still, but alive with tension.
Your eyes drop to it.
He sees.
And for the first time, Anakin Skywalker looks… uncertain.
“It’s not just a weapon,” he says, voice low. “Not with you.”
Your fingers reach for it, hesitating only once before brushing against the cool metal. His breath hitches. You trace the edge of his palm, slowly, reverently.
“Then show me what else it can be,” you whisper.
He swallows hard, jaw clenching.
He doesn’t move for a long moment—then steps back.
“Not here,” he murmurs. “Not rushed.”
You stare at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I want you,” he says, as if it physically hurts him to admit it. “But I don’t want to take. I want you to give.”
Your body feels lit from within, but your heart stutters.
He’s always been intense. But this is different.
“Then take your time,” you say, voice barely audible.
He looks at you like he’s drowning in everything he shouldn’t feel—but he’s not letting go. Not this time.
He brushes your cheek again, and this time he does kiss you. Soft. Lingering. Like a promise sealed with heat and desperation.
And when he leaves—just for now—your lips are still tingling, your body thrumming, and you know this tension won’t hold much longer.
⸻
Three days pass.
Three days of war briefings, close quarters, and the kind of silence that vibrates with everything unsaid.
Anakin doesn’t touch you again. Not in the hallways, not during missions, not even during quiet conversations shared over rations and datapads. But his eyes never leave you. They follow you like shadows: watching, wanting, waiting.
You can feel the tension winding tighter each day—until it finally snaps.
It happens late at night, when the ship is running on low power and everyone’s settled into uneasy rest. Your quarters are too small for the way your body tosses beneath thin sheets, haunted by the memory of his mouth on yours.
A soft chime.
You don’t think. You answer.
He slips in without a word, his cloak shed in one motion. The door seals behind him, and for a breathless moment, all he does is stare at you. Hair mussed. Shadows under his eyes. Chest rising and falling with a rhythm that speaks of war—not the one outside, but the one inside him.
You whisper, “Anakin…”
He crosses the room in three strides and kisses you like a man starved.
No pretense. No delay. His hands—flesh and metal—wrap around your waist, anchoring you to him as his mouth claims yours with a force that steals air and thought. You whimper into the kiss, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic as he walks you backward, bumping gently into the edge of the bed.
He pulls back—just far enough to speak. His voice is a growl.
“Tell me to stop.”
You don’t. You can’t.
You arch up to kiss him again, nails dragging lightly down his chest, and that’s all he needs.
He groans, deep and guttural, and suddenly he’s everywhere—mouth mapping your neck, hands exploring like he’s trying to memorize every inch. His flesh hand pushes up your tunic, the warmth of his palm a contrast to the chill of metal as his bionic hand slides up your bare spine.
The first full contact of it makes you gasp.
It’s cold, precise—and somehow just as reverent as flesh. It follows the curve of your spine with shocking delicacy, each joint moving fluidly like water over skin. The sensation is overwhelming. Alien. Erotic.
He watches your reaction carefully. “Too much?”
You shake your head, heart thundering. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
The bionic hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your face so he can kiss you again, deeper this time. His tongue explores your mouth with hungry strokes, matching the rhythm of his thumb—cold, calloused, metal—brushing over your pulse point.
You moan into his mouth.
He breaks the kiss to pant against your jaw. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me…”
Your hands find his shoulders, pushing the robes off slowly. Beneath, his body is heat and muscle and scars. But your fingers move to the base of the bionic arm—where metal meets skin. You touch the seam gently.
He shudders.
“You hate it,” you say softly.
He freezes.
“No,” he breathes. “I hate what it represents. But you…” His forehead touches yours. “You make me feel like I’m more than what they made me.”
The ache in your chest is almost worse than the ache between your legs.
You guide his bionic hand down your torso, pressing it over your breast, your nipple already hard beneath thin fabric. His breath catches. His fingers twitch, adjusting pressure.
He’s learning you.
The hand shifts—fingers spreading, curving, applying pressure with maddening precision. It’s like being touched by a machine programmed to worship you.
You grind into him with a needy moan, your body begging.
“Anakin, please—”
He lifts you like you weigh nothing, settling you on the bed. His knee nudges between your thighs, his body covering yours, and you’ve never felt so consumed.
But even now, even while trembling with want, he pauses.
“You can stop this any time,” he whispers. “You say the word, and I walk out that door.”
You look up at him—his wild hair, flushed cheeks, lips swollen from your kisses. His body is tense above you, like a dam about to break.
And you whisper, “Don’t you dare.”
His mouth crashes into yours again, and this time, there is no holding back.
Anakin’s weight settles over you, his heat pressing into every line of your body. His kiss deepens, bruising and wet, his tongue claiming every soft sound you make. You arch into him, desperate for contact, for friction, and he gives it—his hips pressing into yours, clothed heat grinding against the aching center between your thighs.
“Force,” he gasps against your throat. “You feel… you feel like—”
You cut him off with a kiss, panting. “Touch me. I need—I want—Anakin, please.”
The last thread of control inside him snaps.
He pushes your tunic up and over your head, baring your chest to the chilled air. His eyes drink you in like he’s memorizing, worshiping, burning.
“Maker,” he breathes, running his real hand down your side—soothing, grounding—but it’s the bionic one that moves with intent. The sound of shifting metal is soft, intimate, as the arm flexes above you. It moves with uncanny precision, brushing your nipple with the pad of his thumb, adjusting pressure when you gasp and arch into the touch.
Every motion feels calculated—deliberate—but not detached.
“Does it feel good?” he murmurs.
You nod, breathless. “More than good.”
He smiles against your skin, mouth warm as it trails lower, nipping at your sternum, then dragging his tongue down between your breasts. The bionic hand explores further—cool metal gliding over your ribs, down your belly, to the band of your pants.
“Let me…” he starts, voice raw.
You lift your hips before he finishes the sentence. He slides the fabric down slowly, savoring every inch he reveals. When you’re bare beneath him, he just… stares. Like you’re something sacred.
His human hand cradles your thigh. The metal one trails from your knee to the inside of your leg. He spreads you with inhuman strength masked by delicate control.
You shiver. “You’re staring.”
“I’ve imagined this so many times,” he confesses hoarsely. “But I never thought it would feel this… real.”
Then he moves.
His metal fingers slide down to your center, parting your folds with aching precision. His index finger—cool and deliberate—presses slow circles against your clit. He watches your face, absorbing every twitch, every gasp, every moan as his pace adjusts.
You choke on a whimper. “Anakin—”
“I know,” he says, voice shaking. “I know. Let me take care of you.”
His middle finger sinks into you.
The sensation is unreal—hard, smooth, and perfectly curved. It’s not the warmth of flesh, but something different. Something more intense. He pumps slowly, curling just so, brushing against your inner walls with devastating accuracy.
“Oh—Force—”
“That’s it,” he pants, eyes dark. “Let me feel you like this.”
You writhe beneath him, hips chasing each stroke. He adds another finger—his hand strong enough to stretch you without pain. You’re slick and pulsing around him, your moans getting louder with every thrust of those bionic fingers.
