summary — ever since peter’s arachnid DNA started to change, he’s been obsessed with you. it hasn’t been easy for him considering you live right across the hall from him. he’s even having wet dreams about you. he knows you way more than you know him. not that he’d tell you that, anyway.
pairing — bnd!peter parker x fem!reader
warnings — MDNI, smut, piv, fingering, oral (both receiving), whiny & subby top!peter, unprotected sex, finishing inside, multiple orgasms, pet names, wet dreams, stalking, mask on (and off), mentions of violence, smoking, slight spoilers. i think that's it?
wc — 9.8k...
a/n — apologies if there are any errors. inspiration from strawberry moon by tori amos <3 v obsessed, highly recommend.
masterlist. | 18+ MDNI
“Thank you.. oh f-fuck thank you,” Peter whines, his pitiful voice barely coherent as he watches you take him in his mouth, head bobbing rhythmically as he lays before you on his plushy bed.
Peter’s hands seek your head, wanting to pull it closer to him, but he ultimately plants them on the bed, grasping at the sheets as if they’re some sort of lifeline. His knuckles turn white, his eyes rolling involuntarily. He can’t focus, how can he?
It’s not like this is the first time, or that he’s too nervous to make such a move… he’s thankful for anything you give him, and doesn’t want to take it for granted.
“Yes, oh god, thank you s-so m-much..”
Every time you suck him off, Peter can’t believe how fucking good it feels. He wonders how you’re so good, then quickly pushes the thought aside. He doesn’t want to think about the how or why.
Peter’s moans are fucking pitiful. Such a whiny boy with shaky thighs and rosy cheeks, the heat of it all rushing to tint his skin. You can taste the pre leaking from him, his cock pulsing against your tongue. The smirk that spreads across your lips as you lick the tip and hold eye contact with him makes Peter huff. His cheeks darken even more, his body heating rapidly at the sight of you as you take him fully again.
“Oh, please… I’m, fuck,” Peter’s pathetic attempt to warn you dies out, his hands gripping the sheets even harder, seemingly seconds away from ripping them. Another reason why he’s careful with touching you. Sometimes, he just can’t help himself. Pathetic.
When you slow down your pace just to tease him, you hear his squeaky whine, the breath being knocked from his lungs. Just as you expected. Peter gets so fucking needy, and you relish in it. It doesn’t take him very long to get close, ever, and a part of you can’t stand it because you want this too. You want to make it last just to see and hear how pitiful he gets.
“No- shit, please,” Peter whimpers, emphasizing his plea to gain some sort of sympathy from you. You oblige, gradually fastening your pace, the filthy, sloppy sounds echoing between you. He can’t help it. His hand flies to your hair, fingers lacing through the soft strands before he tugs. “I-I’m-“
Unable to properly speak, his jaw slacks and his eyelids squeeze shut. Thighs trembling, he chokes out a cry, feeling his cock pulse with each string of cum that stuffs down your throat. Then, it’s over. Just like last time.
Peter shoots up into a sitting position, gulping thickly with a huff as reality sets in. His duvet covers are thick, splayed across his lower half, which is feeling exceptionally more warm than usual. The room is dark, cold, and very much empty. He feels it instantly, the way his briefs cling to his skin, wet and warm.
“Fuck… not again,” he whimpers, peeling his briefs down just enough to expose the globs of thick cum sticking to his skin. Now this wasn’t the first time. It’s almost nightly at this point. He glances over at his door, as if you would somehow know what happened or be there. You never were. He then turns his head toward the alarm clock on his nightstand, 3:14am. “Hey evie?”
Peter’s desktop illuminates with light as numerous monitors flash on, the system starting up.
“Yes, Peter?” evie’s artificial voice responds.
“We need to make a different kinda inhibitor,” he groans, pushing the covers off his legs before getting up, making his way toward the bathroom.
Peter didn’t go back to sleep. He spent hours trying to formulate an inhibitor that would target his arachnid DNA and block hormone levels… particularly his testosterone. With a cheap Newport cigarette lit between his lips, his fingertips pattered across his keyboard, his eyes laser-focused on the screen.
With a soft chime, his phone illuminated on the desk just beside the keyboard. He quickly glanced over, scanning the words across the screen before looking at the map beneath the text, the pinned location insinuating that you’ve arrived to work.
Peter knows it’s wrong. Having secret hidden cameras around the city is one thing, but using them to watch someone that’s not a threat is another.
He tried, really fucking tried, to let it go. To stop. But he can’t.
That’s just another reason why he needs to make an inhibitor that actually fucking works.
Ever since you moved into the apartment across the hall four months ago, he hasn't been able to get you out off his mind no matter how hard he's tried. He’d often think about the first time you met, running into each other in the hall as you rush to work and he heads to get flowers for May.
All of the innocent conversations in passing, the friendly smiles and waves… He tried so fucking hard. You’re just so pretty. So sweet. God, you smell so sweet.
He can smell you from your apartment across the hall, the scent similar to fresh-picked strawberries. He fucking loves strawberries.
That wasn’t what started it, though. After the incident two months ago, with you stuck in the middle of a bank robbery, it was as if a flip had switched and caused a surgical spell. You were sweet and innocent, just trying to deposit a measly check, and next thing you knew, you had a gun pointed at you. Since then, he feels like he has an obligation to protect you — to keep you safe. Knowing you only strengthened that feeling, but your voice… your face… the way you smell. It all adds to it.
He wants to get closer to you, so fucking badly, but he just can’t with how hectic his life is. He tells himself it’s safer for you to stay acquaintances, no matter how much it bothers him.
Ever since that incident, ever since he saw your terrified expression through the lens of his mask, he had your face in his records. He specifically had evie program a separate alert system with facial recognition just for you. So when he gets a legitimate alert, he knows if you’re nearby. That's what he tries to tell himself, anyway.
If only you knew that spider-man had a special system just to keep you safe.
But that's why he needs this to work. It has to. He knows his behavior is wrong. It's weird. Fucking creepy, even...
“Smoke detected,” evie’s voice alerts, prompting a banner message across the monitor screen. Peter’s eyes roll, mentally damning Tony for implementing smoke detection into her programming.
“Just a cigarette, evie. Same as last time, and the time before that,” Peter murmured, his voice muffled from the cigarette trapped between his soft lips.
“Cigarettes can impact your vitals,” evie’s voice responds, to which Peter sighs, pulling the cigarette from his lips and smashing the end into the ashtray beside his phone, the bright amber ash crushing into a pasty grey. He wasn’t a casual smoker. It was usually during late nights or early mornings like this, where he just needed something to ground him. He hated to admit that it calmed him, or at least thought it did. Maybe it was all in his head, but either way, he knew it wasn’t good for him.
While he waits for the inhibitor to finish, Peter thinks of a few ideas on how he could test it. Truly, there’s only one way to really test it. He has to talk to you, really talk to you, without making things awkward. He needs an excuse to see you that wouldn’t lead to a “hi” and “bye” situation. He hates how his heart races every time you smile at him or even pass by him. You have his mind completely scrambled with your fingers wedged in the folds of his brain.
He’s pacing now, crossing back and forth in front of his desk with his eyes planted on the hardwood floor. His hands moved around as he spoke, a somewhat comforting expression he did during deep thought.
“Maybe… I can wait and we bump into each other in the hall? No, that’s stupid. I could just… knock? What would I say?” Peter groans at himself, covering his cheeks with his hands and slowly pulling them toward his temples. “Or I could…”
Peter’s feet come to a halt, his eyes slowly moving to his apartment door, then to his monitor. The pin on the electronic map shows you’re still out in town.
Oh, he has an idea alright.
Not a sane one, at that.
He really needs that fucking inhibitor.
Within minutes, he has his suit on and is swinging around the outside of the apartment building, his webs allowing a clean swing around the brick structure before he lands on your fire escape just outside your bedroom window.
No, this is insane.
With his eyes squinted behind his mask, he looks through your window, immediately spotting it. A beautiful silver chain necklace with a diamond pendant, carefully laid on your nightstand. The same one he sees caressing the skin of your neck every time he sees you. He recalls the way it lies against your chest, the chain slightly pooling against your collarbones. Why’d you leave it today?
No, I shouldn’t do this, he thinks, shaking his head at the reckless idea. But he couldn’t muster any real flaws in the plan. He gets your necklace, then returns it to you as himself. Not as Spider-Man. That’s innocent, right? No, it’s not.
It’s not like he’s stealing it— well, he is. But… he’s giving it back to you. It’s not a total robbery; it’s harmless.
His gloved hands latch onto your window, pushing it up with ease despite the lack of a handle. It’s as if the breath had been knocked out of his lungs, replaced by the intoxicating scent of you.
Fuck it, he thought, slipping through the open window with ease and landing on his feet with precision. His heart was thumping, but not out of nervousness. Excitement.
Glancing around your bedroom, he takes in the sight of your decor, mentally picturing and framing it inside his head against his will. He’d remember regardless.
He slowly stalks toward the nightstand, the finger pads of his gloves gently catching on the chain just before he tightens his fingers around it, holding it up at eye level. Yes, it’s the exact same one you wear all the time. Not particularly expensive looking, as far as he could tell. Not that it mattered much.
Peter felt another thump in his chest, you’ll notice it’s gone. That should’ve been enough for him to put it down. But he’s giving it back to you. Shit, what is he gonna say? That he found it in the lobby? That’s ridiculous.
Peter groans, clenching the thin chain in his fist, pressing it against his mask-covered forehead.
“This is fucking stupid,” he whispers, cursing his own thoughts. No, it’s going to work. It has to. He wants you to understand that you can trust him. He’s more than just your neighbor. He’s your secret protector, but he wouldn’t directly call himself that. He has good intentions, but that doesn’t make his actions any less wrong. He knows it too: “…and creepy.”
The skin on the nape of his neck prickles. He should put it back. This is wrong. This isn’t who he is.
Peter’s thoughts are suddenly interrupted as his head snaps up, his senses spiking. As soon as he hears the familiar jingle of your keys, his throat tightens.
Fuck.
He quickly tucks your necklace into his suit, where his phone would usually sit. Of course he forgot to grab it. Too fucking concerned about getting into your apartment, he was completely unprepared. No wonder he had no idea you were on your way back.
Peter slowly stalked back toward your window, his footsteps completely silent. As soon as his hand grasps the frame of your window, he hears a startled gasp that was awfully similar to a yelp. He whips around, seeing you in the doorway of your bedroom, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Peter’s lenses widened on his mask, emphasizing his own surprise.
For several seconds, the two of you just stared at each other.
“Oh my god.”
Think. Quick!
“Hi,” Peter greets you with a slight change in his voice, lifting a hand and giving you a small wave. He's pathetic, really.
“Spiderman?” you breathe, unsure whether you should take a step forward or a step back. The spider-man is standing in your room. You’ve seen him in person once before, your mind flashing to the incident at the bank. The way he focused on you, but never spoke to you. How could you forget?
Your expression shifts, your wide eyes narrowing slightly, eyebrows leveling and furrowing closer. Why the hell is Spider-Man in here?
“What… are you doing here?”
“Oh- aha. Just a, uh, mixup. Wrong apartment… building. Entirely. I’m a little scrambled. Hit my head on the fire escape,” Peter rambles, mustering lies while using his hands to emphasize his words since he lacked showing expression from behind the mask. His pulse is racing; he's sure you can see the way his suit shifts against his chest.
Your eyes are intensely boring into him as you take in the explanation. Strange, but believable.
“Well... are you okay?” you take a step forward, the space between you shrinking, dangerously close. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Peter feels like he’s about to fucking explode. Is he okay? No, not at all. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to see him.
“I.. yeah! I’m fine, I’ll just go—“ he stammers, turning back toward your window.
“Wait-“ you stop him, slightly lifting your hand in his direction to halt him before crossing your arms over your chest. You couldn’t help but wonder. “This might be a stupid question, especially since I'm sure hundreds of people a day, but… do you remember me?”
Peter’s eyes widen again, his mask mirroring his expression. He turns back in your direction, his eyes scanning your face. Of course he does. He knows you way more than you think. It’s not a stupid question, but kind of ridiculous considering what Peter knows about you.
Though, you’re referring to him infiltrating the bank robbery, saving you amongst other innocent civilians. A pang strikes in his chest as he remembers how terrified you were, but it quickly dissipates just being in your presence.
“Uh, well,” he ponders, quickly trying to muster a response that doesn’t sound creepy while also wanting to validate your curiosity. He mirrors you and crosses his arms over his chest, trying his best to shove his panic to the side. “Now that I think about it… yeah, I do.”
“Really?” your eyes light up, and you take a step closer, your arms falling to your sides now that you feel less strange for asking. “I just- I never got to thank you.”
“Oh, no need. You don’t have to-“
“I know,” you shrug, your lips spreading into a slight smile as you step even closer, your eyes shifting from his face to his chest, then his biceps— fuck, he’s built. “but, thank you. Really. I feel a lot safer here, living here alone and all.”
Truth is, you don’t have any family here in New York. Peter didn’t know that, though. You weren’t sure what compelled you to tell him, either. Regardless, he's Spider-Man — not a threat.
Peter’s breath hitches in his throat. This is exactly what he’s been craving; your undivided attention. He made an impact, and you made it a point to mention it. He quickly shakes it off, taking in your words.
You’re not alone here. You’re so blissfully unaware that he is the same man living across the hall from you. He tries not to think about the way he feels himself twitching against his briefs within the suit the closer you step toward him. He physically can’t help it, and it doesn’t matter how tender the conversation is. He can practically feel the warmth radiating from your body despite being just a few feet away.
He needs to leave. Now.
If he doesn’t, if he allows himself to sink into your spell any further, he’s afraid he won’t be able to help himself. He can’t avoid the filthy visuals raiding his mind, disarming him of critical consideration. Your fingers had somehow sunk even deeper in the crevices of his brain. Leave.
“O-of course! Yeah, no worries at all,” he waves you off, his voice matching his relaxed, confident persona. He climbs through the window, stepping onto the fire escape with ease. “Someone’s gotta do it.”
“Whoa, hey! You can’t just break into someone’s apartment and then leave like it's normal,” you softly scoff, arms raised at your sides to express your disagreement.
“Technically, I didn’t break anything. Just came through the window, which was unlocked,” he quips with a matter-of-fact tone, the space enabling him to finally breathe and collect his thoughts.
“How is that any better?”
Well, it’s not.
Avoid the question.
With his hands still planted firmly on the windowsill, he tilts his head at you, “Lock your window.”
Mirroring him, you tilt your head as well, raising a brow at the order, “Why, so no one else can stumble in here after getting concussed?”
“Because there are people out there who aren’t as nice as me. Now lock it, and keep it that way unless you’re home, yeah?”
It’s somewhat of a cocky response, but it’s true. He lets you sit with that for a moment, the two of you just sharing a few seconds of silence before he shoots a web to the top of the building, making a quick getaway.
You stand there astonished, still trying to comprehend the fact that you came home to find Spider-Man in your room. You wish he stayed at least a little bit longer. There was something about him that felt comforting and familiar, but you couldn’t quite figure out why. You have to admit, you feel a sense of pride at the fact that he remembers you.
If only you knew.
Two nights later, Peter is pacing around his apartment, per usual. The clock on his monitor strikes 9:34pm; he's been contemplating for hours. The more he thought about how he'd return the necklace to you, the more he realized how risky it is.
There was no way he could return it as himself, as Peter, and manage to pull off a lousy lie about how he found it.
All he can think about is how you'd figure it out. He can't risk you putting the pieces together. Fuck, why didn't he think of this beforehand?
Truth is, his behavior has been beyond risky and ridiculous. You quite literally drive him insane to the point where rational decisions are nonexistent. For a split second, he even considers moving away, saving himself the absolute torture of living beside you and not being able to do anything about it.
Deep down, he knows he would never do such a thing... but he can't involve himself personally with you, he just... can't.
He has to return your necklace, but not as Peter. He understands that, but what is he going to say?
Doesn't matter. He can say a lot more with a mask on, knowing you won't figure him out. In fact, he could just tell you he took it and face zero consequences, but what's the fun in that?
As he waits for the inhibitor that’s just nearly finished, Peter lies down on his bed, staring up at the cracked brick ceiling. Maybe a tranquilizer is what he needs. He doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep until evie’s voice cuts through the haze.
“Inhibitor complete. Trial number forty-seven on standby.”
Finally.
The washer in Peter’s apartment tumbled, numerous articles of clothing swishing and sloshing, covered in suds. His suit was laid flat on top, shaking along with the rumbling of the machine.
“Alright,” Peter sighs to himself, reaching around to settle the inhibitor on the back of his neck. He feels it latch on, letting out a small grunt as his eyes scan the monitor in front of him.
“Arachnid levels decreasing,” evie states as the orange-tinted bar lowers in real time.
“And my hormones?” Peter inquires, raising a brow.
“Decreasing,” evie’s responds, pulling up a second page on the screen to show various hormone levels. Peter lets out a breath of relief, nodding to himself.
“Perfect," he whispered, snatching his suit off the top of the washer.
In your bedroom, you're comfortably sprawled out, sketchbook in hand as you continue marking the thin sheet of paper with a charcoal pencil. A loud knock startles you, causing you to jump and inevitably scratch the pencil across the paper, ruining your work.
Your head whips in the direction of the sound; your window. On the other side of the glass stands Spider-Man, his arms crossed comfortably on the outside of your windowsill as he waits for your response. His suit is glistening, the loud pattering of rain bellowing in his ears.
You quickly close the sketchbook, tossing it aside before standing from the bed.
Peter would usually feel his heart racing the moment you look at him, but he feels calm. Much better. Even though you look so fucking good in your pj shorts.
Hands finding the latch, you unlock the window and push it up, opening it swiftly. The sound of the rain pattering loudly against the fire escape and nearby streets is much clearer now. Before you can even ask why he's here, his voice shuts you down,
“Good girl,” he drawls out in a high teasing tone, voice still quippy and unrecognizable. You blink, your lips parting slightly, but no words come out. What an introduction.
That's the first thing he says? Not that you can complain. You'd be lying if you denied the way it made your stomach twist deliciously.
“W-What?”
“You locked the window.”
You let out a breath, unable to contain your smile and the slight tint in your cheeks. Face flushing, you turn away from the window to make your way back toward your bed, sitting on the edge of it.
“You scared the shit out of me. I can’t keep seeing you like this, you know,” you say, which catches him completely off guard. You can't see it, but a sense of hurt mixed with panic flicks in his eyes before he can control it.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean with you, at my window, uninvited,” you explain. Peter’s mouth opens slightly, words dying in his throat. Before he has a chance to panic further, your next words take him by surprise. “Come in.”
“What?”
“I said come in. You can’t be uninvited when I’m telling you I want you here,” you add softly. You took the chance, throwing the ball into his court for him to catch.
Was it bold? Yes. Did he find it hot? Also yes.
Feeling an instant wave of relief, you hear a cute, "Oh," before he chuckles, slipping through your window, his feet landing effortlessly on your bedroom floor as he stands upright. He takes in the environment, your ambient lighting causing the droplets of water on his suit to reflect even brighter.
"Care to tell me why you've blessed me with your presence again? Everything okay?" you ask jokingly, yet still surprised by his sudden return. It's been two days, and you'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought about him since then. That’s what he hoped, at least.
"I was just coming to check on you," he lies, standing still so as not to get any of your belongings wet. Besides your floor, of course.
“Why?”
“Because someone broke into your apartment.”
Another lie.
“That was you."
“I meant the building.”
“Still applies.”
“I’m aware,” he quips, the eyes of his mask squinting playfully at you as he tilts his head slightly. You snicker. This back-and-forth game gives him a rush he hasn’t felt in a while. He feels much more confident this time, much more willing to play such a game.
That fucking smirk, he thinks.
“Well, as you can see,” you start, holding your arms up at your sides. “I’m fine.”
Peter tsks, sucking his teeth slightly as he steps toward you, almost as if he's sizing you up. "Well, that's not the only reason I'm here."
You watch as he lifts his hand, loosening the grip of his fingers to release the chain in his fist, dangling it in front of you. Your necklace.
"Oh my god," you softly gasp, reaching for the silver chain and grasping it from his hold. "How did you... Wait, did you take this?"
Now he's panicking.
"W-what? No, no. I found it," he lies again, his tone strong but his legs are feeling a bit weak. Shit.
"...In my room?"
"No," he laughs, trying to muster an explanation before you can dig any deeper. His heart is thundering so fast, he can feel it in his veins, causing him to twitch slightly. "Why would I steal from you?"
Good thing you're gullible enough to believe Spider-Man wouldn't steal from you. Because that's not who he is, right?
"Where was it?"
He rehearsed this, but the way you're looking at him makes it impossible to mutter out a lie. On the ground outside of Delmar’s? No. Fuck it.
"Don't worry about it."
"But how did you know-"
"I've seen you wear it," he admits, unable to control the smile spreading across his lips beneath the mask.
You don't think much of it. He must’ve recognized it from the bank. Opening the clasp, you reach behind you to latch it around the back of your neck, the necklace now resting against your collarbones, the pendant nearly reaching your cleavage. You twist slightly to face away from him, “Can you help me, please?”
He doesn’t answer, immediately grasping the ends from your delicate fingers. His gloved fingers graze the nape of your neck, and he notices the instant goosebumps that litter your skin. He struggles at first, the chain being so small and not having much to work with, but he manages, “anddd... got it.”
You turn back and smile up at him, at his figure standing directly in front of you, head peering down at you.
You felt incredibly inferior, watching him stare with his head tilted in such a way, like you were some sort of prey. If only you could see what's underneath the mask.
"Thanks. I owe you one, again,” you smile, eyes fluttering up at him. His stomach is doing somersaults.
"We talked about this. You don’t owe me anything," he quickly responds, referring to your last conversation. All in all, he’s grateful to return it without consequences. He appreciated the gratitude, but he didn’t expect a damn thing from you. Just the ability to see you.
Pausing, unable to form a proper response, you gaze up at him. Never, ever would you have thought you would be in this position before. Especially with him being so intimately close to you.
You stand, instantly feeling the heat radiating from him. He’s so close. Less than a foot away, chests just barely touching. His posture is steady as he awaits your next move, shocking even himself. If it weren't for his inhibitor, his mind would be going absolutely nuts.
"I know," you finally murmur a response, your eyes searching for his, but all you can see is white mesh. You lift your hand, instinctively trying to reach for him, but you stop yourself. He doesn't move.
You do it anyway. Your hand finds rest at his jaw, your thumb softly rubbing over the ridges of the mask. What is it about him that gets you so?
Is it that he saved you? No...
Maybe the fact that he remembered you and made it a point to make you safe.
It's not like you could stay casual after hearing him praise you like that.
"You... you should probably stop," he warns softly, but doesn't pull away from you. He knows you can feel his chest thundering just a mere inch from you. Despite that, the inhibitor was working, because if it wasn't... you'd definitely not be standing any longer.
"Do you want me to?"
He doesn't answer immediately, his eyes intently focusing on yours through his mask. Is that even a question? It's not like he could just tell you that this is practically torture for him.
"No."
That's just enough for you to raise your other hand, fully grasping his jaw on both sides to get a good look at his mask. Curiosity gets the best of you, your thumb reaching down and gently tugging at the edge of his mask beneath his neck. You just want to feel his skin, feel how warm he is. Feel how real he is.
In a flash, his hand wraps around your wrist, stopping your hand in place.
"Hey, hey. I didn't say you could do that," his tone is playful but his thoughts are a complete contrast, his grip tight on your wrist, but not too tight. Just enough to convey the message. God, he wanted to let you, though. So fucking bad.
It’s too risky. No matter how badly he wants to.
Even if he only shows his lips, he’s sure you’d recognize them after so many small talks. After so many exchanged smiles.
"Then how am I supposed to..." you trail off, the word kiss dying in your throat as your eyes trail down to where his lips would be beneath the mask, then down to where his hand is wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm but soft. He understands immediately.
"You don't."
It killed him to say it.
"I can't kiss you?"
"No."
Your lips curl into a small frown. You understand and respect his boundaries, but you can't deny how much you've thought about this. Rehearsed this. Ever since you caught him in your room, you couldn't help the thoughts that pooled in the moment he left. The fact he'd saved you once before only strengthened that.
What if he just took you, right then and there? God, that's fucked up. You knew that, but... the way you'd feel your core twist and get damp, fuck.
I mean, who doesn't want to fuck him? He's a hero. He's sweet. He's incredibly muscular, and his suit only accentuates that. You could go on and on.
It's not crazy to think about. You're not the only one that thinks this either, confirmed by the many reddit forum threads you dove down after he left. But, you are the only one to have this kind of luxury. The luxury of him being in your room, so close to you, touching you
"You're right, I'm-" you cut yourself off, taking a step back as you rethink your actions. What the hell are you doing? You don't even know him. You're being ridiculous - pathetic, even. You shake your head at yourself, shyly plastering your hand over your face. "I'm so sorry-”
"No, no, don’t be,” he whispers, releasing your wrist from his grasp, shaking his head. If this is his chance, he’d be a goddamn fool to pass it up.
“I can’t kiss you, but..” he continues, his hands moving to find your waist, gently gripping your soft skin through your soft, silky shirt. "I can touch you.”
No, he shouldn’t be doing this. He should’ve left right after giving you the necklace. This wasn’t part of the plan at all.
Tilting your head back up, you peer at him through the gaps of your fingers, your cheeks tinted rosy pink.
“Wha.. what?”
It's a bold move, he knows that. At least it's something he can actually give you.
Slowly, he backs you up, the back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed, inevitably making you fall back down into a sitting position. He leans down, hands planting on your plushy covers on either side of your thighs. You’re trapped.
“You heard what I said. I can touch you— I want to touch you,” he repeats, his teasing grin beneath the mask widening as he watches your eyes melt. Despite his rather audacious idea, Peter truly didn’t have a dominant bone within him. Not when it came to sex, anyway.
He would try for you, though. If that’s what you wanted.
The heat radiating from your skin through your shirt was a clear sign of just how much he was affecting you. You don’t know he can tell, but he does. He can sense it. He can smell it.
Despite how much he’s wanted this, how much he’s been dreaming of this, he couldn’t shake the thought in the back of his mind that this wasn’t right. This feels too fast. No real connection. No romance.
But if you want this just as much as he does, he’s not fucking leaving.
“I…” you start, your words absolutely failing you. You feel so small below him, so vulnerable. An idea sparks, and there’s a particular glint in your eye. Fine, you can play that game. “If I can’t see you, then you can’t touch me until I say so.”
Oh.
Peter wasn’t expecting that. Not by a long shot.
“Oh really?” he murmurs, his purr causing you to instinctively squeeze your thighs together. You’re fucking leaking. Maybe he can… just only when you tell him to. You’re calling the shots. His padded fingers move to gently caress your jaw, softly grasping your chin. “You sure about that?”
Who is he kidding? Peter knows he would be a fucking mess if you told him when he could and couldn’t feel you or take control of himself. He loves seeing you flustered, though. It’s a sight he will never forget.
You grab his hand, pulling it away from your chin before pushing him over to land beside you. He lets you, allowing himself to plop down on the bed, his legs still hanging off the edge. He stabilizes himself, sitting up to grab your waist as you straddle him.
Just before his hands can make contact with you, you quickly grab his wrists, shaking your head at him with a grin, “Nu-uh.”
“That’s not very fair.”
“You heard what I said.”
Peter let’s put a short, weak huff of protest at you using his own words against him. You’re fully aware that he’s much stronger than you could ever be, and yet he was letting you control him. You release his wrists, pressing a hand against his chest, pushing him down until his back is against the bed.
Softly grinding your hips on his way down, you could feel him twitching and hardening against your clothed cunt, his suit failing him tremendously.
“Shit, you’re that easy?” you tease, moving your hips back and forth, the friction only worsening the wet spot forming on your panties, seeping to your shorts. He could feel it.
“F-fuck, so are you,” he whimpers in defense, unable to control how pathetic he is from the change in dynamic, his gloved fingers grasping at the blanket to avoid touching you without permission. “You’re so wet.”
“You can feel that?” you smile, leaning forward to cup his jaw, running your thumb over his mask-covered lips. You lift yourself up, and he whines at the loss of contact. A playful smirk tugs at your lips, “Aw, don’t be like that.”
Your hand moves from his face and down his chest until you feel his abs, feeling them twitch beneath your touch. You need to see him.
“Take it off,” you demand softly, removing yourself from his lap and moving to lay properly on the bed, watching as he struggles to regain himself to stand. Once he does, you watch him discard the suit, taking note of the way the cloth tightly hugs his muscles until it’s gone. Your eyes light up as soon as his abs are exposed, you almost want to throw the whole game out the window and have him take you. But you had to admit, watching him struggle and fall apart was even better.
Your eyes trail down to his briefs, the large tent exposing just how much he needs you. Of course, he kept the mask on. He stands there, unsure of what to do, suit discarded to the floor.
You twist your wrist, motioning for him to come closer with your finger, curling it toward you. His drops his bare hands to the bed, carefully crawling onto your covers until he’s hovering over you.
“Now take mine off.”
Holy fuck.
Swallowing thickly, Peter’s hands shift to the hem of your shirt, wanting to slip them underneath and touch your warm, bare skin. He contains himself just enough. He gently pulls your shirt up, his heartbeat picking up once again. He pushes it above your waist, exposing your bra that's so pretty and lacy. Almost as if you'd planned this already.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers to himself, the barrier of the mask making it difficult for you to hear. You don't bother having him repeat himself, lifting your back slightly to allow him to pull your shirt over your head.
He reaches to grab your clothed breast, eyes wide and hungry, but he stops himself. Still lifted, you unclasp your bra and before you can even move another inch, he's tugging it off you, the straps easing off your shoulders.
"Shit," he nearly moans, the sight enough to have him leaking. He's already throbbing, it's almost painful. He wants to touch them, to squeeze your plushy skin, but you haven't told him to yet. "You're so pretty. You know how fucking pretty you are?"
"I've been told," you smile irresistibly, your shoulders lifting slightly in a shrug. You've been told? By who?
Stop it, he thinks to himself, to his own thoughts. He has you right here, underneath him.
His hands shift downward, eager and cold, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. He doesn’t waste any time. As he tugs your shorts down your thighs, you hear a pitiful, muffled whimper. You look down to see his thumb just barely grazing the wet spot on your panties.
God, you smell so sweet.
“Please,” he whimpers again, his fingers hovering over the side of the thin cotton, wanting to pull them aside. You smile, your hand lowering and wrapping around his to guide his hand, having him push them over, exposing your slick folds.
"Go on," you nod, slightly condescending and full of pity as you hand-over-hand guide him further, allowing his finger to graze before pushing closer, his finger slipping between your wet slit and making a filthy squelch.
“Pretty,” he huffs. He’s fucking vibrating. Every bone in his body, his mind, everything is telling him to just take you. He’s being good, though. You have to give him that credit.
He pushes his finger inside you, a puff of air being knocked out of his lungs as he feels your walls hug around it. You’re tight. He curls it inside you, earning a tiny moan from you as you buck your hips up ever so slightly. All restraint is lost.
“Oh, god,” you whimper softly, melting beneath him. You sound so pretty. He can’t take it. He can’t keep holding back. He needs you to break and give in fully.
Peter’s free hand moves to your lower stomach, pressing down to hold you in place as his finger works inside you, pumping slowly yet deliciously loud.
“S-shit, so wet. So fucking wet,” he murmurs to himself, easing in a second finger. It almost feels like he’s done this before, or it’s just from the spike in confidence after hearing the pretty noises you make.
Softly biting your lower lip, you try to grasp his hand, wanting to stop him just to tease him but he surprises you. Quickly, moves his free hand to grab yours before holding it down against your stomach, on the same spot that his was previously. “J-Just.. wait. Please, let me.”
Of course, you give in. Peter experiments, pumping his fingers as deep as he can, the veins in his hands prominent. He watches, completely mesmerized, at the way your pussy sucks in his fingers, accepting them, your juices leaking around them. The filthy sound your pussy’s making combined with that warm squeeze — he can’t wait any longer.
If you smell this good, he can only imagine how you taste. He needs to know. He pulls his hand back, looking up at you.
“Please… Cover your eyes,” he demands in a gentle tone, waiting until you cover them with your forearm, your back resting comfortably against your plushy sheets. He pulls the mask up just enough to expose his lips, raw and plump from him biting them, trying to keep himself from sounding utterly fucking pathetic.
He doesn’t even bother properly removing your panties first, he just keeps them held to the side as he dives down. You gasp, feeling his tongue dip between your folds, collecting your wetness on his tongue before swiping it up to your clit. You taste just as sweet as he thought you would; even more so.
He groans against you, the vibrations shooting straight into your core. His lips wrap around your sensitive bud, pulling a loud, unapologetic moan from your throat. The pretty sound causes his cock to twitch against his briefs, his hips starting to slowly rutt into the mattress. He’s ravenous.
“Fuck, you taste so sweet... so good.. s'good,” he slurs incoherently, his tongue working almost expertly, swirling around your sensitive bud with such focus, softly sucking then lapping at it. Over and over.
You feel his fingers push inside you again, your mouth falling open with a pitiful cry. His mouth works meticulously with his fingers, feeling your orgasm creeping closer, the spindle in your core tightening with each passing second.
“My fucking g-god, you’re… you’re doing so good,” you breathe between your words, your chest rising and falling rapidly as he laps at your messy cunt like a little puppy. He whimpers against you, his fingers curling each time he sucks around your bud. The friction he's created, rutting his cock against the mattress, he's already fucking close.
So are you. It shocks you, really. You’ve never had someone get you so close so quickly. It’s like he was made for this.
“Shitshit, I’m— fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you squeak softly, whimpering when you feel his free hand on your waist, his fingers squeezing your soft, plushy skin. He keeps the same pace, not wanting to ruin this for you. He can feel you squeezing around his fingers that are expertly pumping inside you, curling deliciously to graze your sweet spot. “F-fuck!”
Your thighs squeeze together, trapping his face against your messy cunt as you start to cum, your eyes blowing wide. You’re shaking, and not just because of the force of his fingers ramming into you, working you through your orgasm. Peter can feel how hard you’re breathing, his thumb rising and falling on your stomach as he keeps his grip on your waist firm, holding you.
Just as you start to reach down for his head to pull it closer, he pulls away from you, the filthy pop of his lips disconnecting from your clit echoing between you.
"Shit, what's wrong?"
"Nothings wrong," he responds a little too quickly.
You can hear the rustling of him pulling his mask back down, your heart jumping in your chest.
“You can look now,” he breathes, moving to hover above you, his cock throbbing against your thigh within the confines of his briefs. You’re still panting as you move your arm away to see him hovered above you, your eyes searching his through the mask. “Did I do a good job?”
“Such a good job,” you huff, a smile pulling at the corner of your lips. Your hand instantly moves down to his clothed cock, your fingers curling around him. You feel the definition, and how much he’s throbbing.
Nearly instantly, he’s whimpering. You feel his two fingers, still wet and messy from you, pushing against your lips. You were hoping to taste yourself on his tongue, but this’ll do. You part them, sucking them as soon as they touch your tongue.
Peter didn’t expect it to feel so good, the way your tongue wraps around his fingers makes his head spin. You hadn’t even really touched him yet and he’s a leaking, moaning mess.
Taking him by surprise, you slip your hand into his briefs, your soft fingers wrapping around him to slowly stroke him as you continue sucking on his fingers. His eyes roll, his head tilting back slightly as he relishes in the feeling. It’s just like how he imagined it.
Despite being unable to see his face, you can tell he’s falling apart. You swear it’s like he knows what he’s doing, but has never been touched before. Maybe he really is just that pathetic.
You start to fasten the pace of your hand, but just as you start, he’s just as quick to stop you.
“S-stop,” he whimpers, pulling his fingers from your mouth and lifting his hips. You retract your hand, and before you can ask what happened, he’s quick to continue, “I’m already getting close.”
What?
He pushes his briefs down the rest of the way, kicking them off. You see the way his cock springs free, aching red and already leaking precum at the tip. In an instant, he's hovering over you again, his cock just mere inches from you. From where you want him the most.
“You poor thing-” your teasing is cut short when you feel his arms wrap around your thighs, pulling them closer to him. You gasp, eyebrows raising as he softly grinds his tip against your slit free-handed. He’s rushing and he knows it. He can’t fucking help it.