You clutch at the sheets. “I’m gonna—”
“Come for me,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. “Let go. I want to feel you come apart around my hand.”
You do.
The orgasm hits you like a shockwave—tightening every nerve, arching your back, mouth falling open in a wordless cry. His fingers don’t stop until your legs shake, until you’re trembling beneath him like a live wire.
When he finally pulls away, your thighs are wet and twitching, your chest heaving.
He kisses your temple. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
But you’re not done.
Your fingers fumble with the clasp of his belt. “I want you now.”
He freezes as you tug his pants down. His cock springs free—hard, flushed, thick and pulsing. You look up at him through your lashes, then down at his length, reaching for him. He gasps when your hand wraps around him—soft skin to skin.
“You’re perfect,” you whisper.
He groans. “I’m not. But… I am yours.”
You tug him closer. “Then show me.”
He slides into you slowly, with reverence, both hands braced beside your head. His bionic arm supports his weight with ease, letting his flesh hand stroke your cheek as he sinks deeper.
You both moan—finally, finally joined. The stretch is intense, but you take him easily, your body greedy for his weight, his heat, him.
Anakin rests his forehead against yours. “You feel like home.”
And then he moves.
His hips roll, thrusting into you with smooth, deliberate pace. The tension between you builds again—sweat, panting, the wet sound of bodies moving in perfect sync. His mouth finds your neck, your lips, your jaw—desperate and scattered.
“Say my name,” he begs, voice unraveling.
“Anakin,” you gasp. “Anakin—yes—”
He thrusts harder, deeper. His bionic hand grips your hip, holding you in place. It’s too much and not enough. You’re drowning in him. He groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a man whose soul is already half lost.
When you clench around him, tight and close to the edge, he loses control.
“Gonna come—can’t—stars, I—”
“Come inside,” you whisper. “Please. I want to feel you.”
He growls and buries himself to the hilt, trembling as his orgasm rips through him. You feel it—his cock pulsing, his breath stuttering, your name a broken chant on his lips.
You come again just from the sound of it.
This one is quieter, deeper, your body clinging to his, pulling him closer. You ride it together, shaking, crying, gasping.
And then… stillness.
You don’t know how long you lie there with him, tangled together in the dark.
Anakin hasn’t moved. His breath fans warm against your shoulder as he presses soft, barely-there kisses to your skin—each one more like an apology than a reward. Your fingers rest in his damp hair, gently carding through the curls at his nape, grounding you both in something too real to name.
The war, the Temple, the galaxy—it all feels very far away.
Only this exists now. This moment. This impossible, forbidden peace.
He shifts just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, lashes long and dark against his flushed skin. He looks younger like this. Less like the war hero. Less like the Chosen One.
More like a man who’s just been loved.
“…Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly.
Your lips curve. “No. You were perfect.”
His brow creases, and his gaze flicks toward the bionic hand still curled gently against your thigh. He flexes the fingers experimentally—checking, calculating. “I tried to be gentle,” he murmurs. “It’s… hard. Sometimes I forget it’s not like my other hand.”
You take it in both of yours.
His breath catches.
You guide the metallic fingers to your lips and kiss the cold knuckles—one by one. “You didn’t forget. Not once.”
He swallows thickly, the tension in his shoulders softening like melting ice. He doesn’t say thank you—but the way he closes his eyes as you cradle the prosthetic says everything.
Silence settles between you again. Not heavy this time, but tender.
He lays down beside you, pulling you into his chest. The sheets are barely tugged over your hips. His skin is warm against yours, his heartbeat fast but steady beneath your ear.
“This shouldn’t have happened,” he whispers eventually. But he’s still holding you.
“I know.”
“Jedi aren’t supposed to love. Not like this.”
You tilt your head to look up at him. “Do you?”
He hesitates.
Then—his thumb brushes your cheek, gentle as a breeze. “I think I always have.”
Your chest tightens.
You reach up and touch his face, your fingers tracing the scar beneath his eye, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.
“Then let’s not pretend it didn’t happen.”
He nods—slowly. “Okay.”
You lay together like that for a long time, limbs entangled, breath synchronizing, bodies soft and sore and utterly spent. His nose brushes the curve of your shoulder as his hand—his metal one—moves to stroke your side in slow, featherlight lines.
Not passion now. Not hunger. Just presence.
His voice is rough with sleep when he says, “I don’t want this to be the only time.”
You smile, lips brushing his. “It won’t be.”
He kisses you then—slow and sweet, like there’s no war to return to, no council to defy, no fate hanging over his head like a blade. Just you. Just this.
When you finally fall asleep, wrapped in him, the galaxy fades into nothing.
And for the first time in a long, long time, Anakin Skywalker dreams of peace.
When you stepped into your bedroom, you found Peter standing outside your closet, just staring into it. You came up behind him and hugged him. He put his hands over yours.
“Whatcha doing? Something interesting in there?”
“Not yet, but there will be.”
You couldn’t help but laugh. “What the heck does that mean?”
Peter turned around to look at you. “I want to make your hiding place more comfortable.”
“Wait, what?”
You had always needed a private little safe space. Somewhere you could go and hide when you were feeling too anxious or scared. Some place small to contain big feelings… and to protect others from them. You’d been doing this since you were a kid. Peter was always very understanding about it. Sometimes, he would even join you in hiding.
In your current apartment, your bedroom closet was the chosen space. You would curl up in a ball on the floor and try to forget that anything outside of it existed. And even, at times, that you existed.
“Peter, that’s really sweet, but you don’t have to do that.”
“I know; I want to. I understand the urge to hide. But I wish you had a more comfortable place to do it, instead of just lying on the hard wood floor in here.”
You sighed. That’s all you felt worthy of, sometimes. It’s not like you enjoyed having these big feelings. And you certainly didn't want to subject other people to them.
“Look, if you’re just going to disrupt the process, you can go do something else,” he said with a gentle smile.
“Peter—“
“Or I can put you to work. Bring me all the throw blankets you can find! And throw pillows too!”
Though reluctant, you obliged him, bringing in the ones from the living room.
“Okay, now let me get to work!”
When Peter brought you back into the bedroom an hour later, the closet door was shut, so you didn’t know what to expect. You looked at him. He smiled.
“Go on.”
When you opened the door, you found that he’d used all the pillows and blankets—and a few stuffed animals—to make you, basically, a fort. (If you squinted, you could see tiny webs holding the different pieces in place.)
“Now, you’ll have some place cozy to go to when you want to hide.”
You blinked back tears and squeezed his hand. “And you will too.” You said hastily.
“Huh?”
“I mean, when you inevitably join me in there when you get home from May’s or taking pictures or saving the city.” If you fell asleep in hiding, you often awoke to Peter climbing in with you or covering you with a blanket.
“Oh, yeah, I guess that’s true. But I didn’t do this for me.” He turned to look at you. “I just know that, when you’re in there, you’re not feeling great, and I hate that you’re alone. I hate that I can’t instantly make you feel better. This isn’t much, but it’s finally something.” You gave him a curious look. “Yes, I’ve been planning this for a while now. Not this exactly, but something. I hate that you’ll just lay in there on the cold, hard floor.”
You didn’t want to tell him that it was sometimes all you felt worthy of. Peter clearly had a different idea. He had turned a pseudo-punishment into a palace.
You wrapped your arms around him and leaned against his chest.
“What?” He said, noticing your tears. “What’s wrong?”
this was written with mcu peter in mind but it can be about whichever one you'd like!
peter parker had nailed the element of surprise, I mean you'd be a little shocked if he hadn't by now, right? being a superhero and all, sneaking up on enemies–or in his case–girlfriends was practically second nature.
the thing is peter didn't sneak up on you normally–not that there was really a way to sneak up on people normally...
when you picture a surprise you think scared from behind. hands on your shoulders with a laughing peter behind you–and that was the case. sometimes.
most of the time it went like this. you'd be perched on top of your couch, flipping through pages of a book, soaking in the silence of a peaceful day before–bam! attacked with kisses.
you don't even know where peter comes from half of the time, always silent, never catching onto his footsteps.
"where'd you even come from!?" you'd squeak, falling on your back from his weight while he just laughed above you, burying his face into the crook of your neck like he had all day.
"c'mon! you didn't hear me? was bein' so loud." he smiled against your skin, dragging his lips down the column of your throat. gentle but aggressive kisses that sent your head reeling.
"whatcha get for making fun of my "peter tingle", bet you had it right about how, huh?"
"oh, shut up."
but deep down you loved it–and maybe a small part of him knew it too. besides, who could ever hate peter parker's love sick kisses?
cw: sort of angsty, oblivious and idiot peter, grovelling
“Uh, did you want to do a certain topic?” Peter asks, nervously rolling his pencil on the table. Getting paired up for a project with his ex wasn’t part of his agenda, but he’s not gonna pass up this opportunity.
He’ll apologise for missing so many dates, confess he’s Spider-Man, and beg for your forgiveness. In his head, it’s easy, but the minute you sit next to him in the almost empty library, Peter chickens out. What if you don’t like him anymore? It’s his fault you dumped him.
"Um," you're probably just as nervous as he is, maybe even more. You busy your fidgeting hands by tying up your hair into a ponytail instead of tapping them restlessly against the wooden table. "Not really, no. Did you?"
Peter shakes his head, trying to act like being near you doesn’t still give him butterflies. It takes him a minute to think of something to say, but his brain short circuits more and more as he realises just how alone you two are.
After an uncomfortable few seconds of him trying to form a sentence through the swarm of butterflies in his stomach, he finally manages a weak, “How are you?”
You blink, a little surprised, but offer a smile at his attempts to make some conversation. "I'm okay," you murmur. "And you?"
He swallows, returning the smile as his gaze drifts up from his notebook to you. “I’m good, just busy with, uh... school stuff.”
You hum thoughtfully. "Yeah." This conversation was painfully awkward. You almost wished you had been paired with anyone else except Peter, but you can't deny the way your heart flutters in his presence. "How's May?" you ask softly.
Peter’s eyes light up a little at the mention of May. “She’s… good. Really good, actually. Keeps bugging me to eat more." He lets out a soft laugh, then hesitates. “She… uh, she still asks about you. Says the house feels quieter without you around for dinner.”
He didn’t mean for it to come out like that—like an accidental confession that he noticed the silence too—but there it was.
"Oh," you murmur, after a beat of hesitation. "Tell her I'm sorry?"
His shoulders slouch when you say that, as if there was a small part of him holding out hope that you wanted to come to one of those dinners again. Peter clears his throat as he pushes the thought away. He gives you a sad smile as he nods, “I will. I’m… I know she misses you. I miss having you over for dinner, if I’m being honest.”
Your heart aches, a little, in your chest. "You do?"
There it was again, that nervous, awkward silence. A soft sigh leaves his lips when he hears your question, and he finally gives in, nodding. His shoulders slump forward as he admits the truth he’s been avoiding.
“Yeah. Yeah, I… I miss you a lot, actually. And I hate myself for how I treated you. I was a shitty boyfriend. I know that now. But I really do miss you, so much.”
You're not even sure what to say, so you just stare at him, blinking.
Peter instantly regrets it. His hands fly up, nervously brushing his hair back as he stammers, “Uh, forget I said that! I didn’t mean to... Crap, this is so awkward.”
He laughs nervously, eyes darting everywhere but at you. “Too much? Yeah. Definitely too much. We’re just doing a project. Totally chill partners.” But then he sneaks a glance at you—and for a split second, the mask slips. You see it: the boy who still cares way too much.
"Of course I miss you too," you blurt. You're not sure who's more surprised at your sudden outburst: Peter, or you. "But I can't put myself through that again, Peter. I want to be with someone who doesn't lie and make up excuses for standing me up, and doesn't make me wait for hours without a call or even a text."
Peter's mouth opens, then closes, as though he doesn't know how to reply. For the smartest kid in the grade, he's awfully slow when it comes to relationships. When it comes to you. “You don’t understand… I just—I had more important things to do—"
"More important than me?" You whisper quietly, voice tinged with hurt.
His heart breaks all over again. He wanted to reach out and hold you, tell you he was just being a stupid hero and that you were, and always would be, the most important thing to him. But what he wanted to do, and what he should do were two different things. So he tried to keep his distance, to keep playing the role of careless ex-boyfriend.
“Yeah. Yeah, I had more important things to do than hang out with you."
You can't look at him now, trying to still the hurt bubbling up in your chest, and all you want to do is just cry. You weren't important enough for him to stay.
Peter instantly regrets his words when he sees the way you turn away, how your shoulders slump. A wave of guilt and regret washes over him as he watches your reaction, his own heart shattering as he sees you trying not to cry.
"We can do special relativity," you say instead, voice smaller, guarded. "For the project."
The casual change in conversation felt like another blow to his chest, the sudden wall you put up hurting him more than he cared to admit. He missed how things used to be - how he used to make you laugh and smile, how he could hold your hand or wrap an arm around your shoulder.
But he had to remember, all of that was gone. So Peter nods, his voice quiet. “Special relativity is fine, yeah.”
You take out my notes while stuffing every single emotion right back down so you don't look like an emotional freak in front of him, as well as your laptop. You flip to the page in your notebook on special relativity. With tiny doodles of Spider-Man in the margins, who you still didn't even know was Peter.
Peter notices. Of course he does - how could he not? His eyes flicker to the doodles, and he freezes. Tiny little Spidey sketches—him, in his suit—lurking beside equations about time dilation and light speed. He didn’t know you even liked the guy. Let alone drew him.
A soft, sad smile tugs at his lips. “Huh,” he says quietly, tapping one of the drawings with his pencil. “You’re… a fan?”
"Mhm," you reply softly, still guarded, walls up. You hate how small he just made you feel. "Why, are you?"
He wanted to tell you the truth. That he was that very superhero in the drawings you had in your notes. That he was that hero you had a crush on. But he shrugs and forces a casual smile, trying to look like he was completely indifferent.
“Spider-Man? Nah, not my type. Just a guy in tights, y’know? Weirdo who fights crime.”