You wanted to degrade him, to remind him of his rules, but he's just so desperate. So needy. It's a pretty sight.
“J-Just tell me when I can, please,” he huffs, his tip rubbing between your folds causing a filthy squelching sound. His eyes are focused on your pretty cunt, at the way his tip fits perfectly against your slit before he starts to push in, “Oh my god, fuck, please. Tell me. Tell me I can—“
"Of course you can, baby. Touch me," you purr teasingly, your hands move to his hips, gently tugging to pull him even closer. The pet name nearly makes him rut, but he's hanging on to the last thread of control he has left. He pushes in slowly, the pitiful sound he makes nearly making you gush.
"O-oh my, fuck. Thank you. Shit, you're so tight," he whines, pushing into you slowly, watching your pussy take him, sucking him in inch by inch. Your hands tighten on his hips, your nails sinking into his taut skin.
“Feels so good, doesn’t it?” you purr, intently watching the way his movements stutter at your teasing. He can't take it. He can't fucking take it anymore.
"Yes, yes. Feels so fucking good," he whimpers, pushing in the rest of the way before bottoming out completely with his hips snug against yours. The feeling makes your eyes roll slightly, your head tilting back against the pillow.
When you move to roll your hips against his, his hands fly from your thighs to your waist, pushing you slightly up the bed with such ease, stopping your movements, "S-stop, stop."
You look up at him, naturally searching for his eyes through the mask, "It's okay, we can stop."
"No, I just," he grunts, his hips shaking slightly as he fights to control himself. "I need a second."
“Okay,” you nod softly, lifting a hand from his hips to wrap it around the side of his throat, your thumb gently caressing his adam’s apple. He swallows thickly, and you feel it bob under your touch.
With the remnants of your orgasm still rippling through you, you can’t control the way your cunt flutters around him. Fuck, is he gonna have to cum before he can keep going? He wants this to last.
Slowly, his hips start rolling against yours, “I-I’m okay, sorry, m’sorry,” he whispers, looking back down at where you’re connected before rambling on.
"You have no idea-" he grunts, eyes locked onto the way his cock is fully stuffed inside you, your pussy taking him so good. So wet and eager. He pulls his hips back until his cock slips out halfway, glistening with your juices before he slowly pushes back in, listening to the filthy sound it makes, "-how much I've thought about this."
His hands are still tightly gripping your waist as his hips work to keep a steady pace. He doesn't want to go too fast, he can’t. This is so embarrassing.
Your eyes light up at the admission, hand still gently wrapped around the side of his neck, “Shit. I’m- me too.”
His ears perk, his hips never faltering. His thrusts are slow and deliberate, your response making him whimper.
“I want to see you,” you whisper, your fingers slipping down to the edge of his mask at the base of his neck. “Let me kiss you.”
He stills. Is it too risky? At this point, how would a kiss be more ridiculous than him literally eating you out?
Well, it’s not, but it’s too much risk.
“You can’t.”
“Why? You don’t have to tell me your name.”
“That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
How is he supposed to answer that?
His hands leave your waist, leaving your skin cold. He slips a hand underneath you, between your back and the mattress, lifting you enough to press your chest against his. Your face rests just above his shoulder as his hips continue thrusting against yours, deep and slow. His arm stays there, tightly holding you against him, your eyes struggling to stay focused. That’s when you hear it.
With his free hand, he pulls the mask off, but purposely holding you close enough that he could hide his face over your shoulder.
“Y-You really don’t trust me?” you manage with a moan, feeling his bare chest tighten against yours at the accusation.
“That’s not it,” he groans softly against the side of your neck, his lips finally touching the skin of it, warm and wet. You feel his cock twitch inside you, your eyes hooded with the inability to focus.
“Mmh, then what is it?”
“I trust you. I don’t trust what might happen.”
“Please.”
“I can’t, f-fuck,” he whimpers against your skin, his hips starting to fasten in pace at the sound of your plea. The filthy fucking sounds your pussy is making is driving him insane, his cock easing in and out effortlessly. You know there’s no winning this.
You wrap your arms above his shoulders and around his back, holding him as you tuck your chin into the crevice between his neck and shoulder. You feel him breathing into your neck, his breath shaky and weak. That oh-so familiar scent has Peter’s head spinning.
“You smell so good. I fucking dream about this, about you,” he pathetically admits, voice weak and breath hot against your neck. “Y-You- fuck, you make me fucking cum in my sleep. Make me- agh, wake up all messy.”
He’s losing it. He’s so vulgar.
He hears your gasp, so close and soft beside his ear, it sends a chill down his spine.
“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” he whimpers, his voice barely audible when all you can focus on is how much of a loud fucking mess he’s making of your poor cunt. “I dream about fucking you, just like this, making you cum around me, s-shit.”
The thought has his hips stuttering before he picks up the pace even more, his hips smacking yours with a force that causes your body to jolt with each thrust. His grip is tight as he holds you, feeling you jolt against him all while he whimpers in your ear, struggling to not look at you. His other hand remains on your waist, helping to stabilize you as he fucks into you. The filthy squelching of your cunt grows even louder, and you feel the vibrations of a low growl against your neck, “F-Fucking god, do you hear it?”
“Mh-m, yes,” you moan, your nails digging into the skin of his back. Peter wouldn’t be able to explain the sudden confidence boost, particularly with his words.
“S’fucking messy,” he whimpers, your wetness splashing on his thighs after each deep thrust, dribbling down his skin. You feel his lips connect with the side of your neck, sucking a harsh love mark into your skin before softly licking it to soothe it. He does it again, over and over, his pitiful noises vibrating against your throat.
Your eyes roll at the feeling, your senses overloading. You feel your core tightening, your second orgasm growing dangerously close.
“I’m gonna… mmph, fuck, I-I’m close,” you moan into his ear, your pussy milking him with each jolt he causes. With the arm wrapped around your back, he pulls you closer. With his other, he releases your waist, his free hand moving to grab your arm and guide your hand down to your stomach. Pressing his hand on top of yours, he forces you to feel your lower stomach.
You feel it immediately, your stomach bulging slightly with each pump of his cock. He’s in your fucking guts.
“Y’feel it? Feel me in your tummy?” he moans softly in you ear, his pathetic expression one that he’d be embarrassed for you to see. There’s no way you don’t feel it, even he can as he holds your hand down against your rapidly bulging skin. “Feel me filling y’up.”
That was a statement. A demand. Your eyes roll back again, your body growing weak in his hold as he takes complete control. You don’t have any fight left in you to tease him. You’re so fucking close, facing an internal conflict with the need to cum and the desire to keep going.
“Fill me up,” you whimper, rolling your hips against his, purposely squeezing your pussy around him, wanting to milk every last drop. “I wanna feel you cum.”
“O-oh my, haah, g-god, aaagh,” Peter instantly whines, his mouth parting open as he starts driving into you faster, pounding his hips into yours. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
He was being so good, now he’s rushing just because you told him to fill your pretty cunt with his cum?
How pathetic can he get?
“You’re doing so fucking good,” you praise softly, feeling him fuck into you even deeper with your hand still prisoned between his and your stomach. That’s all he needed.
“S-shit, t-thank you,” he whines louder, his voice cracking in your ear as his chest tightens against yours, his breath growing shallow. He doesn’t have time to warn you before he’s cumming. “Thankyouthankyou, fuck!”
His cock twitches with each spurt of thick, warm ropes of cum stuffing inside you. The pathetic sounds he’s making and the feeling of his cum filling you up is enough for you to break, your pussy spasming around him uncontrollably. Your body goes slack against him, thighs trembling as you gasp like all the air in your lungs was violently knocked out.
What’s shocking is he doesn’t stop. His hips keep moving, pistoning relentlessly as he keeps cumming. Your pussy can only contain so much, the leftovers of cum leaking out of you, bubbling around your slit and making a filthy mess each time he pulls his hips back and thrusts back in. It’s like he purposely wants to overfill it, to stuff you full and keep fucking it back into you, not wanting to waste it.
With your limbs weak and achy, you’re completely limp, but that doesn’t mean you want to stop. You lift your hand from your stomach, lacing your fingers with his before he plants your hand back down against your plushy skin, not letting up. You move your other hand from his back to the nape of his neck, barely grazing his hair as your fingers unintentionally land on his inhibitor.
Oh dear.
“F-fuck, don’t. Don’t touch that,” he struggles, a whiny moan escaping him as he feels your pussy squeezing him so fucking tight. He pulls his hand from yours on your stomach, quickly moving to grab your wrist, but it's already too late.
He feels it detach from his skin.
You didn’t mean to, only wanting to grab onto him, but it catches onto your fingers and slides out of place.
“Shit!” he grunts, his free hand moving to cover your eyes. He sits up, still inside you as he looks around for the inhibitor that’s now fallen and out of sight.
“W-what! What was that?”
“Just- don’t move,” he pleads, his head twisting as his eyes search the bunched up sheets. “Fuck, where did it go?”
“Please, just let me see you,” you beg, your hand moving to grab onto his that’s blocking your vision.
“N-no! Just hold on a second—“
“Peter.”
Oh, no.
He stills completely, eyes widening as he takes in hearing his name coming from your mouth. His ears start ringing.
“Peter, I know it’s you.”
“What? That’s… not my name,” he lies, eyes still wide, his cheeks flushing rosy red.
“Inhibitor complete. Trial number forty-seven on standby.”
This can't be happening.
“What did you say?”
Peter gasps, his back shooting up from his bed. Eyes wide, heart pounding. He’s in his room. Peter’s hand quickly moves up to graze the back of his neck. His skin is damp, a cold chill creeping through him at the realization he never had the inhibitor on.
No, no, no. It felt so real.
Whipping his head in the direction of his monitor, he sees the notification that the inhibitor is complete, blinking across the screen. The same notification he swore he already saw. But he didn’t.
When he laid down for that nap at nine, he never truly woke up.
How did he possibly wake up from a nap, put the inhibitor on, and go see you, all within one dream? It made sense, considering how fast things escalated and how he knows what your bedroom like looks now, but…
Something is wrong. It felt too fucking real.
He glances over at his nightstand, the clock blinking 6:26am. Beside his alarm clock was… nothing. No, he could’ve sworn that’s where he put your necklace, carefully laid on the stained wood.
What is going on?
That’s when he feels it. The dampness in his briefs, warm and sticky. His hands fly to his face, a frustrated groan bellowing from him.
“Fuck!”
a/n: phew… this was a big one. forgive me for the sloppy sex, i wanted it to feel natural & unnatural at the same time since he was ‘dreaming’ about it. did you catch on?? (feel free to send in requests <3)
Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?
Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍
Masterlist
You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal.
The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his.
That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.
He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.
“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now.
You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”
“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”
“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”
You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back.
He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual.
The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could.
It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong.
“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.”
The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours.
The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him.
His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face.
That had been one year ago.
After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account.
So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)
Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought.
Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine.
When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.
Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend.
Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero.
He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.
Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night.
A promise was a promise.
Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.
“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.
He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that.
He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully.
“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?”
He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable.
“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”
You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer.
“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.”
The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.
“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused.
“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks.
“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes.
“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”
“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.”
“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”
“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully.
You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him.
“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement.
The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions.
Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday.
Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.
Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room.
Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins.
And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out.
“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…”
The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence.
“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”
“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”
“Message already sent.”
He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am.
He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you?
Oh fuck.
You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–
“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.
The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now.
He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and–
“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him.
You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful.
“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?”
You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.”
The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch.
He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.
You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams.
This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago.
It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it.
“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?”
“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”
You nodded, turning toward the workstation.
“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment.
“EV?”
The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light.
“Online.”
“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.”
“Beginning diagnostic.”
You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye.
Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe.
This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him.
But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head.
There was only you.
Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor.
Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment.
The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again.
That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes.
He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly.
This was wrong. So wrong.
His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.
He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you.
What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–
“Diagnostic complete.”
Your heads snapped toward the screen.
“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.”
“What biotoxin?” You frowned.
“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.”
Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was.
Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.
The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.
He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead.
He suddenly felt the need to lick it off.
Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–
“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.”
“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier.
It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything.
“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”
Mating response. He stopped breathing.
Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants.
That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–
He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer.
“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly.
“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”
He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.
Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.
You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual.
“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment.
His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.
Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse?
“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”
Heat rose to your face once again.
“What does that mean?”
Don’t say anything, don’t–
“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.”
He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin.
Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed.
“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.
You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat.
The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin.
“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.
White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth.
“No.”
His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up.
“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.”
His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that.
The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable.
His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions.
Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.
His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric.
Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.
He hated it.
He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain.
“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side.
“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”
“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”
“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely.
“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?”
“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”
“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”
“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”
“You wouldn’t hurt me–”
“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles.
The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second.
One second enough.
“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”
The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest.
“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”
He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be.
Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes.
The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.
He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.
You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs.
His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly.
You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals.
He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence.
Too hard.
Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure.
It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out.
“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”
“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.”
He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it.
“But my offer still stands, spidey.”
What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’
Fucking hell.
“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”
You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.
“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…”
He wasn’t.
“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”
For God’s sake.
“I think I can help.”
By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him.
His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with.
“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide.
“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?”
You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed.
His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation.
Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.
It wanted more.
His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you.
“Sorry–”
“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder.
He was burning.
The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly.
“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm.
“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”
“Breathe,” you reminded.
His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down.
Just take her, man, she’s right there–
Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.
“Please.” Was all he said.
Leave it on.
It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life.
“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”
See? She wants it. She needs it so bad.
He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.
Fuck it.
In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core.
His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses.
“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”
You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw.
“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”
You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you.
“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”
His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand.
“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”
“What do you need? More what?”
“More contact.”
His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt.
“Can I?” He whispered.
You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull.
“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air.
He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask.
His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you.
“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”
“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air.
You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away.
You weren’t wearing anything underneath.
“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”
Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours.
“Can–can I–?”
You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs.
Water. He found water in the middle of the desert.
His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life.
“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”
He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound.
“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”
His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right.
“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”
Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers.
“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”
“Not stopping, baby.”
He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts.
“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”
“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–
“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”
The plea undid you.
You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there.
It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him.
You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you.
Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up.
He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him.
You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact.
The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you.
“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly.
You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.
His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger.
You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first.
“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”
Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.
Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand.
His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately.
Fuck her. Fuck her right now.
“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”
You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.
He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.
You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him.
When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver.
He could feel it coming. The change.
You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away.
His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal.
Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.
The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.
That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out.
“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.”
He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again.
“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”
“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”
A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–
“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused.
“What–what happened? I was about to–”
“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”
That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face.
Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now.
Good.
He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room.
His bed.
He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.
“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”
You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth.
Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets.
“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you?
Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him.
He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it.
“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”
Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk.
“Peter…”
“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”
Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so.
God. He was never going back.
“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.”
He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again.
“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”
“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”
“Need what?”
“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”
He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up.
“Yeah?”
Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him.
He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine.
But something made him stop.
“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”
The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through.
“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”
You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again.
He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands.
The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets.
“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”
“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow.
“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”
He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect.
Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper.
He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back.
“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”
He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again.
What? What is–
The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back.
“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”
He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“
“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”
The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again.
“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again.
“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”
His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.
“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”
“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…”
He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up.
You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you.
“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”
The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you.
When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin.
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths.
You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–
“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.”
EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence.
It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened.
“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered.
“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”
“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath.
“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets.
That was your call back to reality.
Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking.
“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead.
“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly.
“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”
He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet.
“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”
There it was. He said it. No turning back now.
At least it got a chuckle from you too.
“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”
Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you.
“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”
“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation.
You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again.
Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did.
There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined.
Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth.
So young. So earnest. So yours.
Not spidey anymore. Just Peter.
Your Peter.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.
𝓟eter 𝓟arker 𝒙 f!reader ⊹ ❛ fratboy!peter doesn't do condoms or pulling out ❜ 𖹭.ᐟ 2.1k wc. mdni. unprotected p in v. lowk manipulative!peter. creampie/breeding + mentioned risk of impreg. dirty talk + pet names + praise. prone bone position. alluded situationship between peter & reader. lowkey dubcon but reader fucks w it.
You hadn't exactly woken up that morning with the intention of sliding into frat king Peter Parker's bed (for the fourth time in two months, mind you), but that's exactly where you are now.
And, fuck, you can't even say you hate it or regret it—though you really wish you could say so.
You'd promised yourself after the third time that you'd stop. You wouldn't fall for his charming character, puppy-dog eyes, smooth words, or heaven-sent dick; actually, you'd ignore him, maybe even find someone else to help bite away at your sexual frustration for the remainder of your college years.
Someone safer, with far more respect for boundaries.
Because for as beautifully as Peter Parker fucked, for as skilled as he was with his hands, fingers, tongue, fucking everything—he had one glaring, impeding flaw.
He absolutely refused to use a condom.
"Don't have any," he'd murmured the first time you let him between your legs and asked the most obvious question of 'what about condoms?'
You almost shut it down there, but then he pinned you with those puppy-dog eyes, as if he knew what you were about to do, voice a husky whisper, "I'm sorry, I couldn't get any before you came over... is that okay?"
It wasn't. It shouldn't have been.
You should have made that crystal clear, or at least demanded he run to the nearest convenience store if he wanted to stick his cock in you—but you didn't.
You simply nodded, let that stupidly attractive little half-smile he gave you twist your heart, and proceeded to let him fuck your brains out, completely raw and bare. Let him pump his cum inside you and squeeze your throat a little as he did so, feeling your eyes roll at the way his tip smeared against your sensitive cervix in the most pleasurable way.
And even though you were nearly incoherent by the end of it, you were still able to stress that next time, he better have a damn condom.
And Peter smirked, pleased at the confirmation of a next time, and promised that he would have one.
Really, you probably should have seen that for what it was—a bold faced fucking lie. But he was a damn good liar, and they tend to twist even the most obvious of lies into something inherently believable.
Just as Peter had done the second time around.
On your back, legs splayed, lips locked with his and pussy positively buzzing from the promise of being stretched by that heavenly cock pressed against your cunt, you couldn't really register how faux it was when Peter leaned over and opened the bedside drawer, rummaging around inside it before popping up from your lips with a softly hissed, "shit."