"He's not a weirdo," you murmur eventually, after a pause, suddenly defensive of this little superhero drawn in your margins. "He's a hero. He saves people."
Peter wanted to laugh at that. God, you were just so adorable without even knowing. He tried to sound casual. Like a guy who didn’t care way too much about the fact that you liked the friendly neighbourhood hero. “If you say so, sweetheart.”
You blink. Try to ignore the way your traitorous heart jumps at the pet name. "Don't call me that."
He winces at your words, the way you shot down the pet name so quickly. He always used to call you sweetheart, and you used to love it. "Why not? I used to call you that all the time."
"Maybe because before I thought I was important to you." You look away from him, gaze fixated on the wall, the shelves, anything else. "Now I know I never was."
Of course you were important to him. He never felt more alive, more whole, more happy than when he was with you. But Peter Parker was an idiot.
But he also couldn't stand being an idiot anymore.
He let out a soft sigh, fighting the temptation to touch you. “You were always important to me, sweetheart.”
"No, I wasn't," you whisper, adamant. Your heart hurts, so bad.
Peter can’t do this anymore. The mask slips completely. No more jokes. No more sarcasm. No more pretending he doesn’t care.
“You were everything to me,” he says, voice raw and trembling now, eyes glassy like he’s fighting back tears. “I missed every date because I was saving lives across the city. And yeah, maybe I should’ve been honest with you instead of making up excuses… but every time I held you after patrol? When you’d fall asleep on my shoulder during movies? That was the only peace I ever had.”
He hesitates, heart hammering. Not from fear of spiders or villains, but from fear of losing you, right here.
“…I’m Spider-Man.”
You blink, then again.
The silence stretches. Too long, too fragile. “I know it sounds insane,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But that’s why I was gone. That’s why I lied. Not because you weren’t important… but because I was terrified. Terrified you’d get hurt if anyone knew who I really was. Terrified I’d be the one to hurt you by vanishing at the worst times.”
“You were always important… more than anything.” He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I should have told you, I know. I was just so scared of losing you.”
"Why would you lose me?" You sounded so hurt, so confused. Like all of this could have been avoided if he just confessed the truth.
Peter looks down, rubbing his eyes to hide the tears. His voice shook as he said the words. “Because you didn't sign up for a relationship with Spider-Man.”
"Sure," you say quietly, "but that wouldn't have mattered, Peter. At least I would've known where you were."
You were right. He was an idiot for thinking he was protecting you. The truth would have hurt, sure, but not like this deception. There were a million things he wanted to say. Apologies, explanations, promises that he would be honest now. But the words caught in his throat as he looked at how hurt you were.
So he only managed a weak, choked-up whisper. “I never meant to lie to you, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
And you can't ever seem to hold a grudge against him. He's too genuine, too kind, and you think you can understand. Maybe you would have done the same in his place, to protect him. You'd do anything to keep him safe, you realise. "...It's okay," I murmur.
Peter's breath hitches. He wants to believe it, but he knows better. It isn’t okay. He hurt you, made you feel unimportant when you were the only thing that ever kept him grounded. “No… no, it’s not,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “I don’t deserve that.”
And then - before he can stop himself - he reaches out, gently brushing your hand with his fingers. “But if… if you’ll let me? I want to make it right.”
You don't pull your hand away, and Peter tries not to read too deeply into that. Instead he gently laces his fingers through yours—his calloused, scarred fingers against your soft ones.
He swallows hard, gently rubbing his thumb over yours. “Can we… can we start over, maybe?”
You can't say no. Can't say no when his hand's holding yours, so gently, like you're precious. You're too in love with him. Plus, you wouldn't want to say no, either. So you nod.
He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding - half-laugh, half-sob - as he squeezes your hand gently. His eyes shine, not quite dry.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Then… hi. I’m Peter Parker. I like science, bad puns, and... I really like you.”
And for the first time in months? He’s not lying. A small, hopeful smile tugs at his lips—the kind only you ever got to see—the real one beneath the mask of sarcasm and super-heroics.
You’re back. And this time… he won’t mess it up.
+ BONUS!
Two weeks later:
The rain hammers against the pavement as Peter stands on your doorstep, drenched to the bone. No coat. No umbrella. Just a single folded piece of notebook paper in his hand - your old project notes, carefully scanned and printed with tiny corrections in red pen.
In one hand: a thermos of hot cocoa from May’s recipe.
On his face: pure, unfiltered panic.
“I know I messed up again,” he says when you open the door, before you can even speak, voice cracking. “I was supposed to meet you for coffee an hour ago—but there was this runaway train—and I swear I texted but my phone died and—”
He drops to one knee in the puddle.
Not romantically. More like he slipped trying to be dramatic, but he rolls with it anyway.
“Okay! Fine! You win! I’m terrible at time management! But I do care about you—I care so much it physically hurts when I’m late because you’re worth being on time for.”
He holds out the cocoa like an offering. “So… will you forgive me? Again?”
Beneath all the awkwardness? There’s just Peter. The boy who loves you more than spiders or science or saving New York City itself. And yeah. That’s enough for you.
cw: sort of angsty, oblivious and idiot peter, grovelling
“Uh, did you want to do a certain topic?” Peter asks, nervously rolling his pencil on the table. Getting paired up for a project with his ex wasn’t part of his agenda, but he’s not gonna pass up this opportunity.
He’ll apologise for missing so many dates, confess he’s Spider-Man, and beg for your forgiveness. In his head, it’s easy, but the minute you sit next to him in the almost empty library, Peter chickens out. What if you don’t like him anymore? It’s his fault you dumped him.
"Um," you're probably just as nervous as he is, maybe even more. You busy your fidgeting hands by tying up your hair into a ponytail instead of tapping them restlessly against the wooden table. "Not really, no. Did you?"
Peter shakes his head, trying to act like being near you doesn’t still give him butterflies. It takes him a minute to think of something to say, but his brain short circuits more and more as he realises just how alone you two are.
After an uncomfortable few seconds of him trying to form a sentence through the swarm of butterflies in his stomach, he finally manages a weak, “How are you?”
You blink, a little surprised, but offer a smile at his attempts to make some conversation. "I'm okay," you murmur. "And you?"
He swallows, returning the smile as his gaze drifts up from his notebook to you. “I’m good, just busy with, uh... school stuff.”
You hum thoughtfully. "Yeah." This conversation was painfully awkward. You almost wished you had been paired with anyone else except Peter, but you can't deny the way your heart flutters in his presence. "How's May?" you ask softly.
Peter’s eyes light up a little at the mention of May. “She’s… good. Really good, actually. Keeps bugging me to eat more." He lets out a soft laugh, then hesitates. “She… uh, she still asks about you. Says the house feels quieter without you around for dinner.”
He didn’t mean for it to come out like that—like an accidental confession that he noticed the silence too—but there it was.
"Oh," you murmur, after a beat of hesitation. "Tell her I'm sorry?"
His shoulders slouch when you say that, as if there was a small part of him holding out hope that you wanted to come to one of those dinners again. Peter clears his throat as he pushes the thought away. He gives you a sad smile as he nods, “I will. I’m… I know she misses you. I miss having you over for dinner, if I’m being honest.”