"Wh-what is it?" you pressed breathlessly, eyes darting between Peter's tensed jaw and his hand still in the drawer. There was an ache where his lips had just been, an ache that begged to be soothed.
"The condoms," he half rushed, half groaned. "I swear to God I put them in here. They were there last night, I double checked—shit, I'm sorry, babe—maybe next time? I can't find them—"
You were stupid. So, so stupid. But you were so horny, so worked up from his lips and hands, that when Peter tried to push away from you, your hand shot out and caught his bicep.
"It's fine," you pushed out hurriedly. Peter's eyes snapped to you and his jaw unclenched, but his brows furrowed. "We can still—fuck, just don't worry about the condom. It's okay."
Had you been a little more clear headed, you may have been able to realize that weird gleam in his eye was actually the shine of victory, and not the puddle of concern you originally took it for when he asked if you were sure.
The first two times could be written off as you maybe being too gullible, but in a way that was acceptable; after all, Peter was able to hide his disdain for condoms pretty well.
The third time around? He didn't even try—maybe because he knew that by now, you were so hooked to his dick and the way he fucked you that he could get away with it.
And he wasn't entirely wrong. No, actually, he wasn't wrong at all.
That was evident in the way you were bouncing on his raw cock, taking him all the way to the hilt and rocking forward subtly before pulling up again, pulling soft groans and hissed curses from his lips. Rinse and repeat.
And he's just watching you, eyes sharp like a hawk, reveling in the way you unravel for him, a small smirk on his lips because even though you'd been so adamant for 'protection' at the door, you folded so easy.
A few slick words, soft phrases, sultry touches, an easy lie of he 'can't feel anything through them and he really, really wants to feel you, baby', and one look at his dick and you went wild, forgetting all about pesky condoms in exchange for mind-numbing pleasure.
Thank every god in every universe that you weren't fertile during any of those hookups; otherwise you'd definitely be carrying a miniature Peter Parker right now—which wasn't in your books, at all.
You couldn't say the same about this time. Which is why you shouldn't even be here, face down, hips lifted, moaning into a pillow that smells of Dior Sauvage and fresh linen fabric refreshner while you're railed into next week.
You hadn't even meant for it to happen; it wasn't on your agenda for the day.
But when you ran into Peter, his hair freshly trimmed, top shirt buttons popped to expose just enough of his chest, smelling of the same cologne you're currently huffing from his pillow now—well, your ovulating self couldn't fucking say no when he invited you to his place.
And, again, you can't even feel any regret. Because it's everything you'd been craving for the last few days; rough, feral sex, with your face pressed into fabric and your pussy fucked open so deliciously.
God, in this position, Peter feels even bigger than normal. His tip smashes into your cervix with every long, deep thrust, and the subtle upward curve of his cock allows him to slide right against that spot inside you over and over and over—holy fuck!
"Fuuck, Peter—mmm—easy—" you choke out, words slightly muffled by the pillow and nearly drowned out by harsh slaps of flesh. Your pussy is fluttering around him, so sloppy and drooly and that you can hear every single squelch of his cock splitting open your walls.
And Peter fucking loves it. Can't shut up about it, actually.
"Goddamn, jus' listen to that pussy," you can hear the smirk on his lips. "So fuckin' wet, isn't she? You been thinking about me, baby? I think you have been. Prolly been thinkin' about this dick messing you up since last Tuesday, huh?"
'Shut the fuck up,' is what you want to say, but all that comes out is a garbled, lewd moan when Peter thrusts just right, effectively clearing your head and crossing your eyes.
"Hah, shit—pussy's too fuckin' good today. So wet 'an tight, sucking me so fuckin' good... Damn, girl—you might make me bust soon." Peter drawls, big hands grasping the globes of your ass and spreading them just so, so he can watch as his cock spears into your sweet cunny.
Sharp panic slices through your fucked-out head at his filthy words.
"No, don't—! Ahh—y-you have to pull out, Peter—can't—not inside t-this time."
With your head down, you can't see the harsh scowl that mars Peter's face when you say the words 'pull out.' Peter's fingers dig ever so subtly into the flesh of your ass, almost as if he's giving you a small punishment for suggesting such a thing.
"Relax, babe, I ain't that close." Peter scoffs, though the sharp twinge in his balls tells him otherwise.
He wasn't lying when he said your pussy is too fucking good today—wetter than usual, with fluid so sticky-slick that it forms strings that connect his smooth abdomen to your thighs and ass every time he pulls his hips back.
Not to mention how hot it was inside you, metaphorically and literally. It felt like Peter was fucking into the physical form of lava, sans the literal melting. And the way you clamped around his cock? Fuck, it was enough to have his head rolling back and eyes crossing.
Peter isn't some prebuscent, acne-addled fifteen year old with sub-par sex education; he knows exactly what your current state means.
And it is so fucking hot, knowing that every thrust of his leaking cock into your depths runs the risk of impregnating you with his spawn.
You, however, don't seem to share his enthusiasm for it. Your fingers twist in his sheets, and you nearly try to crawl from him, "'m serious, Peter—y-you need to pull out, I fucking mean it—"
His thrusts turn a little rougher, more pointed, slamming into your sweet spots with the sole intention of getting you to shut up.
"I get it. I'll pull out, Jesus." Peter hisses, and it's enough. You melt back into the pillow, eyes fluttering and moans spilling into the fabric, nearly drooling from the sudden abuse to your g-spot.
It feels so fucking good that you quickly lose yourself, your fertility completely melting from your brain in favor of jumbled thoughts of fuck, he's so big, he's fucking me up, harder, faster, fucking use me, I'm gonna come—
"Fuck, do you even know how fuckin' pretty you sound—mmmm, fuuuck!—saying shit like that?" Peter suddenly cuts off your string of thoughts—no, words—cock kicking up inside your mushy walls. "I'd swear you're tryin' to make me come with that shit."
You can't even be mortified by it. You feel too good, and there's that familiar knot building inside you. Every slide of his cock into you just tightens it, his grunts and groans just adding more pressure to something that's already almost too heavy.
Fuck, you just want to come. Scratch that. You need to come; all over his glorious fucking cock that's fucking you so good.
"Then do it, baby. Yeah, c'mon, you can do it—wanna feel you, sweetheart. Jus' give it t'me, fuck—"
Peter re-positions, one hand planting itself on the bed beside your head for stability, and your muffled moans morph into something far more pornographic.
He's hitting you so impossibly deep now, like he's trying to break through to your womb—and when he slides his arm down and around your neck for the leverage to fuck you back on him, you lose it.
Your squeal of 'cooooomingg—' gets swallowed by praises from Peter when your pussy clenches around him, gushing up his cock and soaking your cum into his mattress.
"Yesyes, good girl—fuck, mhmm—keep comin', baby, c'mon—let it out, pretty girl, I've got you—fuck, y'feel so good coming around my dick like that."
Normally, Peter would fuck you nice and deep through the waves, kiss your skin and lap the sweat, pepper you with praises and hold you until the high cleared out and you stopped trembling—but right now, he didn't have the patience for it.
Feeling you come was the catalyst for his own undoing, and his hips moved on their own. Fast, short strokes that put most of the friction around his sensitive tip, and before Peter knew it, his lips were next to your ear and he was almost there—
"Gonna come," he squeezes out, and when you start to sputter he tacks on, "fuck, I'll pull out, I remember—hah, oh fuck, baby, s'good, almost—ungh—shit, okay, I don't think I can—'m'sorry, you're gonna have to take it, okay?"
Peter can't really decipher your little half hearted protests through the white static in his ears.
"Fuck, coming! Take it, baby, shhhh—no, no—s'okay, baby... yeah, fuck, milkin' me s'good... 'm fillin' up your pretty pussy, baby—yeah, it feels so good, doesn't it? Yeah, your body wants this, I know it does."
As always, Peter isn't even wrong. Your pussy is slurping up his cum gladly, practically wrenching it towards your womb; and the heat of it is enough to have your gut sparking with sharp arousal. You're really not even that concerned about the risk anymore. It feels too good to be concerned about it.
As for Peter? He wasn't even a little concerned to begin with. He was at peace with his decision—after all, there's a reason you're the only girl he's ever raw-dogged before in his life.
a/n: um, acc idk abt this one.. its my first attempt at like, putting more depth into my smut?? if that makes sense?? critiques would honestly be so so so appreciated bcs by golly i've never written smth like this and i feel outta my depth 😭
tag𝓵ist @mayhemi @triciawritesstuff @therealcap @vannyswims @fawnphile @she1983 @ynstark @emmiegirl @jaydennicole @meeemuirs @hyacinthusflowernymph @knowleeyo if i forgot to add u, or if u would like to be added/removed pls lmk! ♡
This man is so fucking irritating in the best way possible.
He loves taunting you when you’re crying under him as his veiny, warm, bulging cock slides inside your little wet, creamy pussy. When you tell him to have some sort of mercy on your already well-fucked cunt, he just mimics your plead and challenge you to do something about it. Knowing you can’t.
“Ohhh!”
He copied your moan again in your ear, grinning smugly. He knows exactly what he’s doing when he’s fucking you like this—his cock is just so huge. You want him to stop teasing you. He’s been doing this for several hours and it’s making you sad. You don’t like this game anymore. “Stop d-doing that!” You sniffled and swallowed. He hums teasing. “Mmmh..” he pretends to think about it and deadpans his voice. “No.”
“Wha?” You look at him with puppy eyes at his answer. He has you in a locked full Nelson, his undeniable strength is keeping you in place. He repeats after you in your whiny tone and exaggerates it. “Wha?” You see his grin grow. Before you can respond he purposely speeds up inside you. You squeal and moan. “H-heyyy!” Now he’s ignoring you and fucks your pussy like a sex toy. “Do something about it. Crybaby.” He says. You click your teeth in irritation and sadness.
You can’t do anything about it.
“Sh-shut the fuck up!” He’s hitting all your nerves.
“No.” He simply denies.
His hips go faster into you and you’re on the edge of sobbing. “Stop it!” You cry, voice raw. “Mh-mhh..” he says teasingly. He knows you hate it when he’s teasing you during sex. Because then it just turns into him just being a meanie to you and your pussy. “Stop ittt!” He mocks you again. He bounces you on his cock and you sob harder, he has to and will make sure you feel it until your wailing. “Just a little crybaby, hm?” You want to just cry. It’s so embarrassing and humiliating. It’s true though, you do cry a lot when you’re overstimulated. So now he’s just pointing it out. You try to defend yourself but then he’ll just go faster and further prove his point when more sobs come from you.
“I hate YOUUUUUHHH!!”
“Oh please, cry me a river. Crybaby.”
And he makes you take it—you scream and squeal until all you can do is cry pathetic sobs as he fucks your pussy into a sickening orgasm. And then he makes you take more because your cries are so cute.
Arachnid Peter who cums so much, but he can’t help it :(( It’s so messy, every time you fuck, just uncontrollably squirting everywhere.
It’s too much! You say, but he’ll fuck it back into you, whispering that it’s just his instinct, that you’re such a good mate for him.
His eyes dilate like crazy, until the whites of his sclera’s disappear, looking down at you like he wants to eat you alive.
And you can’t blame him when he bites the column of your neck, your lips when you’re kissing him, your belly as he inches downwards. It’s just in his nature right?
Arachnid Peter who has to keep reassuring you that yes, it’s normal for him to keep spurting out webs, conveniently binding you to the bed, all pliant and exposed to him.
He gets so possessive, asking you to tell him that you’re his, only his, while he kisses and bruises your lips.
Ugh, and when you leave marks on him? Scratches down his back? Hickies on his neck? He’s groaning into your skin, asking you to give him more, teasing you with an— ‘is that all you’ve got?’
plot: you accidentally send Peter a pic and he sends one back
pairing: peter parker x reader
tags: cheating, smut, i haven’t written in a minute so this probably suckkksssss
inspired by @llalaundercover on tiktok
Organic Chemistry 101 was difficult. And that was saying something considering you were an A* student in high school. College was hard. It was filled with a bunch of pretentious know-it-alls, all insufferable and snotty with the exception of Peter Parker.
He was quiet, stuck to himself, and also crazy smart. He'd been part of the Robotics club in high school, and you remember admiring him work, always in a world of his own. It felt like that was eons ago.
You had become more familiar with each other in college, considering you were both taking the same major. You’d help each other out with notes and answers here and there, even studying together during peak exam season.
Now here you were, trying not to let all the electives and classes and events drown you, but finding it difficult to find a balance. From an outsider's perspective, it looked like you had everything; the grades, the looks, the guy.
Brad. Your boyfriend from high school who had followed you to college. Classic high school sweethearts. You'd won prom king and queen, applied to colleges together, planned all your senior pranks together.
But truthfully, it was an empty relationship. Brad was here on a sports scholarship, and the two of you couldn't be more distant. Sure he brought you flowers and chocolates on Valentine's day and kissed you when you met him on the field, but he didn't know much about you.
Or about how much you'd changed. And you never felt comfortable enough to tell him. Truth was, it was boring. He was boring.
Sex with him was even more boring. The same position, the same words, the same time, every time. It had become a boring mundane routine, like another chore to check off your list.
So when he texts you, asking you to 'send something?' Your eyes light up. Finally some excitement. You strip your top off, turn on your lamp, and snap a few pics at different angles, scrolling between them until you land on the perfect one.
Getting another notification, you click to open it, assuming it was Brad again. You attach the photo of you holding your boobs, with your necklace resting in your cleavage and your hair framing the sides.
Resting your phone down, you wait for his response. When a few minutes pass without him responding, you decide to send a sly message asking what he was doing with the photo, only to see that his message had remained unopened.
Confused, you open your chat, then swipe back out to see that Peter Parker was at the top of your message list.
You were going to die. Of mortification. Brad was going to break up with you, and Peter freaking Parker would know how your tits looked.
You’re close to a full blown panic attack when you hear a ding! from your phone.
This was it. The consequences of your actions. A lengthy disgusted message from Peter about sending unsolicited nudes and the end of any future distinguished careers.
Squealing, you contort in your bed like a madman before huffing and opening your phone.
[picture attached]
Oh.
Pausing, you wonder what he could have sent you. It couldn't be...
Adjusting yourself in the bed, you lie on your stomach and click on the photo.
Peter Parker knew how your tits looked, and you knew how his dick looked now too.
Nice isn't the first word you'd think of to describe a penis, but his was... pretty? It was blushing at the tip, and even in the low lighting you could see the pre glistening.
You think you're about to combust when he sends something else.
A video.
You open it without hesitation.
He's holding his base, whining a—
"Fuckkkkkk. Wanted this so long."
He tugs upwards once, hissing at the sensation. "Please, please, let me come over. Fuck please, I'll make you feel so good..."
And just like that the screen goes blank. It’s embarrassing how quick you become wet.
You don't even blink before texting him your dorm room number.
10 long minutes later, there's a knock. By then, you'd watched the video over and over, and if you closed your eyes you could see it playing behind your eyelids.
You open on the first knock, smiling at the sheepish look on his face with his fist raised to knock again.
There's a thud behind you and you feel your spine tingle when you realise he's dropped to his knees before you.
You think for a second that you should reject his advances. That you should feel some type of shame, think of your relationship, muster any kind of logic.
But it was hard to think when he was looking at you so prettily.
Eyes all watery, like you’re the only thing in the world, like he’d do anything for you.
So when he says, “please,” softly, you feel like you don’t have a choice but to lean down and press your lips to his.
# NSFW TWT ! NERDJO AU ⋆ 18+ MDNI | SMUT AHEAD ⋆ mean/popular fem!reader ⋆ secretly mutuals ⋆ satoru & reader make softporn on twt ⋆ university au ⋆ no use of y/n but reader’s alias is ‘love’ ⋆ fake dating ⋆ academic rivalry & animosity ⋆ satoru and reader hate each other ⋆ reader briefly cheats on her bf… sorry… ⋆ art by @to00fu & dividers by #omni.resources
You’re sitting in the back of Professor Hayashi’s ethics lecture, legs crossed, phone face-down on the desk like you’re actually paying attention, when Satoru Gojo raises his hand for the third fucking time this hour and somehow makes the entire room feel smaller.
Of course he knows the answer. Of course he phrases it like he’s doing everyone a favor. “The utilitarian framework falls apart here because—” blah blah blah and then he’s off, voice calm, a little bored, like he’s explaining why the sky is blue to toddlers. You can feel the collective sigh of relief from the front row. The guy next to you mutters “nerd” under his breath and you almost laugh because yeah, but it’s not that simple anymore. Not after three years of this.
Three years since first year orientation week, when he was still the tall, lanky transfer with the stupid white hair and glasses that actually suited him, trying to make friends or whatever the fuck new kids do. You were already deep in the popular crowd—frat parties, group chats that never died, the kind of social currency that made professors remember your name even when you skipped. He approached you after some icebreaker bullshit, asked if you wanted to grab coffee sometime, and you looked him dead in the eye in front of half the clique and said, loud enough for everyone to hear:
“Pass. I don’t do charity cases. Find someone who does.”
The laughter that followed? Beautiful for your ego. Terrible for his. You remember the way his face went blank for half a second before he just… nodded once and walked away. Like he filed it under never again. Good. That’s how it should’ve stayed.
Except it didn’t. Because now it’s third year and Satoru Gojo is topping every shared class you have. Every. Single. One. And he does it with that same quiet, smug little half-smile like he’s not even trying. Like your GPA is a joke he’s been workshopping since freshman year.
You glance over. He’s not even looking at you. Just staring straight ahead, long fingers tapping his pen against the desk in that irritating rhythm he does when he’s already ten steps ahead of the lecture. You wonder why he even attends if he so arrogantly knows everything. It’s fucking stupid. And annoying. His hoodie is the same faded black one he’s worn since second year. Glasses slightly crooked. Hair doing that messy thing that should look stupid but somehow doesn’t. You hate that you notice.
Your phone buzzes under your hand. Group chat with the girls.
Mika: party this weekend @ kappa
You: i’ll be there
Mika: bring ur bf??
You: we broke up lol
You didn’t. Not yet. But you will. Soon. He’s convenient for now—shows up to events, hot enough to make you look good, buys drinks, doesn’t ask too many questions when you disappear for “girls’ night.” You’re not proud of it. You’re also not not proud. Survival of the hottest or whatever they call it.
Lecture ends. You’re packing up slow, letting the crowd thin, when Satoru stands and stretches like a cat that knows it owns the couch. He catches your eye on the way out. That little smirk.
“Rough day, huh? You looked like you were actually thinking for once.”
You flip him off without hesitation. “Eat shit, Gojo. Some of us don’t have the luxury of being born with a silver spoon and a 4.0.”
He laughs—quiet, low, the kind that makes your stomach do something annoying because what’s so funny about this????—and keeps walking. “See you at the study group you’re definitely not invited to.”
“Wouldn’t go even if you begged.”
“Wouldn’t beg even if you paid me.”
The door shuts behind him and you exhale through your nose like a bull. Three years. Three fucking years of this. You should be over it. You are over it. Mostly.
Night falls the way it always does in this shitty campus apartment you share with two other girls who are never home. You’re in bed, laptop open to Twitter (yes, still Twitter), scrolling on your secret account because the main one is too public and your friends would lose their minds if they knew.
Lovesick is what you go by. “love” in the bio. Faceless, obviously. Soft lighting, artistic angles, the occasional video of your hand between your thighs or your tits pushed together in some lacy thing you only wear for this specific purpose. Captions that toe the line between horny and stupid. It started as stress relief sophomore year. Something fun on the side. A little side hustle, maybe. Now it’s… something else. A place where you don’t have to be the girl with the perfect image who people secretly hate but pretend to love for the sake of connections. Where you can just want shit without explaining why.
You’re bored. Thumb moving on autopilot. Then you see it.
Limitless posted fifteen minutes ago.
The username makes you pause every time. You only started noticing him this year—third year, when you were doom-scrolling one night after a particularly brutal exam and his post popped up on your For You. Faceless like you. Lean muscular body, long fingers, perfect dick, white hair cropped at the edges of the frame so you could never quite see his face. The content? God-tier. Slow strokes, controlled breathing, non-performative moans, captions that hit different. Not the usual bro-y “who want this dick” shit. More like… teasing. Almost cocky in a reserved sort of way that drove you up the wall with need and hormones.
Tonight’s post is a video. Ten seconds. Dim room, bedside lamp somewhere off screen that paints his skin in a soft almost angelic glow. His hand wrapped around his cock, slow and deliberate, thumb swiping over the head on every upstroke. The caption underneath reads: “another day another dollar. or whatever the kids say these days. relief looks good on me doesn’t it”
You stare. Then you like it before your brain catches up. Then you reply because you’re weak and he’s been replying back lately and the banter is stupid and addictive.
lovesick: ok but why does your hand look like it pays taxes and has a 401k ??
He replies almost immediately after.
limitless: because it does. some of us are responsible adults who also jerk off like it’s a hobby
lovesick: responsible adults don’t post their dick on main at 1am toru
limitless: who said anything about main. this is the side quest love
You grin at your screen like an idiot. The alias thing started a few weeks ago when he called you “love” in a DM and you called him “toru” back as a joke. It stuck. Stupid. Comfortable. Easy in the way most anonymous and faceless things are. He doesn’t know you, you don’t know him. You flirt and get off to each other. There’s no risk. It’s perfect.
Your hand drifts under the blanket without thinking. You’re already wet from the video and the back-and-forth. Fingers slide easy, slow circles while you scroll his older posts with your other hand. He’s been at this longer than you—his account has that established vibe with a couple thousand followers. You only found him this year but now you’re mutuals, liking everything, replying to posts, dming at 2am like it’s normal.
A new message from him pops up.
limitless: you liked that one fast. needy tonight?
lovesick: shut up. some of us had a long day of pretending to be functional humans
limitless: oh no. did poor love have to use her brain again instead of being a brainless slut the whole day? tragic
lovesick: i will block you
limitless: no you won’t. you like when i’m mean to you
You bite your lip. He’s not wrong. The online version of him is cocky in a way the real Satoru Gojo never lets himself be in person. Or maybe he does and you just never see it because you’re too busy hating him. Either way, your fingers speed up. You type one-handed.
lovesick: maybe i like when you shut up and post more videos instead
limitless: bossy. i like it. what do you want to see tonight love
You hesitate. Then send a text—it’s got a typo because your hands are busy between your thighs and your brain’s already fogging up with the thought of his hand on his dick.
lovesick: yoir hand slow
limitless: are you typing with one hand rn lol? perv
lovesick: stfu nd hurry plz
He replies with a new video almost immediately. Same angle. Same controlled strokes. His dick’s already leaking precum at the tip from the previous efforts from when he was recording the video.
limitless: slow enough for you?
You come with your bottom lip between your teeth, sounds of pleasure escaping the gaps anyway because fuck if it doesn’t feel good. You let out a long sigh, the tension easing out of your body as you relax into your mattress, your cunt still pulsing with the intensity of your orgasm.
lovesick: yeah i made a mess
limitless: attagirl
Across campus, in a quiet single dorm that smells like expensive cologne and instant ramen, Satoru’s lying on his back with his phone in one hand and his dick in the other, watching the little “lovesick is typing…” bubble.
He found your account by accident this year too. Late night, algorithm doing its thing, and suddenly there you were—faceless, pretty hands, pretty tits, captions that made him laugh and get hard at the same time. He liked one of your posts on a burner thought. Then another. Then he noticed you’ve been following him for a few days. He followed back. Then you replied to something he posted and it spiraled into this weird, addictive thing where “toru” and “love” talk shit and flirt and get each other off without ever saying real names.
He doesn’t know it’s you. Not yet, at least. But sometimes when you post something particularly bratty he thinks about the girl in his ethics class who hates his guts and wonders if she’d sound like that if she ever let herself be honest. Maybe it just stems from hopeful thinking. He knows it’s dumb. Knows he should have more self respect.
Tonight he comes hard to one of your older posts where you’re fondling yourself and teasing your nipples along with the mental image of you touching yourself to him. Then he cleans up, stares at the ceiling, and mutters, “Fuckin’ ridiculous,” to no one in particular but himself.
Because across the city—or at least across the quad—you’re doing the exact same thing. Different bed. Same post-nut clarity that feels a lot like regret and satisfaction and “why the fuck am I like this.”
You roll over, grab your phone again, and open Instagram. Scroll aimlessly. Your boyfriend texted you three times while you were busy touching yourself to another guy whose face you’ve never even seen. You leave him on read. He’s not who you’re thinking about right now.
Somewhere on the other side of campus Satoru opens his Instagram—and sees a story from one of the frat guys he follows. A blurry photo of you at some pre-party earlier, laughing with your friends, looking untouchable and expensive.
He stares at it longer than he should.
Then he scoffs and locks his phone, puts it face-down, and tells himself for the thousandth time that he doesn’t care. That the girl who humiliated him in front of half the freshman class three years ago doesn’t get to live rent-free in his head just because she looks good in some fuckass picture some other guy posted.
He almost believes it but he still wonders why you rejected him that day—even three years after. A petty man he is.
You fall asleep with your phone still open to limitless’s latest reply before it eventually dims and shuts itself off.
He falls asleep thinking about the way you said his name in lecture today like it was a curse word.
Three years. Same game. Different rules.
And neither of you knows the other’s falling asleep thinking about one another for all the wrong and entirely different reasons.
i hope this series turns out the way i want it to cuz the vision i have is great… idk if i will be able to implement it properly LMFAO we shall see
Synopsis: Making Mark come in his suit then overstimulating him
Pairing: Mark Grayson x Reader
……………….. ……………….. ……………….. ………………..
It might have been… 4 months or so since you last saw Mark. He had shot off into space to defeat yet another world ending threat, and you were left looking into the endless blue of the sky waiting for his return.
He never did when you expected him to.
No, Mark always came back to you in the moments where you weren’t guarded. When you would be humming in the shower, unaware of his presence until he stepped under the warm spray with you.
When you would sit on your porch and listen to music, all quiet and contemplative until one of your earbuds popped out and into his ear.
Or like this time, when you were curled up in bed, not asleep but not awake, and you hear your bedroom window creak open, and padded footsteps approach the foot of your bed.
“Mark?” You ask softly, and feeling the edge of your bed sink as he sat down.
You can see that he was still in his suit when you blink away the darkness.
That meant he came to you first. Before any other reunions, mission briefs or battle plans.
You were his refuge.
You were also his release.
You crawl across the bed to climb onto his lap, eyes scanning for injuries. He doesn’t wince when you sit on him, which is a good enough sign.
There’s something so intimate about the darkness. It acts like a cloak, shielding the two of you in its grip. You have to rely on your other senses to communicate.
His smell.
His sounds.
His touch.
You breathe out when he rocks up into you at first.
“Don’t you wanna rest?” You ask him, but he shakes his head, pressing his forehead into yours.
It’s easy to allow Mark to do what he wants. With your body. Your time. Your heart.
And so you relax above him as he thrusts upwards, every couple of strokes hitting you just right, electricity climbing up your spine.
Sighing, you bring your nails up to scratch the back of his head.
Mark shudders beneath you, hands scrambling to find purchase on your hips. He drags you down now, moving your weight back and forth on his bulge as he thrusts up and down.
The friction has your toes curling, and you find yourself wanting to plead with him but at a loss for words.
Just as desperate as you are, he twists you around, dropping you onto the sheets while he grabs your arms and begins humping you.
Even now, with both of your clothes fully on, you can feel the outline of him, and the strength of his muscles against you.
“H—aaah…” seems to be the only sound he can make.
Then he’s tensing up, holding you down against him while he thrashes slightly beneath you. You move your hips against his to find your release, locking up above him as you come down to kiss his neck.
“Shit,” he sighs, voice raspy. “Think you can go again? Wanna come inside you this time.”
He grins in the boyish way he always does when it’s just you and him and the weight of the world is off his shoulders for once.
You shake your head.
“Was worried sick about you, y'know.” You were more than worried sick, but he didn’t need to know the full extent of your distress. How hard it was to exist in his absence.
You were angry at him for a while. Red hot, it would burn your stomach every time you thought about how he left.
Then came the hopelessness. It was cold and vast and seemingly never ending. This lasted much longer than the heat.
Lastly was a thin veil of acceptance. When the rest of the world went on with business as usual. When no more one but you and Debbie seemed to hurt at the implications of how long he was gone.
And now that he’s here, in front of you, beneath you, with his heat dancing with yours, you find you only miss him.
“No, Mark. Only good boys get to come inside.”
He frowns, brows furrowed as he tried to figure out what he did wrong.
But before he can question it, your hand is back on his cock, this time reaching into the suit to pull it out.
It’s wet, already covered in a layer of his cum, and you resist the urge to lick it off, opting to drag it slowly from base to tip.
He gasps, hips bucking up to chase your touch.
Oh, how you’d missed his reactions.
“Look what a mess you’ve made.” You jeer with mock pity.
His face is tinted a beautiful pink, and you drink up his features once more. His soft lips as he bites at them to suppress his noises. His big eyes as he pleads with you for mercy.
His dark dark eyelashes as he blinks away his tears.
“Aww, Mark, don’t cry,” are the words that leave your mouth, but really you mean cry more, cry harder, sob into my skin.
You never thought yourself cruel until right now. Where his tears only act as fuel to keep going. The salt sinks into you and you smile against his cheek, licking them from his skin.
His broken noises only seem to serve as a catalyst in your unforgiving movements. Perhaps this was a way to punish him. For not being around as much.
For risking his life. For being okay with being gone.
Fuck, you’d missed him.
His legs begin shaking, and you don’t think you’ve taught him a lesson, or that there really was a lesson to be taught.
As fun as it was to tease him, you find yourself also wanting to witness his release. To watch him fall apart. You shift downward, shuffling until the warmth of your mouth is adjacent to his leaking tip.
Breathing for a second, you watch him twitch at the sensation, finally licking him tip to base and back.
“Ngghhh…” he’s murmuring to himself, and you ignore it until the whispered praise finally becomes legible to you.
“S-so, goooooood. So pretty. M-my good girl.” His abs are tensed, and you know he’s close so you pop your mouth off him and command him.
“Eyes on me.” He nods, scrunching his eyes and then lifting his head to watch you take him again.
He groans, and you find yourself moaning around his length from his reactions.
Without warning, just the weight of his hand behind your head, he’s cumming inside your mouth, spend spurting to the back of your throat.
You continue your ministrations, slowly sucking up and down, guiding him through his orgasm.
When he’s spent, you feel him weakly push your head back, whispering a “please…too much…” before passing out on your bed.
Giggling, you clean him up and take him out of the rest of his suit, tucking him in and sleeping next to him as you prepare to hear all about his space escapades.
As for the next time he left you for months without warning, you’d edge him for just as long.
MONSTROUS APPETITES, SUKUNA
my submission for @lemonswirlss's 3k circus collab!
synopsis. when you decide to join a travelling circus, the last thing you expect is to form a queer bond with the famed ‘two-faced demon’—the four-armed, four-eyed, two-mouthed circus freak sukuna.
contains. true form sukuna, p in v, dubious ethics, cannibalism (past), two dick sukuna, a live animal is eaten.
wc. 12.3k
I.
The first time you see him, you’re a newly hired aerialist at his motley circus. Fresh from an interaction with the pleasant yet unsettling ringmaster, Kenjaku, who’d effused the merits of his staff and demanded you explore the different attractions, you’d been drawn away from his presence and towards his veiled stage. It had been accompanied by only a mild annoyance; why did you have to explore first, before being able to settle down in your own quarters? To view the stage you’d be performing on, rather than this nameless stranger?
Wheels poke from beneath the stage, and the door at the side is triple-locked shut. It’s what had drawn you to the attraction, that niggling curiosity of why is it still in the caravan when it's meant to be performing? A red curtain covers the front of the caravan, and a showman stands before it, projecting his voice as he soaks in the crowd.
“—more monster than human, with an appetite so ravenous he couldn’t be matched by a dozen lions! He ate his own twin in the womb, killed his mother chewing his way out of her stomach, is a scourge on men and women alike…” the man gesticulates, face lit with manic glee. “It feasts on women and children; is beholden to no God; he is an abomination made real; a bane to all that is just… I introduce to you, the two-faced demon!”
The curtains open. Around you, people gasp. A woman swallows a scream, hands cupping her face; beside her, her husband is sickeningly pale as he holds his wife’s arm in a white-knuckled grasp. A child shrieks, hiding behind his mother’s legs, and the mother ushers him away with a terrified prayer. The two-faced demon lounges lazily, separated from you by thick metal bars within his miniscule cage.
He’s not even that ugly, you think, vaguely mystified by the theatrics of the audience. He’s horrifyingly tall, yes, standing at least a head above you. The two-faced demon’s torso is unfathomably wide and entirely bare, tattoos tracing his well-chiseled abdomen up to the lines of his sculpted face, down beneath his low-slinging pants. Disconcertingly, a mouth sits where his belly button should, wide spread in a grotesque grin as a tongue pokes out from between sharp teeth. You follow his tattoos up to his jaw, and see—
“A monster,” someone murmurs.
—a man.
There’s a strong jaw and a wide face, with cheekbones sitting high on his face. His nose stands tall, slightly ridged and strongly angled. A second pair of eyes, as crimson red as the first, sit half-slitted beneath the main pair. His hair, short and a shocking shade of cherry blossom pink, is deceptively sweet against the rest of his features. Most interestingly, something wooden and mask-like sits on the right side of his face where his features slope at a harsh, asymmetrical diagonal. His mouth is pulled taut against the skin. It must be where the nickname is from, that two-faced dichotomy; his face split between vaguely human familiarity and absolute, monstrous novelty. It’s barely fathomable. Watching him scowl down at your crowd, it’s easy to see glimpses of the inhuman monster that everyone is so terrified of.
You’ve heard of the two-faced demon before. He’s an infamous attraction, even if only for his grotesque appearance. There are rumours about having fought lions before—he has, allegedly, once fought an elephant and won—-and each story is as ludicrous as it is widespread. You just hadn’t expected that, if you squint, he could be considered handsome. Weren’t such monstrous creatures meant to be hideous?
Ignorant to your inner dialogue, the two-faced demon crosses his bottom pair of arms tightly around his chest, muscles bulging with an unspoken threat. How incredible he is, to make such a simple movement seem so domineering. The showman continues. “Despite his fearsome appearance as a rampaging beast, he is incredibly docile!” Docile? “He rarely speaks, is barely capable of following basic instruction, and acts entirely on his own whims—” What part of that is docile? “—but, rest assured, he is uninterested in harming others. His diet consists only of meat—we have a raw cow being brought in at eight, should anyone want to witness his feeding—” he rattles off a price, and the two-faced demon’s scowl only deepens.
What a salesman. You could almost convince yourself this guy is trying to sell you an antique, rather than an exclusive experience to watch a man eat.
“Adding to his inhumane appearance, the two-faced demon is stronger than an ox, and can tear apart metal like a man does paper—”
“Then why doesn’t he break out?” The words escape you before you can stop them. His captive audience turns, disturbed from their horrified trance; the showman looks somewhat displeased.
“What did you say, dear viewer?”
“You said he can tear apart metal, but he’s in a wooden caravan with metal bars. Why doesn’t he break out, if he’s so strong?”
The man scowls, displeased by your break in immersion. “Didn’t you hear me? He’s uninterested in harming others.”
“But isn’t he a rampaging beast?”
“A rampaging beast can rampage all he likes, if he’s too lazy to think his way out of a wooden box.” Still, the people around you look uneasy. Someone edges away. Even to you the logic is barely nebulous, ridiculously flimsy at best. Why would that matter, if he can tear through metal so simply? It just doesn’t make sense. The two-faced demon, the allegedly unknowing topic of your conversation, lounges backwards, top pair of eyes flitting close. The bottom pair, that blazing inhumanity, peek open; for some unfathomable reason, as the showman faultingly continues his monologue, they remain trained on you.
II.
You don’t see the two-faced demon for another two weeks after joining the troupe. He is, you learn, eternally locked within that small caravan; he eats there, he sleeps there, he pisses in a bucket and has someone else toss out the waste. The curtains are constantly closed—so as to not scare the other circus members, the showman, Haruta, tells you—and the caravan is silent, except for those few sickening minutes each night where he tears into the raw flesh of an animal and its dying squeals echo.
So, when he calls out to you, fresh from a few hours of practice, you find yourself a little surprised.
“You.”