Your heart aches, a little, in your chest. "You do?"
There it was again, that nervous, awkward silence. A soft sigh leaves his lips when he hears your question, and he finally gives in, nodding. His shoulders slump forward as he admits the truth he’s been avoiding.
“Yeah. Yeah, I… I miss you a lot, actually. And I hate myself for how I treated you. I was a shitty boyfriend. I know that now. But I really do miss you, so much.”
You're not even sure what to say, so you just stare at him, blinking.
Peter instantly regrets it. His hands fly up, nervously brushing his hair back as he stammers, “Uh, forget I said that! I didn’t mean to... Crap, this is so awkward.”
He laughs nervously, eyes darting everywhere but at you. “Too much? Yeah. Definitely too much. We’re just doing a project. Totally chill partners.” But then he sneaks a glance at you—and for a split second, the mask slips. You see it: the boy who still cares way too much.
"Of course I miss you too," you blurt. You're not sure who's more surprised at your sudden outburst: Peter, or you. "But I can't put myself through that again, Peter. I want to be with someone who doesn't lie and make up excuses for standing me up, and doesn't make me wait for hours without a call or even a text."
Peter's mouth opens, then closes, as though he doesn't know how to reply. For the smartest kid in the grade, he's awfully slow when it comes to relationships. When it comes to you. “You don’t understand… I just—I had more important things to do—"
"More important than me?" You whisper quietly, voice tinged with hurt.
His heart breaks all over again. He wanted to reach out and hold you, tell you he was just being a stupid hero and that you were, and always would be, the most important thing to him. But what he wanted to do, and what he should do were two different things. So he tried to keep his distance, to keep playing the role of careless ex-boyfriend.
“Yeah. Yeah, I had more important things to do than hang out with you."
You can't look at him now, trying to still the hurt bubbling up in your chest, and all you want to do is just cry. You weren't important enough for him to stay.
Peter instantly regrets his words when he sees the way you turn away, how your shoulders slump. A wave of guilt and regret washes over him as he watches your reaction, his own heart shattering as he sees you trying not to cry.
"We can do special relativity," you say instead, voice smaller, guarded. "For the project."
The casual change in conversation felt like another blow to his chest, the sudden wall you put up hurting him more than he cared to admit. He missed how things used to be - how he used to make you laugh and smile, how he could hold your hand or wrap an arm around your shoulder.
But he had to remember, all of that was gone. So Peter nods, his voice quiet. “Special relativity is fine, yeah.”
You take out my notes while stuffing every single emotion right back down so you don't look like an emotional freak in front of him, as well as your laptop. You flip to the page in your notebook on special relativity. With tiny doodles of Spider-Man in the margins, who you still didn't even know was Peter.
Peter notices. Of course he does - how could he not? His eyes flicker to the doodles, and he freezes. Tiny little Spidey sketches—him, in his suit—lurking beside equations about time dilation and light speed. He didn’t know you even liked the guy. Let alone drew him.
A soft, sad smile tugs at his lips. “Huh,” he says quietly, tapping one of the drawings with his pencil. “You’re… a fan?”
"Mhm," you reply softly, still guarded, walls up. You hate how small he just made you feel. "Why, are you?"
He wanted to tell you the truth. That he was that very superhero in the drawings you had in your notes. That he was that hero you had a crush on. But he shrugs and forces a casual smile, trying to look like he was completely indifferent.
“Spider-Man? Nah, not my type. Just a guy in tights, y’know? Weirdo who fights crime.”
"He's not a weirdo," you murmur eventually, after a pause, suddenly defensive of this little superhero drawn in your margins. "He's a hero. He saves people."
Peter wanted to laugh at that. God, you were just so adorable without even knowing. He tried to sound casual. Like a guy who didn’t care way too much about the fact that you liked the friendly neighbourhood hero. “If you say so, sweetheart.”
You blink. Try to ignore the way your traitorous heart jumps at the pet name. "Don't call me that."
He winces at your words, the way you shot down the pet name so quickly. He always used to call you sweetheart, and you used to love it. "Why not? I used to call you that all the time."
"Maybe because before I thought I was important to you." You look away from him, gaze fixated on the wall, the shelves, anything else. "Now I know I never was."
Of course you were important to him. He never felt more alive, more whole, more happy than when he was with you. But Peter Parker was an idiot.
But he also couldn't stand being an idiot anymore.
He let out a soft sigh, fighting the temptation to touch you. “You were always important to me, sweetheart.”
"No, I wasn't," you whisper, adamant. Your heart hurts, so bad.
Peter can’t do this anymore. The mask slips completely. No more jokes. No more sarcasm. No more pretending he doesn’t care.
“You were everything to me,” he says, voice raw and trembling now, eyes glassy like he’s fighting back tears. “I missed every date because I was saving lives across the city. And yeah, maybe I should’ve been honest with you instead of making up excuses… but every time I held you after patrol? When you’d fall asleep on my shoulder during movies? That was the only peace I ever had.”
He hesitates, heart hammering. Not from fear of spiders or villains, but from fear of losing you, right here.
“…I’m Spider-Man.”
You blink, then again.
The silence stretches. Too long, too fragile. “I know it sounds insane,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But that’s why I was gone. That’s why I lied. Not because you weren’t important… but because I was terrified. Terrified you’d get hurt if anyone knew who I really was. Terrified I’d be the one to hurt you by vanishing at the worst times.”
“You were always important… more than anything.” He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I should have told you, I know. I was just so scared of losing you.”
"Why would you lose me?" You sounded so hurt, so confused. Like all of this could have been avoided if he just confessed the truth.
Peter looks down, rubbing his eyes to hide the tears. His voice shook as he said the words. “Because you didn't sign up for a relationship with Spider-Man.”
"Sure," you say quietly, "but that wouldn't have mattered, Peter. At least I would've known where you were."
You were right. He was an idiot for thinking he was protecting you. The truth would have hurt, sure, but not like this deception. There were a million things he wanted to say. Apologies, explanations, promises that he would be honest now. But the words caught in his throat as he looked at how hurt you were.
So he only managed a weak, choked-up whisper. “I never meant to lie to you, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
And you can't ever seem to hold a grudge against him. He's too genuine, too kind, and you think you can understand. Maybe you would have done the same in his place, to protect him. You'd do anything to keep him safe, you realise. "...It's okay," I murmur.
Peter's breath hitches. He wants to believe it, but he knows better. It isn’t okay. He hurt you, made you feel unimportant when you were the only thing that ever kept him grounded. “No… no, it’s not,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “I don’t deserve that.”
And then - before he can stop himself - he reaches out, gently brushing your hand with his fingers. “But if… if you’ll let me? I want to make it right.”
You don't pull your hand away, and Peter tries not to read too deeply into that. Instead he gently laces his fingers through yours—his calloused, scarred fingers against your soft ones.
He swallows hard, gently rubbing his thumb over yours. “Can we… can we start over, maybe?”
You can't say no. Can't say no when his hand's holding yours, so gently, like you're precious. You're too in love with him. Plus, you wouldn't want to say no, either. So you nod.