The sound is raspy from disuse, low and rumbling from deep in the chest. It’s not a voice you’ve ever heard before, for all it immediately sends warmth to your face, so you really can’t be blamed for your response of:
“Me?” You echo dumbly.
You turn to see the two-faced demon locked in his caravan. For once, the curtains are open. He lounges languidly in his cage, head resting against his palm as he braces his elbow against the wall. In the light of day, his inhumanities are both sharpened and softened; the sun lifts the veil of his sinister appearance, at once lessening the horror and throwing the details into brutal relief. Your eyes linger on his stomach mouth for a moment, before returning to the four eyes glaring sharply down at you.
“Yes, you.” He says, his voice sharp. “I saw you.”
“I imagine you see a lot of people, considering our profession.”
He sneers. “Insolent woman.” Which… okay? You’re not sure what he was expecting, approaching you like that; you’re not sure he even knows how he wanted you to react, based on the way his scowl only deepens. Maybe it’s some leftover aggression for all that lion-killing he used to allegedly perform. “You were there when that foolish peacock was displaying me.”
Foolish peacock—? Ah. Haruta. “I didn’t realise I left such an impression.”
“Hm.” He leans forward, grinning with both mouths. His canines are frighteningly sharp. “Bring me some food.”
You blink. “No. That’s not under my jurisdiction.”
“There is no jurisdiction for who brings me my meals.”
Your brows furrow as you shoot him a disbelieving look. “Yes, there is. Uraume delegates it to someone at the start of every week. I can’t just disrupt someone else’s tasks.”
“That peacock of a showman said it himself, didn’t he? I feast on the weak. Bring me my meal, or I’ll feast my hunger elsewhere.” He leers at you, more ravenous than covetous. It doesn’t feel like desire. For a moment, you feel like nothing more than the sack of meat you must appear as—skin and meat and blood and bone, packaged beneath a pretty face and shielding a beating heart. Nothing more than a single meal to quench an endless thirst.
“That peacock,” you stress his nickname for Haruta, “also said you barely spoke and were assuredly docile. How am I to know whether or not that’s another exaggeration among many?’
“My existence is no exaggeration.” You hum in demeaning acquiescence. The two-faced demon growls. “What’s your name, woman?”
What a non-sequitor. You look at him, features carefully blank in the face of his inhumanity. His nails are frighteningly sharp, you notice suddenly. Sharper than they have any right to be. Long and razor-thin, more akin to claws than fingernails. You tell him your name, slow and sure. “Do I get to learn your name in return?”
“What makes you think you have any right to it?”
Nothing could stop you from rolling your eyes. “Of course. What was I thinking?” Biting back further grumbling, you make to walk past his enclosure. “I’m sure your meal will be here shortly. Have a good day, demon.”
For all his gallivanting, he doesn’t break out of his cage. He sits there in that imperious sprawl and scowls with all four eyes as he watches you leave. Maybe he really is domesticated; maybe he doesn’t think the effort of catching you is worth the meagre meal. It doesn’t matter—either way, you move on unimpeded, while he stays rotting in that tiny caravan. His threat goes unfulfilled. So much for the privilege of his name.
III.
The two-faced demon doesn’t take up much of your attention after that. You are, for the most part, uninterested in your disfigured colleague. On the few occasions where he is allowed to see the sun (because, for some unfathomable reason, he refuses to either draw the curtains himself or request they be done so), he singles you out. You talk, he calls you an ‘insolent woman’ or ‘foolish performer’ or, on the one occasion you really annoyed him, ‘wayward maggot’. Frustrated with him, you leave. A couple days pass, and the same event reoccurs.
Over these few encounters you learn a few things, both from him and others: no one knows his name. He speaks to no one, unless it is to demand food. He calls no one by their name, demeaning them as being too below him to know his, and him too above them to refer to them as anything other than insulting descriptors. He really did previously fight animals for show before his kill streak knocked too high, and everyone that witnessed it continues to live in paralysing fear over what he may do to them if he grows too bored. Their dramatics know no bounds.
You are perfectly happy with this routine of vague familiarity until you meet Uraume.
Despite being an aerialist, being a member of a travelling troupe means that everyone is often pitching in for odd jobs. Working as an aerialist doesn’t mean you aren’t helping with booths or applying the kids' show make-up or assisting Toji in feeding the animals. Likewise, Uraume’s role as a performer doesn’t prevent them from also being the best cook in the circus. With your odd jobs and their famed skill, it doesn’t take long until you’re tasked with assisting them in the kitchen.
“Leave that for the two-faced demon.”
You jolt from where you’re leaning over the meat, reaching for a cut of steak. Uraume’s expression, usually placid and slightly derisive, is underlined with an uncharacteristic anger; brows furrowed, lips twisting downwards, shoulders squared as they loom over you. You glance between them and the meat in question. “I thought that guy only ate live animals…?”
“He did.” Their expression smooths out as you step back, grabbing a different cut. “His tastes have changed since his reallocation.”
Reallocation? “I thought he was always there purely for his…” how to word this politely? “...cosmetic value.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’d never degrade himself in such a manner.” Isn’t that exactly what he’s doing now? “He used to work with the animals. Once per location, after the animal tamer performed, he would appear and fight a predator—lions, most often—for show. It was always the most anticipated event of the circus. The animals were, unsurprisingly, no match for the two-faced demon, but the display of his strength was notable all the same.”
Fascinating. Maybe those muscles aren’t all for show. You decide to ignore the concept that he was apparently so strong that lions were unable to beat him—legendary as those stories are, you’d always considered them mere stories. It’s discomforting to know there’s more truth to them than you previously assumed. “Then why’d he stop doing it?”
They level you with a dispassionate look. “They couldn’t keep up with him. He kept killing them. The law decided to prohibit his actions, but their attempts at restraining him led to the previous animal tamer meeting a… sudden end.”
“Is that why everyone is so scared of him?”
“They’re scared of him because they should be.” Uraume clears their throat. “After that debacle, they banned him from fighting in the circus. He’s decided to simply remain a viewing attraction, and abides by their drivel as long as he is sufficiently provided for.”
“Even after killing a worker?”
“Even after eating a worker.”
You blink in muted surprise. You don’t know why you’re shocked, given the nature of his threats and the way people act around him, but eating someone? You can’t fathom it. The two-faced demon, for all his bluster, is notably tame. “He must’ve been an amazing fighter, for the circus to have kept him after that.”
Uraume turns to you, uncharacteristically passionate. Their next words come out slightly breathless. “He was magnificent.”
And, well, that’s that. Uraume says no more on the topic, even as they continue their tasks with a quiet joy. You’ve never seen them as happy as they are now, as if the mere thought of the two-faced demon is enough to brighten their spirit. Huh. You’re beginning to get the feeling that he maybe really is that awe-inspiring, considering the various dramatics of your fellow circus performers.
Maybe that’s why, when Uraume hands you a massive steak so lightly cooked you can imagine its heart is still beating, you don’t deny their request to deliver it to the two-faced demon. Instead, you take the heavy meal—which, seriously? This portion size could feed at least six people—and bring it to that ever shielded caravan.
“Knock on the door before you enter,” Uraume tells you as you leave. “He won’t attack you or try to escape. Pay him the decency he deserves, given his illustrious nature.”
You don’t exactly take it into account. Rather, what you do is call “Dinner’s ready!” as you near the caravan, knocking at the door with one foot as you hold the—frankly massive—plate with both hands. “Open the door.”
“Open it yourself.”
Your eye twitches. Must this man be such a contrarian? “My apologies. What I meant to say is, I am unable to open the door—either open it for me, or continue on without your dinner. It’s no concern to me.”
A growl sounds, then the low creak of movement. He’s awfully quiet for such a large man, but even then, the caravan creaks and sinks with every step of his massive weight. The door opens with a harsh lurch, and you are abruptly the closest you’ve ever been to his monstrous form. This close, a mere half-meter separating you, his eyes are impossibly large, impossibly red; his cherry blossom hair an even softer pink than you initially conceived. Bizarrely, you find yourself almost wanting to touch it. Even the scar you first noticed seems more like a mask this close for how raised and shapely it is; yet his malformed eyes blink lazily at you in a way no puppetry could emulate.
How sickening, you think, fascinated.
“Well?” He says mockingly. “Serve me my dinner.”
He disappears back into his trailer. It’s honestly impressive that he even manages it—the trailer couldn’t be more than 5 meters by half; somehow, he turns it into a chasm. “I’ll leave it with—”
“Serve me.”
How frustrating. “If I must.” You keep your tone perfectly neutral, stepping into the darkness of his abode. It’s as discomfortingly small as you imagined. You don’t know how he manages to lounge so broadly and still look as though he has room to move; a well-practiced artifice, though you don’t know why he tolerates it. The man that could beat a lion in a fair fight, wasting away in a cage even smaller than the predators. You would laugh, if you didn’t think he would eat you for the mockery.
You lay the plate out on the floor before him. The two-faced demon licks over his teeth with his too-long tongue. “Sit with me.”
“Pardon?”
“Don’t tell me you’re even stupider than you look. Sit.” His voice is a rumbling growl. You sit, stumbling awkwardly until you’re on the floor of the caravan, legs tucked beneath you. Sitting like this, he looms over you as a carnivorous shadow; there’s no illusion of even footing. He watches you for a moment, expression bored and impassive, before leaning his head down and taking a bite of his steak. Blood streams from the bite.
His hunger is voracious. He tears into the beef with abandon, uncaring of his audience and greedy in his hunger. He tears through the meat as if it were butter, cleaving through it with a single grind of his jaw. It’s horrifying. It’s beautiful, in a way, as if for a moment his appetite makes him something both more and less than human. His top pair of eyes shut in something akin to delight, but his bottom pair remain fixed on you. You’re paralysed by his stare; his hunger; the monstrous strength of his jaw; the awful sharpness of his teeth.
“You’re unafraid of me.”
You jolt, eyes tearing from his pinning gaze to land on his mouth, brows furrowed. Your gaze darts further down, and the mouth on his stomach stretches into a leering grin. It’s disconcerting, so out of place; you didn’t realise that mouth was capable of anything more than aesthetic disfigurement. His face-mouth swallows, taking another monstrous bite of meat. “Oh? Is this all it takes to frighten you?”
Your expression briefly drops into a scowl. “Why would I be?”
“Stories of my feats couldn’t have dissipated so quickly,” he scorns. “You have good reason to be scared.”
“Uraume was very flattering,” you concede. “But as far as I’m concerned, you’ve done nothing but sit here, leer, and make the occasional threat for the entire time I’ve been employed. Why should I be scared when you’ve taken no action against me?”
It’s a blatant goad, not that you mean it as one. If the two-faced demon is as thoughtlessly savage as Haruta claims, he would no doubt jump on it; grab you, loom over you, and laugh as your life is balanced in the claws of his mercy. He does not. It speaks to his inaction; he truly must’ve become domesticated.
“Do you take me for a beast?” He asks, his lip curling. “You’ve simply done nothing to anger me yet.”
“If I haven’t angered you, then I have no need to be scared.”
“Hm.” He takes another bite of his food, leaning forward until one arm rests on his knee, propping up his head. It moves him closer to you, impossibly large despite his hunched posture. It’s grotesque, how he manages to swallow down such a sizable slab of raw meat in so few bites. He swallows languidly, bringing the plate to his torso, and has his stomach mouth lick the leftover blood off the ceramic. When he stretches his arm out, glistening plate—seriously, gross—outstretched, you take it as your cue to leave.
Of course, you don’t even get to touch the plate before his other arm snatches yours, dragging you a step closer as his hand creates a bruising shackle around your wrist. His lip curls into a smiling snarl.
“Ow,” you say belatedly. You hadn’t expected it to hurt, for your bones to creak like a rotting frame beneath the pressure. Still—is that it? A man that felled lions, resorting to squeezing your wrist a little? Are you supposed to feel threatened?
He stares at you, expression placid. The two-faced demon is threatening you. But for what? Because you’re not scared of him? How is this supposed to make you any more frightened? You level him with a (very minor, unintentional) challenge, and he responds by giving you a bruised wrist. It doesn’t inspire fear like he expects his man-eating habits to. You stare back at him, unimpressed, and lightly tug your wrist out of his grasp. He doesn’t let go.
Rather, he sneers. “Was that pathetic tug all you could conjure?”
You roll your eyes. “Could you let go of me?” Then, to be polite; “Please? I still have tasks left to complete.”
“Is that all you’re worried about?”
“Yes.” Kenjaku will have your head if you don’t complete everything in time. He really is so frustratingly particular. In fact, now that you think of it, you think you’d prefer death by the two-faced demon before risking Kenjaku’s disappointment—Mahito might get away with being a brat, but you? He doesn’t care half as much about you, nor do you bring in enough money for him to justify anything but extreme consequences to minor offences. Maybe, if the demon holds you here long enough, you should suggest your death to him; surely, he’ll accept a freely offered meal?
The grip on your hand spasms, tightening so quickly a blinding bolt shoots up your arm, and then abruptly lets go. “Hopeless,” he growls. “A pathetic little maggot, unaffected by a predator. Your foolishness will kill you.”
“This is a circus, not the wild.” You say blandly. Doesn’t that prove your point, anyway? Why would a caged lion kill a maggot? It’d sooner save its own skin escaping before it considered eating the prey of its prey. He really is dramatic, jumping to these exaggerated threats.
You scoop the plate off the floor, shaking your wrist like that’ll ease the bone-deep ache. Sending him one last look as you leave—a glance at this thoughtless, self-captive predator, who lets people think he can’t break out through bars when he can easily open the door—you roll your eyes once more. “Have a good night, demon.”
(Sukuna lets your arm go, watching you through abruptly lidded eyes. You don’t retreat. It took him a moment to realise, but he understands now—you’re not frozen out of fear, or resolute in a need to prove yourself unafraid of him. You’re simply not, staring back at him with those heavy, thoughtful eyes. You’re sedate. It strikes him, with a feeling both raging and delighted, that you aren’t unafraid; no, you don’t care. He could tear you apart with a single bite, unhinge his jaw and clamp down on your hand and rend your fingers from your palm, tear your flesh straight from the bone, and you don’t care for the threat.
Your hand flexes idly as if you had stiff joints in need of loosening, unaware of his hunger. Or, maybe, you are aware—you just simply don’t care enough to be scared. It lights a fire in his stomach; for the first time in a long, long time, he wants. He wants ravenously; he wants your blood in his mouth, your eyes pickled in a jar, your heart puncturing between his teeth, your bones a broth to flavour his soup.
His mouth waters at the thought. You make him so hungry.
But, more than anything, Sukuna wants to see you scared.)
IV.
“I hear you and the two-faced demon have struck up a friendship.”
Damn this circus and its unending gossip mill. You turn to Yorozu, who has taken the seat at the table beside you and is now grabbing whatever food is within reach. “To categorise it as ‘friendship’ is a generous stretch of the word.”
“If he hasn’t threatened to eat you, you’re practically soulmates.” She pops a bite of food into her mouth, peeking one eye open to look at you. “Has he threatened to eat you?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.” She almost looks jealous. “And you’re not scared?”
“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.” You’re sure Yorozu has heard a dozen of the same story from a dozen different people; it’s not something you felt the need to contribute to. How is your encounter with him any more poignant than anyone else's? “He only threatened it. It’s not as if he went through with the threat.”
“And you’re… okay with that?”
“It was an empty threat. Why would I be concerned?”
She sends you a queer look. “You’re a weird girl. You know he used to kill lions, right? Once, he tore the leg off of one while it was still fighting. Barely broke a sweat doing it, too. It was beautiful, really. You should’ve seen the way he—”
You stare at her blankly. “Uraume told me.”
“Isn’t he just terrifying?” She swoons as she says it. “You weren’t there for it, but he ate one of the workers once.” Then, as if she’d just commented on the morning weather, Yorozu pops another bite into her mouth. “The guy couldn’t even fight back, it was so quick. That demon, he– he didn’t even laugh. Said the fight was too easy for him to get any pleasure out of it.”
“Uraume also told me that,” you say pleasantly. “Be that as it may, he just lounges around nowadays.”
“He only lounges around ‘cause he doesn’t see any point in killing us. Doesn’t think we’d be worth the effort,” she manages to look somewhat offended as she says it. “Besides, he’s happy as long as he’s given some poor lamb to tear apart every few days. We were all surprised when he became so languid—I mean, he’s such a monster. What kind of freak can kill a lion bare-handed? It feels like Kenjaku is dancing with the devil somedays, keeping him around. Not that I can blame him.”
“He hasn’t hurt anyone since though, has he?”
“What?” She shoots you an incredulous look. “I just said he ate someone.” You roll your eyes. “What’s with that look?”
“I just think you’re blowing things out of proportion. That’s all.”
V.
It's hard to wrap your mind around the entirety of the threat that is the two-faced demon. Sure, you’ve heard plenty about his lion-fighting, man-eating days, but it means nothing in the face of his complacency. A part of you acknowledges that he’s strong—the encounter the other day proves that—but even then, it failed to spark fear in you. He just… was.
So what if he could eat you if he isn’t going to follow up on it? When it comes down to it, anyone could kill you. He may be horrifically strong and monstrous in appearance, but he seemed more prone to idle threats than violent execution. Even the ring of bruises, once a dark brand on your wrist, has mellowed out to a discomforting yellow.
The lamb between his jaws squeals as he bites down, slicing through bone in a single bite. Upon being told to deliver a live lamb to the two-faced demon, you’d been faced with immediate disgust; he’s all-consuming and ravenous as is, so why must you witness a further indulgence? It’s every bit as grotesque as you imagined. He makes no play of it, tearing it apart while it heaves and dies, trapping it within the chasm of his jaw. What fun could he possibly contrive out of the gruesome act?
“Why did you talk to me?” You ask suddenly.
After all, didn’t Yorozu say it herself? The only reason the two-faced demon hasn’t broken out of his poorly crafted caravan and eaten another man is because he doesn’t see the point in doing so. What is there for you to fear? He can’t even be bothered to break out of his cage. You’re certainly not worth the effort.
Still, you think—he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t think worth doing. He clearly sees some value in eating a live animal, unfathomable as it is to you. He sees a point in demanding the best steaks the circus can conjure. You’ve begun to understand that aspect of his character. He does only what he wants, and indulges no further. So, as it stands, why does he bother himself with you?