He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding - half-laugh, half-sob - as he squeezes your hand gently. His eyes shine, not quite dry.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Then… hi. I’m Peter Parker. I like science, bad puns, and... I really like you.”
And for the first time in months? He’s not lying. A small, hopeful smile tugs at his lips—the kind only you ever got to see—the real one beneath the mask of sarcasm and super-heroics.
You’re back. And this time… he won’t mess it up.
+ BONUS!
Two weeks later:
The rain hammers against the pavement as Peter stands on your doorstep, drenched to the bone. No coat. No umbrella. Just a single folded piece of notebook paper in his hand - your old project notes, carefully scanned and printed with tiny corrections in red pen.
In one hand: a thermos of hot cocoa from May’s recipe.
On his face: pure, unfiltered panic.
“I know I messed up again,” he says when you open the door, before you can even speak, voice cracking. “I was supposed to meet you for coffee an hour ago—but there was this runaway train—and I swear I texted but my phone died and—”
He drops to one knee in the puddle.
Not romantically. More like he slipped trying to be dramatic, but he rolls with it anyway.
“Okay! Fine! You win! I’m terrible at time management! But I do care about you—I care so much it physically hurts when I’m late because you’re worth being on time for.”
He holds out the cocoa like an offering. “So… will you forgive me? Again?”
Beneath all the awkwardness? There’s just Peter. The boy who loves you more than spiders or science or saving New York City itself. And yeah. That’s enough for you.
illustration of caveman girl song my brother & i used to sing as kids which was in sort of a doo wop style & detailed a date with a caveman girl who ate a whole brisket in one bite
[ID: an illustration showing a small man in a suit and a large cave woman sitting at a table together with a pair of wine glasses and a big plate of unsliced brisket between them. the man looks smitten, chin in his hands as he looks adoringly at the woman, who is holding up her fork and eyeing the brisket.]
Could you write something like really angst with aj where like he went on a heist and she thought he was dead and like he apologises on his knees and then some like soft slow smut where he just keeps kissing her and apologises???? Thx
pairing: AJ x f!reader | genre: angst ❤️🩹 | wc: 2.3k
a/n: if you were trying to emotionally ruin me, congrats—you succeeded. but seriously, thank you so much for requesting this!! i hope you like it <3
also… wrote this while listening to code blue by the-dream. yes, i cried 😭
It was a typical Tuesday morning.
You had your shift at the diner—the one just a few blocks from the apartment you shared with AJ. Same regulars, same buzz of the overhead lights, same smell of burnt coffee and old grease that clung to your clothes no matter how many times you washed them.
And AJ, well… he had a heist planned. Bank job. No details. There never were. That was part of the deal.
He just kissed you—a little longer than usual. Told you he’d be careful and that he’d see you later. No real goodbye. He didn’t believe in those.
And of course, you didn’t love what he did—hated that it was unpredictable, that it came with too many unknowns and too many risks. But AJ had never given you a reason to doubt him.
He always promised to come home—and he did. Every time.
By now, it was midday. The diner was packed, lunch rush in full swing. Plates clattered in the kitchen, silverware scraped across plates, and someone at the counter was complaining about their toast being cold. You were in the middle of pouring a fresh round of coffee when the flicker of movement on the mounted TV caught your eye.
You glanced up—just for a second.
Breaking News flashed across the screen in bold red. You almost looked away, used to the noise of it by now. But then you saw it.
Outside of a bank. Police cars. Barricades.
A robbery.
Your stomach dropped.
You grabbed a rag and started clearing a nearby table, trying to play it cool as you leaned toward one of your coworkers. “Can you turn that up?” you asked, your voice low, like you were just curious.
She didn’t question it. Just grabbed the remote and nudged the volume up.
The anchor’s voice filled the room, crisp and too calm.
“We’re following a developing situation in downtown LA, where a five-man crew has attempted to rob First National Bank. Law enforcement has confirmed that the suspects are still inside, currently refusing to surrender. There are reports of multiple hostages. No demands have been made.”
Five.
Your heart gave a painful thud. AJ. Gordon. John. Jesse. Jake.
No. No. It wasn’t them. Couldn’t be.
There were a lot of five-man crews. A lot of banks. You clung to that logic like it could hold back the panic rising in your throat.
You stacked dishes with shaking hands.
“Coming in now… it appears shots have been fired. Officers are returning fire. We’ve just received confirmation—open exchange between the suspects and police.”
The footage shifted. Camera zoomed on gunfire erupting from the bank entrance, officers ducking behind vehicles, smoke and shouts and flashing lights in the distance.
Your movements slowed, heart hammering, as the anchor continued.
“We’re hearing now that the crew has been taken down. All five suspects have been neutralized. We repeat—all five suspects are down. No hostages harmed.”
The stack of dishes slipped from your hands and hit the floor hard, porcelain shattering into jagged pieces that rang throughout the diner. The sound turned heads, but you hardly noticed. You stood there for a second, frozen, until your coworker rushed over to help.
“I’ve got it,” they said gently, crouching down with a towel, but their voice felt far away.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, though the word hardly formed on your tongue.
Your body was already moving before you registered the decision. You pushed through the swinging door to the back, grabbed your phone with fumbling hands, and bolted through the alley exit. The warm air hit you in a suffocating way, but you didn’t stop. You dialed his number with shaking fingers.
Once. No answer.
You tried again.
Still nothing.
By the third call, the tears came—hot, blinding, unstoppable. You pressed the phone tighter to your ear, willing it to connect, trying to hold yourself together in the space between each ring. But the signs weren’t looking good. Not this time.
A few hours had gone by, and with each passing minute, your heart broke a little more. You sat on the couch, eyes flicking between your phone and the TV, trying to focus on the news, hoping for something—anything—but nothing new had come in. Just recycled footage. The same looping clips of the scene. The same headlines.
He would’ve called by now.
You knew that like you knew your own name. He always did, even when he couldn’t say much. Even when he knew he shouldn’t. He always found a way to let you know he was okay.
But this time… nothing.
It felt like your body had finally caved under the weight of it all. You doubled over where you sat, arms wrapping around your middle like you could hold yourself together. But the sobs still came, raw and heaving, until your whole frame shook. You pressed a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, but it barely helped. You didn’t want to fall apart, but it didn’t feel like a choice anymore.
And it was like that for hours. One minute, your tears came soft and silent, slipping down your cheeks in slow surrender. The next, you were gripping a pillow and gasping through it, the ache rising too fast, too sharp. Sometimes you’d pace the apartment, aimless and angry. Other times you’d just stare at the door, wishing it would open.
The sun eventually dipped below the skyline, the light shifting. Outside, the world kept going, headlights flashing past, voices trailing down the street, but inside—your world had stopped.
Just like that.
Hours later, somewhere, somehow, you’d found the strength to take a shower—an attempt at a distraction, at pretending things were okay for just a few minutes. But nothing could quiet the ache lodged in your chest. Nothing could stop your mind from spinning.
And then—
A noise. Loud. Something clattering.
You stilled, water streaming down your back, breath caught.
Another sound followed. Something heavier.
Without thinking, you twisted the knob off and stepped out, water dripping from your skin as you grabbed the nearest towel. You barely dried off, too focused on the pounding in your ears. Your hands trembled as you pulled your clothes on, movements fast and uneven.
You opened the bathroom door slowly, careful not to make a sound. The space was quiet. Eerily so. You crossed the room, heart thudding in your chest as you reached for the bedroom door.
Just as you opened it, you were met with a figure on the other side.
AJ.
You let out a soft yelp, startled by how suddenly he appeared.
His hands came up instantly, breathless. “It’s me—hey, it’s me,” he said, voice low, urgent. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He was drenched in sweat and dirt. Clothes disheveled, shirt clinging to him. His jaw was bruised. There was blood on his knuckles.
You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Then the tears hit.
Your shoulders shook before you could stop them, and your knees almost buckled as the relief finally broke through. You didn’t even realize how hard you were crying until AJ’s hands reached for you.
His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, murmuring apologies over and over between shallow breaths.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
You clung to him for a beat, the shock keeping your limbs stiff before your hands pushed at his chest, not to shove him away—just to breathe, to see him.
“Where were you? What happened?” you asked, voice breaking mid-sentence.
AJ pulled back slightly, eyes red-rimmed, jaw tight. “The job went south. Another crew showed up. Same bank.”
You blinked, confusion crashing into you. “But the news… they said five. I thought—”
“It wasn’t us,” he cut in, shaking his head hard. “It wasn’t us.”
Tears kept falling, faster now, sharp and wet across your cheeks. You hit his chest once—not hard, just enough to make him feel it.
“Why didn’t you call?” Your voice cracked. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“I lost my phone, baby.” His voice dropped, rough and hoarse. “It was a fucking mess. I’ve been running for hours. The cops were everywhere—I just—I’m sorry.”
You shook your head, another wave of tears slipping free before you could stop them. “I… I thought you were dead,” you whispered, voice wavering as the words finally spilled out.
AJ’s brows furrowed, the pain in your voice hitting him like a punch. You saw it flash through his expression—tight, sharp, like he’d give anything to take the last few hours from you.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Again. Like the words weren’t enough but they were all he had.
You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. The tears kept coming, harder now, burning your cheeks as your body started to fold in on itself.
That’s when AJ dropped to his knees in front of you.
His hands found your hips gently, thumbs skimming over the hem of your shirt. He looked up at you, eyes dark with remorse.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he said again, more desperate now. “I swear—I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t crying. But it was written all over him—in the way his hands pressed into your sides as if he were anchoring himself to you.
The moment he saw another tear slide down your cheek, AJ reached for your wrist, pulling you gently toward him.
He drew you in until your body tilted forward, leaning into him, your hands braced lightly on his shoulders. He didn’t let go.
"Don't ever do that again," you said, the words catching in your throat as the tears finally began to slow.
“I mean it.” Your voice trembling with the leftover fear that hadn’t yet left your body. “I don’t want to—I can’t—I thought I lost you.”
AJ stood, cupping your face in his hands. “I’m here,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
He pressed his forehead to yours as he murmured, “I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”
You nodded, lightly.
“I’m here,” he said again, quieter this time. Like it had to be said twice to make it real.
You didn’t answer. You just leaned in, your lips meeting his in a kiss that said everything you couldn’t.
His lips moved slowly against yours, warm and weighted, thumb brushing along your jaw as the kiss deepened.
You pulled him closer, arms looping around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. Your body pressed into his like you were trying to make up for all the time you thought you’d lost.
He moved with you, guiding you back into the bedroom, never breaking the kiss for more than a breath.
There, in the soft light, you tugged at his shirt while his hands slipped beneath yours, fingertips gliding over your skin. Clothes came off between kisses, slow and tender. Each movement was careful, but full of urgency. Not rushed, just needed.
His shirt hit the floor. Yours followed. His fingers grazed your hips as he helped ease your pants down, and you reached for his belt, working it loose while he pressed his lips to your shoulder.
As you moved to the bed, he laid you down gently, your back sinking into the sheets like they had been waiting for you both. The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing and the soft rustle of fabric as AJ climbed in after you, settling between your legs.
He kissed you again, lips lingering before he trailed them down, warm and reverent. He dropped a line of kisses to your neck, your collarbone, the center of your chest. You felt his breath against your skin, felt the way he paused at your stomach, his hands smoothing over your sides with a touch that was apologetic.
When he moved lower, intent clear in the way he kissed just above your thigh, you stopped him, fingers threading into his hair.
He looked up at you, eyes soft, searching your face.
“I just want you,” you said, your voice quiet but sure.
He nodded, then began to crawl back up your body, never breaking eye contact.
His lips met yours again, deep and full, as he reached down between you, lining himself up.
He entered you slowly, letting your body take him inch by inch. Your hands slid over his ink-covered back, nails slightly digging in. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes closing as he sank into you, a shaky breath tumbling out of him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words barely brushing your skin as he hovered over you, voice rough with guilt.
You wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders and pulled him closer, pressing your chest to his, your mouth to his neck. You didn’t need to speak. Your body said it for you.
Your back arched to meet him as he rolled into you with rhythm, dragging against every tender place inside you.
He filled you completely with each pass, pulling out just enough to make you feel the loss before sliding back in, deeper, smoother, with a groan he buried into the side of your neck.
His hands never left you. One stayed on your waist, holding you. The other slid along your ribs, your breast, your neck—touches that soothed as much as they worshipped.
“I’m sorry,” he said again between thrusts, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry I scared you. I was—I was just trying to come back to you. I’m sorry.”
His hand slid up, cradling your jaw as he kissed you between movements—sweet, aching kisses that landed on your lips, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
You felt the apology in every push of his body against yours. He was deep, slow, focused only on you. On making it up to you. On being here. Fully.
Your fingers tangled in his hair as his pace stayed steady, his breath catching every time you tightened around him.
Every thrust was a quiet plea. Every kiss, a promise.
He was here.
And he wasn’t going anywhere.
please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.
a/n: hii again, i guess writing headcanons allow me to pour out my thoughts about this movie, hope you enjoy and if you fell like comment or reblog, this literally makes my day😻😻
• Sam would never openly admit he was in love—not at first. Instead, he’d annoy you just to get a reaction. A poke to your ribs, flicking a paper ball at your head, pulling your hair lightly when you weren’t paying attention. He thrived off of your exasperated looks and playful shoves, convincing himself it was just fun. But deep down, it scared the hell out of him—this thing he was feeling, this pull toward you he couldn’t ignore.
• When Sam finally admitted his feelings to himself, he didn’t waste time hiding them from you. No grand gestures, no cheesy romance movie confessions—just raw honesty. One night, while you sat together, he fidgeted with his rings before finally muttering, "I think about you all the time. And I don’t know what to do about it." His voice was quiet, but his eyes held nothing but sincerity.
• Your first kiss wasn’t planned—it just happened. You leaned in to kiss his cheek, and at the last second, he turned his head, your lips colliding in an accidental but electric moment. You froze, staring at each other for what felt like forever, before his hand found your face, adjusting the angle—then he kissed you for real, slow and deliberate, as if he was memorizing every second.