“I wanted to.” the two-faced demon stares at you dispassionately. “I wanted to, so I did. Do I need any other reason?”
“You don’t want to do anything,” you counter levelly.
“I want plenty of things.” Your mouth twitches at his words, a small glimpse at your inner amusement. His eyes narrow in on your expression. “You presume to know me better than I know myself?”
“Of course not. You just don’t act on any of your wants, do you?”
“I do. How else could I have ended up in the situation I am now?”
Isn’t it obvious? He was born malformed, and taken in as a circus freak due to a lack of other opportunities; entranced by his beastial nature, they forced him to fight animals until he became too much of a danger; following that, he became little more than an aesthetic attraction, confined to his small cage. Sure, there was a case of cannibalism, and maybe a couple of threats, but most of what’s happened to him has, in fact, happened to him. It’s not as if he needed to do much to ensure the order of events.
“You’re more of a fool than I thought, if you truly think that.”
“You are more of a fool than I imagined, if you think I can’t—and don’t—take what I want.”
Oh, please. “Do you truly believe that? You’ve forgotten how to want. You sit here in this cage, demanding things come to you. You don’t do anything for yourself—you’re so content, having it handed to you. Is there anything you truly want? Anything you’ll ever desire that can’t be handed to you that you’ll still have the grasp to reach for?”
“I tire of your hypocrisy,” he growls. “You accuse me of idleness, when you subsist solely on ambivalence; there is nothing in this world you want. You’re closer to a monk than a woman.”
“We are not the same in that regard.”
“We’re more similar than you think,” he says, his voice thick with something. “You talk so much nonsense about desire and inaction. Haven’t you ever wanted to be something more than a sack of meat?” He’s awfully entertained by his own words; when the two-faced demon stretches out a hand, a raw chunk of lamb dangling between his fingers, you think you begin to understand. “Come. Feast on the lesser. Or have you not learned to want yourself?”
You swallow. “You think yourself better than everyone else here?”
“I’m the strongest, aren’t I? The weak bend to my will. They conform to my wants. It’s the way of life.”
“That sounds like a very overdressed excuse for a lazy man,” you say as if you’re demurring to him. You can’t tell if he’s delighted or incensed by your tone. “You’re strong, so you do nothing for yourself? They’re weak, so your life is assured? You’re so complacent, so unaware. Your arrogance is astounding.”
“That sounds like an awful lot of drivel to excuse your own inadequacies,” he sneers. “I suppose you are nothing more than a writhing maggot, after—”
You take a bite of the lamb.
More accurately, you lean forward; take hold of his thick wrist; drag the meat between your teeth and force your jaw shut until your teeth, blunt and weak, have no choice but to dig into the warm flesh. Blood pools in your mouth as you work your jaw, forcing a bite from the bone; where the two-faced demon cleaved through it like a hand through water, you’re left with a harsh ache in your jaw. It’s raw and vile, heavy on your tongue as blood gathers thickly in your mouth. In that moment, with a warm carcass partially sitting on your tongue and blood spilling from between your lips, you feel more animal than human—you aren’t an aerialist or a man or a thinking being, but a thing of raw instinct. Your brain insists you chew, and your frustrating humanity impedes your actions. Oh, why can’t your teeth slough through this meat like his? Why must they be so woefully inadequate?
The two-faced demon laughs at your expression. It’s a deep rumble from low in his chest, coming out closer to an animal's growl; his mouth splits open, impossibly wide, and he pulls you into a kiss.
He’s big. His mouth is large enough to eclipse your own two-fold, lips rough and chapped whilst his teeth are frighteningly sharp. His tongue bullies its way into your mouth, wet with blood and stinking of iron. And his eyes—his eyes. His eyes are that of a watchful predator, lazily lidded and staring at you with single-minded intent. All four, lasered in on you. The wet slide of your tongues set your cheeks on fire, so caught in the feeling of his hand moving to twine in your hair, pulling taut until your scalp screams beneath his grip, that you don’t realise what he’s doing until he pulls away.
A low moan escapes you as you’re left suspended there, head pulled back and neck bare for his perusal. His mouth parts on another bloody, gruesome smile, and it's only then that you realise the lamb once between your teeth is now trapped in his, its larger carcass tossed aside. The bite is comically small in his mouth as his tongue curls around it, swallowing it down without a single bite of his own. You stare after it, almost mournful—you practically broke your jaw working your teeth through its flesh, and it was stolen just like that?
Wait, why do you care? You didn’t want to eat it to begin with, did you?
“What a monstrous look you have there,” he sneers, even as satisfaction leaks from every inch of his being.
“I worked hard for that,” you say. “I don’t have your carnivorous teeth, demon.”
His mouth spreads wider. You remain caught, his hand in your hair tight enough to have tears prickling at your lash line. Another hand moves to grab the lamb back up, as if content to leave you trapped by the hair whilst he continues to feast on his meal. That selfish, lazy bastard! He can kiss you, take the food from your mouth, and then continue to eat as if nothing happened? As if you’re not a trapped fish in his hook?
“Allow me to remedy that,” he says, voice pleasant yet sinister from his stomach mouth as his face is occupied with another bite of lamb. He chews once, twice, thrice; then he leans in once more.
You’re startlingly aware of the meat as his tongue crawls into your mouth. He forces his way past your lips, jaw unhinging until you can feel his teeth bite into your cheek. It’s gross. It’s so unsexy. Somehow, with a hand at your head and his mouth eclipsing the bottom half of your face, you’re the hottest you’ve ever been. He forces the lamb past your lips, holding you in place as he deposits it half-chewed on your tongue. His mouth retreats for only just long enough for you to swallow, your throat bobbing around the uncooperative bite, before he leans in once more.
“Don’t talk to me about desire,” he says, the sound of his stomach-mouth a rumbling growl. He bites at your lip, canines digging dangerously, threatening to pierce skin, and an airy sigh escapes you. “You’re too caught up in your humanity to even conceptualise what you truly crave. I, at least, know what I want.”
VI.
You hate to admit it, but his words follow you. Something about it—we’re more similar than you think—clings to you; you think about it while you’re training, while you’re cooking, while you’re delivering his meals and watching him eat. What does he want? you think, watching him tear through a live lamb. What did he mean by that? then, as he pops its head off with a single twist, what do you want?
He doesn’t kiss you again. Somehow, that feels all the more damning.
Did you not prove yourself to him? Show him what he wanted to see? You ate a raw lamb, for goodness sake, kissed it half-chewed out of his mouth with no regard for how gross it was in the moment. He’d made you– you’d felt– you’d thought–
You purse your lips, turning sharply on your heel. What a ridiculous line of thinking you’d started meandering down; you’d shown him? Proven yourself? You won’t kid yourself—you enjoyed that far more than you logically should. It had sent a perverse thrill down your spine, suffocating on his tongue and indulging in a blood-soaked kiss. He hadn’t forced you to do anything. He’d offered you the slightest encouragement and you’d wanted it all on your own.
That thought is what draws you back to his caravan, where he’s once more engaging a crowd. People wave at you as you pass, taken in by your costume—and no doubt excited for your show—but you pay them no mind, suddenly caught up in your thoughts.
You’re not sure why such a prideful being is so content being gawked at and paraded around like little more than a show animal, or how he can consider himself so far above others yet be content with a life of ridicule. You suddenly, desperately, want to watch it once more; to see if there’s something there that you missed the first time.
Haruta is caught in his own theatrics as you approach, monologuing loudly to the gathered crowd. "The two-faced demon is a beast more monster than human, with an appetite so ravenous he couldn't be matched by a dozen lions! He ate his own twin in the womb, killed his mother chewing his way out of her stomach, is a scourge on men and women alike! He feasts on women and children; is beholden to no God; he is an abomination made real; a bane to all that is just…"
It's the exact same speech as the last time you watched this, you realise. The same speech recycled for a second audience. Haruta continues, "Look upon him as he feasts! Of course, this mere calf does nothing to sate the appetite of a monster that prefers to glut on man, but witness how he tears into his meal! Watch the disgusting voracity of his appetite!”
The two-faced demon is not eating like a ravenous animal. He’s far calmer with an audience. Rather than that steadfast, all-encompassing hunger as meat is swallowed in mammoth-like mouthfuls between a strong, grasping jaw, he eats with a casual disregard. Polite, slow, uninterested—more like a lounging cat than the predatory creature he fashions himself as.
What a hypocrite. The thought is almost fond. To let himself be carted around like a beast publicly, yet studiously consume a mannered meal as if he isn’t ravenous in private. It’s almost charming to know he lied so boldly to your face.
“He doesn’t seem that aggressive today,” you say conversationally as you approach Haruta. “I thought people had to pay an extra fee to watch him eat, anyway?”
Haruta deflates, turning to you with a bitter whisper. “Kenjaku tossed the idea. Apparently he’s not beastly enough for the extra costs. Can you believe that? As if he’s not disgusting when he eats regularly.”
The demon’s eyes, previously focused on the meal, dart over to meet yours—just the bottom pair, like he’s playing at being coy. He blinks leisurely, savouring the bite in his mouth as he watches you. How cute.
“Maybe he doesn’t see it worthwhile to upkeep manners around us,” you comment, bemused.
“No, he’s doing it to spite me. I know it. Kenjaku said I could take 2% of the sales—” only 2%? “—with the private meal showings, since I came up with the idea, and then overnight that beast developed manners. I don’t know why we haven’t slaughtered the thing already.”
That does sound like him.
“Oh, really?” You say with faux-surprise. “He’s perfectly mannered whenever I’m serving his meals.”
The demon snorts, a loud huff that has a kid sticking his hand through the caravans bars (much to his mother's despair) falling back with a horrified wail. Haruta looks beyond disbelieving. “Really?”
Obviously not. You disregard his comment altogether. “When does the showing end? I’d like to talk to him.”
“Now,” the demon cuts in sharply, placing down his half-eaten calf with a dull thud. “Peacock. Close my curtains.”
Haruta squawks; someone in the audience boos loudly. Seriously? What’s so interesting about watching him eat? You think back on that night a couple weeks ago; the cord of his neck, the monstrous strength of his jaw, his razor sharp teeth, his methodical, unwasting hunger—
—who are you kidding? You probably got twice the perverse enjoyment out of watching him than everyone in the crowd combined.
“You can’t just close your own exhibit,” Haruta protests, a whine edging his voice. “People paid to see this, you can’t just say—”
The two-faced demon bares his teeth in a vague approximation of a smile.
Haruta really is a coward; a single flash of those animalistic teeth, and he’s scurrying like a rat to herd people away. Clearly not thinking he’s going fast enough, the demon reaches for the bars. One ominous creak, the slightest bend of metal, and Haruta yelps like he’s personally being attacked.
It doesn’t take long for Haruta to clear the area of disgruntled viewers.
“Woman,” he says finally, once the both of you are alone.
“So demeaning,” you mutter. “Would it hurt to call me by my name, for once?”
He ignores you. “What is it?”
You, in turn, ignore him—who said you weren’t prone to a little pettiness? “Did you need to go through all of that fanfare? You could’ve just used the door.” He has used the door, in fact, many times—with the monstrous size of his meals, you’ve grown very used to demanding he clear the entrance into his caravan. If he’s going to be a lazy bastard, he might as well be a well-mannered one.
“Using the door wouldn’t have been half as effective. Let them see me as the brute I am. It only benefits me.”
“The brute you are? But you were so polite with your meal.”
“What?”
“Your dinner,” you repeat softly. “If it truly didn’t bother you, why were you so polite in front of the audience? Clearly, there’s something about being seen as some ravenous monster that displeases you.”
He regards you placidly. “I did not want him to make a mockery of me, so I didn’t allow it.”
You hum in acquiescence. “And here I thought you were perfectly content in your position.”
“I’m certainly more at ease than you are, woman.” It’s uncharacteristically defensive. You find yourself tempted to press. You almost do, until you recall that flash of teeth; the warm, weeping flesh being shoved down your throat and chased by a hot, large tongue. Your cheeks burn, and you say nothing. “Why are you here?”
“Because I wanted to be.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”
Your lips tug on a smile. It’s cathartic to throw his own words back in his face; “Didn’t I? I’m here because I want to be. There’s nowhere that attracts my attention more, so there’s nowhere else to be.”
He leans backwards. If you had any more of an ego about you, you’d say he looks pleased. “At the circus. Why are you with the circus?”
What a simple question. Isn’t it obvious? You love it here; maybe not the people, bar the infuriating man before you, but certainly everything else. The work, the routine, the performance, the audience—it’s an addictive concoction. For once, you can live as you please and be rewarded for it; you can pursue your own passion, and the only consequence is the roaring applause of an enamoured crowd. It’s perfect.
Hm. Maybe his words have some merit after all. “Because here, I can do what I want to. Isn’t that enough?”
“So you do have something you desire.”
You batter away that wayward memory once more. “No. I already have what I want. I’ll have it for as long as I’m here.” You glance at him sideways, uncharacteristically sly. “Maybe I should be asking you that. This is a bit targeted, don’t you think?”
“I’m simply returning the favour from our previous encounters.” His eyes glimmer with… something. You can’t tell what, from so far away. “There must be some reason you stick around. It was almost beginning to seem like it was me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself too much.” You consider him, and a question calls to you from the back of your mouth. Given your prior presumptuousness, you have no qualms asking it—he’s indulged your curiosity every time before now, and it’s made you a glutton for your own non-sequitors. “Why don’t you ever leave? The circus, I mean.”
“Why would I?” He leans backwards on a stretch, straightening his spine and revealing a glimpse of his monstrous size. His shadow doubles, his eyes flash; for a moment, he looks closer to a monster than he does a human. Even having felt it, having traced it with your tongue, you contemplate the idea of him having fangs hidden in that large mouth; teeth like a lion or a wolf, a further deviance from humanity. “I eat when I want to eat, and I play when I want to play. I’m pampered as I please, and have no need to do anything but exactly what I want to do. If I wished for it, I could waste time this way until the day I die.”
You don’t say but what point is there in living?, because you know that argument holds no interest for him. By now, you have a pretty good grasp on what he’d say—because I want to, maybe, or because I don’t yet desire death, if he’s feeling more verbose.
You huff a laugh. “Be proactive for once, demon. At the rate you’re going, I imagine I’ll never see you out of that cage. Is there truly nothing worth leaving it?”
VII.
There is no greater thrill than that of performing. You weren’t lying when you told the two-faced demon that you joined the circus simply because you wanted to—you love it. There’s a thrill that comes with being an aerialist, swinging through the air on nothing more than threads of silk and listening to the audience awe over your manoeuvres. It makes the practice worthwhile, makes everything worthwhile; why wouldn’t you have run off to join the circus when you are lauded for your talents here? When you’re surrounded by such curious personalities? You are, for once in your life, encouraged to pursue your talents as an aerialist. Despite the many flaws of the ringmaster, his accepting you into his employ has made it so you can never resent him.
It’s while you’re in the air that you see it, your heart thudding in your chest and breath straining your lungs—-a monstrous, hulking shadow in the back of the crowd.
The two-faced demon?
It's a well-grained routine that prevents you from fumbling. You keep an eye on that monstrous presence, though, and know for certain that it's him. He’s wearing a robe you’ve never seen before, bottom arms veiled by its sweeping sleeves while his top pair are crossed in front of his chest, peeking out from the deep plunge of the neckline. His four eyes seem to glow in the dark, head cocked slightly to the side. No one else seems to have noticed him, but you can’t help but wonder; why is he here?
His eyes, trained on you, flash with recognition. Mouth pulling into a mocking smile, he bares his teeth at you and slips between the curtain, escaping outside.
What the hell?
Your heart thuds in your chest for the rest of your performance, the soothing silks you dance through suddenly chafing and restrictive; knowing he was watching, that the two-faced demon has left his cage, leaves your breath caught in your throat. By the time your routine is over and you’re dancing off the stage to make room for the next performer, you feel both hot and cold at once. You can’t help it—why is he doing this? What does he want?
Yorozu calls your name as you’re slipping out of the tent, features twisted in a complicated expression. “The two-faced demon got out,” she says simply, pulling you close to whisper it in your ear. “We don’t know where, but everyone’s freaking out—they think it might be like—” she cuts herself off, glancing around.
Your mind fills in the blanks—like the animal tamer. That unnamed man, made a victim at the mercy of the demon’s mercurial moods.
“I just…” Yorozu sighs, as if in genuine mourning. “Why didn’t he come to me?”
Is she serious? “Do you have any idea where he could be?”
She shakes her head. “Kenjaku wants us to keep an eye out for him. He doesn’t want that demon attacking any visitors. Even if it would be within his rights…”
You ignore her muttered comment. “He hasn’t hurt anyone, has he?” It doesn’t come out like a question; no, it feels certain. Why would he? The two-faced demon is someone ruled by his own desires, comfortable in the precedent he has set forth. He doesn’t desire to eat or attack people when food to play with can simply be given to him. So, what is so important that he’d bother with these theatrics? That he’d actually bother to take action?
“Not that we know of. It’s only a matter of time, of course. Such a magnificent man wouldn’t—hey!”
You brush past her.
Curse your damned mouth. This is almost certainly your fault. What was the last thing you said to him? At the rate you’re going, I imagine I’ll never see you out of that cage. Is there truly nothing worth leaving it? You’re too goading, too proud, too ignorantly overt. It seems there is, after all, something worth the effort. Bless whoever is made victim to his whims now.
In true theatricism, the metal of his caravan is warped and misshapen as you walk past it. Completely unnecessary, when the man can simply use the door. Somehow, it looks even smaller without him in it; you’d have thought that his leering, monstrous presence would’ve done the opposite.
You’d also think that the sheer mass of him would make him a little easier to spot. Yet, as you’re nearing the caravan you call home, you’re tugged suddenly and slammed against a wall.
A hand covers your mouth before you can scream.
You glance up at his looming form, frozen for a second in the shadow of his embrace. Two of his arms settle at your waist, unexpectedly tender as he massages his thumbs against your stomach. You are, of course, immediately distracted by the tongue bullying at your lips even as his hand continues to sit over your mouth.
He can do that!?
A muffled yelp escapes you, eyes blown wide. A cat-like satisfaction dawns on his face as he parts your mouth, tongue delving past your teeth and twining with your own. It’s so weird. It’s gross; uncomfortable; so, so disturbing you want to gag around his tongue. You don’t, cheeks burning as your hands grapple against his arms, nails digging into the skin of his biceps.