• Sam never officially asked you to be his girlfriend —he just assumed you were. You liked each other, you spent all your time together, so why did you need labels? But when he noticed how much it would mean to you, he actually tried. He showed up at your place, awkwardly holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers, and grumbled, "So... do you, uh, wanna make this official or something?"
• Sam wasn’t big on PDA, but he always made sure you felt his presence. A hand resting on your back, fingers hooked into your belt loops, a casual arm around your waist when he pulled you close. Sitting together, his hand would absentmindedly rest on your thigh, tracing tiny circles with his thumb. It was never too much—just enough to remind you that you were his.
• Behind closed doors, though? Sam was needy. He always had to be touching you—arms wrapped around your waist, head resting in your lap, kissing your temple as he pulled you against his chest. At night, he’d curl up behind you, pressing sleepy kisses to the back of your neck before muttering, "You’re stuck with me, you know that?" like some sort of half-assed love confession.
• He made you a playlist, and it was the closest thing to a love letter you’d ever get from him. The songs were scrawled onto the back of a CD cover, his handwriting messy but unmistakable. You skimmed the tracklist and smirked. "'Can’t Take My Eyes Off You'?" you teased. "Didn’t take you for a Frankie Valli guy." He shrugged, avoiding eye contact. "You like it, don’t you?"
• Even though he’d never say it outright, Sam loved how you listened to him. When he rambled about obscure bands, the evolution of punk, or why a specific 1979 guitar riff was way better than its 1980s version, you actually listened. You asked questions, nodded at the right moments, and even remembered random facts he told you weeks ago. It made something in his chest go tight.
• You had a habit of stealing his sweatshirts and t-shirts, and even though he grumbled, he secretly loved it. Seeing you in his oversized hoodie, drowning in his scent, made something primal in him soften. One day, he crossed his arms and smirked, "So, uh… think I could borrow my sweatshirt back? Or are you just gonna take over my whole closet?"
• Sam wasn’t the type to talk about the future, but in quiet moments, he let it slip. Like when you were sprawled across his bed, talking about nothing, and he absentmindedly murmured, "You know, I’d go anywhere with you." Or when he pressed a kiss to your forehead and whispered, "I don’t know how you put up with me, but I hope you never stop." Because even if he didn’t say the words I love you all the time, you felt it in every little thing he did.
+𝟏𝟖 (𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒)
• You were Sam's first time. Before you, he had only known the fleeting pleasure of his own hand and imagination. He had touched himself countless times, stroking his hardening cock until thick ropes of cum painted his stomach. But nothing could have prepared him for the ethereal, overwhelming sensation of being inside your tight, wet heat.
Your body was his new temple, and he wanted to worship every inch of it. With each thrust, each deep stroke, Sam felt a primal connection, a claiming that transcended the physical. You were his now, in a way he had never belonged to anyone before.
• Sam whines and whimper whenever you give him a blowjob. When your luscious lips wrap around the head of his cock, Sam is helpless to keep quiet. Guttural moans and whimpers tear from his throat, his back arching off the bed as he fists the sheets for support.
Tears of overwhelming sensation prick the corners of his eyes, his vision blurring as you take him deeper, your nose pressing against his pelvis. The wet heat of your mouth, the flick of your tongue, the gentle suction - it's all too much, yet not enough.
Sam's balls tighten, his cock pulsing and throbbing against your tongue as he fights the urge to thrust into your mouth, to fuck your face until he paints your throat with his release.
• Sam adores being at the mercy of your desires, in the delicious agony of giving up control. He loves the feeling of your body moving above him, your breasts bouncing hypnotically as you ride him with wild abandon. The sight of you taking your pleasure from him, using him for your own satisfaction, is the ultimate turn-on.
Sam's hands roam your body, squeezing the globes of your ass, thumbing your nipples, mapping every dip and curve. He wants to learn you by touch alone, to commit your body to memory. As you chase your orgasm, Sam loses himself in the erotic dance of your coupling, drunk on the sensation of being so deeply, thoroughly fucked.
• But Sam also knows how to take charge when you need him to, to give you what you crave. He pins your wrists above your head, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he holds you down, immobilizing you completely. His hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that rocks the bed and shakes the headboard against the wall.
The room fills with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, of your desperate moans and his whining grunts. Sam's blue eyes darken with lust and possession, his gaze boring into yours as he marks your body with his touch, his teeth, his cock.
• In the missionary position, Sam braces himself above you, his arms trembling with the effort of holding back, wanting to prolong the moment. As he feels his climax approaching, Sam buries his face between your perfect breasts, motorboating your cleavage and breathing in your intoxicating scent. He nips and sucks at the sensitive skin, determined to mark you as his.
As his orgasm builds, Sam's grip on your hips tightens, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, no doubt leaving bruises behind. With a whimper that's part pleasure, part pain, Sam hilts inside you one last time as he comes, his cock pulsing and jerking, flooding your womb with his hot, thick seed. His face remains buried in your cleavage as his body shaking with the force of his release.
In that moment, Sam knows he would do anything, anything at all, to keep you by his side, to hold onto this feeling of utter completion and belonging. You are his, and he is yours, and nothing will ever tear you apart.
SAM MONROE who steals pens from us just so he could have an excuse to talk to us ✋️😞
pairing: classmate!sam monroe x reader
contains: fluff.
a/n: this is so teenage boy coded I love it 😭
divider credit: @diviniyae
Sam Monroe probably wouldn’t admit it, but he has the biggest crush on you. You’re honestly the only reason he drags himself out of bed every morning to come to school.
It started when he forgot his pen one day and asked if he could borrow one of yours since you had a huge collection.
Now, it was every day.
“Hey…psst!” He whisper-shouts from the desk behind you.
“What?” You hum, turning around.
“Can I borrow a pen?” He asks.
You look at his desk, seeing two pens sitting there already. “You have two pens right there?”
“Um… ink ran out. I need one of your blue pens.” Sam forces a smile.
“Yeah, okay.” You nod, not believing him but handing him a pen.
“Thanks.” Sam smiles, taking the pen from you, your fingers brushing against each other for a quick second. “I’m organizing my notes.”
“What notes?” You raise an eyebrow. There wasn’t a single note on his paper, just his name and the date at the top.
At this point, he had, like, 10 pens of yours in his backpack. He was stocked up on pens, he just wanted an excuse to talk to you. He was too awkward to think of any other excuse to use to talk to you.
He didn’t even pay attention in this class either. He just twirled the pen around in his hand, staring at the back of your head. Sometimes he’d gently trace your hair with the pen you gave him. But only doing it so slightly that you don’t even feel it.
It was a routine every school day. He looked forward to biology, just so he could ask for a stupid pen so he could talk to you.
Maybe one day, he’ll work up the courage to say something else.
Reminder that we have evidence prehistoric cave dwellers were capable of drawing realistic depictions, and the stylization you see here—the line weight, the implied movement, the accentuated features—are thought to have been deliberate, artistic, aesthetic choices
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