“There you are,” he murmurs, a smug smile curling at his lips. “I was looking for you.”
Oh, god. His palm pushes uncomfortably closer, and a dull ache begins to bloom as his fingers dig into the flesh of your cheeks. His fourth arm, unimpeded, cups your neck, bracing your head as he leans further into you. You crane at an uncomfortable angle, throat discomfortingly vulnerable as you stretch the full length of your neck.
Your nails leave pink-streaked divots in his skin, one hand fumbling for his palm to tug it away from your mouth. It shouldn’t shock you to realise that he’s letting you; that your individual strength is so incomparable to him, every action you take is a concession he allows. It shouldn’t have heat gathering in your stomach, pooling southward. “Demon—”
“Sukuna,” he rasps.
Your brows furrow, momentarily thrown. “Pardon?”
“Sukuna,” he repeats slowly. “That’s my name. If I hear a whisper of it from any mouth other than yours, I’ll tear off your head and eat you whole.”
Somehow, you don’t doubt it. You cock your head to the side, evaluating him thoughtfully. Sukuna, with shockingly soft pink hair and hateful red eyes. Sukuna, whose name quite literally means ‘demon’ or ‘calamity’. You wonder how his mother had the time to name him, if he truly ate his way out of her stomach. Did she pick it in advance, knowing what awaited her? Was her death slow, giving her just enough time to depart him with such a curse? Or are his mythic origins another blatant fabrication, the name bestowed upon him by another? “Sukuna, huh? It suits you.”
It’s almost funny to realise that you have, in a way, been calling him by his name all along.
“So I’ve been told.”
You huff. “Sukuna. What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m taking what I want.”
”Don’t be obtuse.” It doesn’t sound half as chiding as it should, when you’re still recovering from being kissed breathless with his hand mouth, for all that it sounds absolutely ludicrous. “You left your caravan.”
“Haven’t you spent weeks goading me to?” He leans in so close that your noses brush, a colossal shadow hiding you away from the rest of the world. Leaning over you like this, he’s all-encompassing—a being of bestial passion, the likes of which Yorozu whimsically dreams of. “Don’t make such demands of me, if you’re unwilling to shoulder the consequences.” He says it as a growl and a tease at once.
Insufferable. “Don’t put words in my mouth. You just—” you cut yourself off, glancing up at him through your lashes. He is just doing what you’ve been all but begging him to for weeks. Taking what he wants. It at once sets a fire beneath your skin, a need to prove to him that you can do the same; you’re too caught up in your humanity to even conceptualise what you truly crave, he’d told you. Who gave him the right to make such an accusation?
“Infuriating,” you murmur, hands moving to run faint lines over the skin of his cheeks—one humanly smooth, the other monstrously rough. His lower pair of eyes flicker shut, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “You love to talk around what you want, don’t you, Sukuna?” His name is a treasure on your tongue; you want to keep it there forever. Sukuna. Who else can claim to know that name? “Tell me. What do you want from me?”
His thumbs rub circles into your waist. Yours streak patterns along his cheekbones, through wisps of cherry blossom pink hair. A grin, monstrously wide, begins to stretch across his large mouth.
“I was born hungry,” Sukuna tells you. “With every passing day, I’ve wanted more than I have. There’s no craving I can’t satisfy, and no satisfaction that truly curbs my craving.” He leans in closer, lips brushing against the edge of your mouth. “Likewise, everything I’ve wanted has been achievable through the use of others. Why fight for what I want, when others are so willing to give it to me?”
“You’re talking around the point,” you chide. The words escape you breathlessly; in that same moment, he lifts you effortlessly, pressing you further against the caravan and twining your legs around his torso. His breath puffs against your face as he laughs. His head dips as he runs his rough tongue along the hinge where your neck meets your jaw, following it with the weighted press of his mouth.
“Infuriating,” he says, an echo of your own words. “Infer it for yourself, woman. I rarely need to be proactive about anything. I barely need to ask for anything, when it is handed to me without a request. And yet, an insufferable little maggot sits beside me while I eat, incessantly pestering me; what do you want? it asks me. You lazy beast, if you want me so bad, show me it. I’ve proven myself worth the effort, haven’t I?”
You have said no such thing; how he inferred that from your own words, you don’t know. Still, it’s difficult to argue when his mouth follows your neck downward, his lips stretching wide until those terrifyingly sharp teeth lay flush against your skin. An implicit threat lies in the action, in the horrific strength he wields, the unsaid vulnerability of your position.
Your pulse is a hummingbird; you are a hummingbird, paralysed beneath the weight of a predator’s teeth at your throat, his claws at your nape. You’re laid impossibly vulnerable—a single bite, and those teeth can kill you. One careless nick, and you’ll be dead before you can scream. It almost shocks you to realise you’re scared. Oh, God, you don’t want to die.
You flush, shaking beneath the sudden weight of your own need.
“You,” he mouths against your skin, more a breath than a word. “I want you.”
Well. It doesn’t get much more overt than that, does it? You pull him away from your neck by the hair, and he huffs another laugh as he allows the movement. Pulling him towards you, kissing him, does nothing to muffle the cut-off groan that escapes him.
Poor Sukuna, you think, with a vague fascination. Was he really so pent up? Driven mad with want for you?
It seems so. His hands, big enough to eclipse your waist, ride upwards. It chafes against your costume, and his fingers dig deeper, nearly bruising your ribs, as if reprimanding you for it. Truly, what a frustrating man. A breathy sigh escapes you as his thumbs rub at the underside of your breast, sensations dulled by the fabric separating you, and on your next breath you’re pushing your tongue into his mouth.
With the groan he lets out, you’d think he’d come right there. He pushes closer, closer, until there’s no room to breathe. He’s flush against you, a blazing heat against your front. There’s no room to pull away, no leverage against the monster caging you. You’re a pinned bird, laid bare at the mercy of his whims.
A whimper escapes you at the thought.
One of his hands trace the curve of your thigh. There’s barely room to breathe in the space between you, his fingers digging so deeply into your skin you can already feel the bruise. It’s hard to keep track of what he’s doing—with four arms, he’s effortlessly doing twice the work of a regular man. It leaves your head swimming, your diaphragm contracting beneath his palms as he growls. His nails, sharp as claws, tear through your leotard.
“Sukuna—!” He cuts off your complaint with another kiss. Your clothes are shed thoughtlessly, and the wind is a shock against your skin, even as your front lies flush against Sukuna. Oh God, you’re outside. You’d completely forgotten.
You tear yourself away from his mouth, turning your head to the side as you heave for breath. “You brute,” you say, breathless. “Kenjaku will kill me when he finds out you ripped that.”
“A paltry complaint.” The words come from his stomach-mouth. His real mouth is otherwise occupied, biting at your neck where your heart beats the hardest, sucking it between his teeth until the skin stains purple. “He wouldn’t dare.”
A paltry complaint? You’ll show him a paltry complaint. Honestly, his arrogance! “We also need to—” you cut yourself off on a gasp as his tongue laves over your neck, dipping down between your breasts. “—move inside.”
“I see no reason to move.”
“Anyone could see—”
“They won’t see you. I won’t let them.”
His self-assuredness is as attractive as it is infuriating. “Everyone’s on the look-out for you.”
He smiles against your breast, moving until he lacks flatly over your nipple. The sudden sensation has you jolting. “They won’t find me. Do you think I can’t predict those inane maggots? They’re swarming like ants to keep customers safe and entertained. No one will venture out this far.”
Truly, he is too confident. You’re not given room to argue, however, when he’s sucking your nipple into his mouth, too-sharp teeth grazing the bud whilst your other breast is taken into hand between those frighteningly sharp claws. Your breath hitches on a gasp, body twitching further into his touch, and thin scratches bead against his fingers.
Not willing to leave everything to him, you move, fingers delicately tracing the edges of his robe. Your hand ventures downwards, inwards, until you’ve gone from the wide frame of his shoulders to the hard skin of his abdomen. You’d never thought yourself to be interested in such brutal masculinity, but something about it has knocked your head loose; he could strangle me so easily, you think, relishing in the way his palm cups your breast and nails threaten to break your skin. He could kill me and it wouldn’t even be a struggle, as you dip your head, pressing a kiss to his scalp and tweaking a nipple between two fingers. He grunts with the motion, jerking as if he hadn’t expected to like it.
You want to hear that sound again. You pinch, but he once again has a mastery over his reactions; he raises his head, and a soft flush lines his cheeks. He groans at your expression, hiking you up with a hand at your waist until his cock is pressing against you. He’s– it’s—
“Why’s it so—?” You cut yourself off with a sharp gasp as your ripped leotard is opened further and his hands make home scratching thin lines down your torso. He rolls his hips once, twice, and you relish in the feeling before regaining your wits. You move, fingers grasping at those soft pink strands and tugging him away from your breast. He allows the movement, peering down at you with those heavy red eyes. “Sukuna? Why does it feel like—”
You don’t finish the sentence. You can’t, because it feels so ludicrous to voice aloud. It’s just… how can he be so…?
“Don’t act so shocked,” he purrs, grinning like a fat cat being served its fourth meal. A hand cups your ass, guiding you to grind against him; he laughs at the soft sigh that escapes you at the feeling. “Over and again, I’ve been called a monster. The two-faced demon, they call me; are you truly surprised the moniker extends elsewhere?”
This man! You flush violently, suddenly so hot you can’t help trying to squirm away from him. He doesn’t let you, guiding you closer, pulling you flush against his two (two!) cocks. What does any man need two of them for?
Yet, you can’t help yourself. What can you say? You’re a glutton for his inhumanities; with every monstrous revelation, you’re drawn closer into his net. You want to see, to feel, to touch. Your mouth waters at the very prospect. Can you be blamed for drawing your hand lower? Dipping below the waist of that robe until the tips of your fingers graze against the base of one of his two (seriously, two!) penises?
A cut-off moan escapes him. “Woman—”
“Call me by my name,” you murmur, tracing the base and following it to his second penis. “You asked me what I want? That’s it. I want you to say my name.”
Your name escapes him on a strangled whimper. “Don’t toy with me.”
You hum, pressing a kiss to his temple. He hurriedly sheds you of what scraps remain of your costume, loosening his robe and freeing his cocks—really, you’re not quite over that detail—before pressing forward. Air escapes you on a keen as Sukuna slides through your slick folds, and he groans appreciatively at the sound.
“Beautiful,” he mutters, low enough you almost don’t catch it.
“Oh my god, hurry up,” you hiss between your teeth, voice hitching on a moan as he bumps against your clit. The sudden stimulation is a shock to your core, and you clench fruitlessly around nothing. You want him so bad it hurts.
“So demanding,” he laughs, like he didn’t jolt closer towards you at the sound of your moan. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you what you want.”
He does not, in fact, give you what you want. Instead, Sukuna winds his bottom pair of arms around your thighs, jerking you up the wall until you’re situated face to face. He pulls you into a suspiciously tender kiss, even as his mouth eclipses your own. It should be gross. It should be weird. Somehow, you just find it impossibly attractive.
Then a tongue is swiping through your folds, and you jerk so abruptly that you accidentally bite down on his tongue. You’d forgotten about the stomach mouth, right up until it's all you can think about—he licks around your entrance, trails the tip of his tongue against your clit, careful not to apply too much pressure. He leaves you squirming, grinning against your lips and opening his mouth-mouth so wide his bottom teeth accidentally clip your chin.
Fuck, he’s so big. It’s unbelievable.
You choke on his name as a hand comes up, grasping you by the throat to hold you still. His fingers flex idly, as if it takes no pressure at all to leave you bruised. He could kill me, you think wildly. He could squeeze right now and crush your windpipe; he could open that stomach mouth a little wider and cleave right through your thighs; one careless move, and you’d be nothing but a heaping sack of meat. He could kill me, and it’d take no effort at all.
Your next moan hinges on a ridiculous whine. It feels like he’s eating your face, drinking up your cunt, toying with your tits while he humps against nothing like a rabid dog. His tongue circles your opening, stimulating sensitive nerves until you’re squirming away. Then he dips in, unimpeded by the way you clench down on his tongue at the feeling.
Thank god, the part of your brain still capable of higher executive function murmurs; there’s no world in which you were going to let him put those nails inside of you. The thought has you huffing a laugh that abruptly hitches into another moan as he massages you from the inside.
You pinch his nipple in revenge. He groans, and his teeth leave a hairline scratch against your cheek. You already know you’re going to look mauled when this is over; the mere thought has heat coursing down your spine. You want to mark him in return—you want to scratch him so deeply it takes weeks to heal, and no one will be able to glimpse at those wide shoulders, that monumental chest, and not immediately know what you did to him.
Your pussy spasms at the thought. Fuck.
You lose track of time like that, the world narrowing down to the slick slide of his mouth on yours and his tongue spearing you open. It feels like you blink and you’re panting heavily, dangling on a precipice and scratching at his chest. You manage to pull him away for just long enough to mutter, “Dear God, please put your cock in me,” before he’s fumbling like a fool, large hand gripping his own cock and lining himself up against you.
Then he pushes in and, well, your dreams of scratching him up become a reality. Red beads along the path of your nails, weeping under the weight of his moan. You duck your head to bite at his neck, chewing along his jugular like you’re trying to break skin and tear through his heartbeat. His dick twitches within you.
An eon and a moment pass at once as he sinks into you. He’s big, heavy, and the unfamiliar weight has your breath trapping in your chest. His second cock drags through your labia as he bottoms out in you, the underside dragging at your clit and sending sparks shivering through your frame. The pleasure feels inescapable; you’re cored out on his cock and trapped against a wall, unable to do anything but take it.
“You feel so good,” you whisper against his throat, tasting the way his heart thuds violently. “I want you to– Sukuna, please—”
He pulls out before sinking back in one smooth motion. It creates constant pressure on your clit, a long trail of sensation that makes your tongue numb in your mouth. “Yes,” he hisses between his teeth, “whatever you want. Just tell me. Beg me.”
“You insufferable—!” Your teeth clamp down around his skin as he plows into you. It pulls a long, low groan from him, the sound vibrating against your teeth as it travels up his throat. That man! Trying to make you beg for him as if he didn’t leave his caravan for the first time in your memory just to kiss you. Just to prove you’re worth that miniscule effort.
But oh, how you want him; his arm around your throat, his hands crushing your ribs, his teeth digging past your skin and wrenching the flesh straight off your bones. You want to be consumed—you want his teeth to work through your skin, to squeeze at your heart, for him to turn into the violent predator everyone described him as. You want him to bruise you so deeply you can’t breathe without feeling an echo of him. You want—-
“Harder,” you gasp.
“There we go,” he mutters. “Don’t you feel good, taking what you want?”
If you were taking what you wanted, you’d be riding him. You tell him as much between hiccuping breaths and he chokes on a laugh that curdles into a moan halfway through.
He chants your name on a low grunt as you near your completion, hands grasping you impossibly tight. Your ribs creak under the pressure, your breath cutting short thanks to his hand at your throat, your hair pulled so tight that tears prick at your eyes. He spasms from the pleasure; you jerk from the same. It’s almost a dance, the both of you sparking like a wildfire as you hurdle towards a mutual end. It builds, builds, builds.
“Sukuna,” you gasp. “Sukuna, Sukuna, Sukuna—”
He comes on a choked whimper, fucking you through his own completion. His other penis coats your stomach and thighs with his come, slicking your vagina further as he bumps against your clit until you physically can’t take it, following him with a strangled gasp of his name.
You heave in the aftermath, twitching with residual pleasure as he softens inside of you. You’re sensitive as a bruise. Sukuna’s hands stroke against your sides, and you can barely handle it from the dual pain-pleasure of his fingers gliding over those scratches. Your mouth is thick with blood—you hadn’t realised it in the moment, but you’d bitten your way through his skin to leave a bloody kiss carved into his collarbone. You can’t help feeling proud of it.
“I want you,” he says wretchedly, muffled against sweat-slick skin. “I want you.”
You press a soft kiss over the bite. Privately, you hope it scars; hope he has to keep this symbol of you forever. “I know, Sukuna. I want you too.”
(Sukuna’s back in his cage the next day, lounging as though he never left. Kenjaku looks at him through misshapen metal bars, a spike of irritation lancing through him at the ruckus the demon caused. He asks, “What was that about, yesterday? Did you have to make such a fuss?”
Sukuna’s mouth twitches into a snarling grin. “I went where I wished to be.”)
Synopsis — you have recently relocated to the GDA headquarters, and subsequently, right into Invincible's arms. Will you be able to navigate love, sex and all the rest with a superhero, or will it prove all too much for your human heart?
Warnings/tags— 18+, smut, angstttt, i kinda dogged on cecil this whole fic but he's the man fr, masturbation, p in v sex (use protection!!)
Word count—3k words
Nomi's note— this was supposed to be a pervy coworker! mark x reader but then it spiralled into this beautiful mess. i hope you enjoy, and if you want to be added to my taglist, comment below!
Fucking Cecil wouldn’t leave him alone.
This was the third time this week he’d called Mark in to discuss “erratic behaviour.”
So what if Mark beat that man half to death?! He deserved it!
Not to mention that Mark had been working for this man for nearly 8 years without payment! He saved lives for a living, and this is what he got in return?!
It was getting redundant. Mark was no longer the naive little boy that needed coaching. He was 25, tired, and just trying to get through the day without some old man bitching in his ear.
He huffs, close to flying out of the room (door, not ceiling), when he hears heels clicking up to the door. He’s about to warn Cecil of the intruder when the man looks at him and waves him off.
“Come in.” Cecil says.
The doorknob twists and you walk in. You were in business wear, a pencil skirt, fitted blazer, the whole getup, and Mark can’t help but gulp. He didn't give two shits what Cecil or anyone else in the GDA wore, but he suddenly felt extremely underdressed in his skin tight suit in front of you.
You look at him and smile, then turn to Cecil, handing him some files and running him through the information. Mark tries to listen, really he does, but all he can hear is your heart beating in your chest.
The bum-dum, bum-dum, slowly ticking in his head like you’d set a bomb off and were waiting for it to explode.
Of course, you had no idea of your effect on the man. It was your first day working at the head office of the GDA, having been a supervisor at another division for a couple of years.
Cecil himself had requested your presence following some rebel attacks near headquarters. You had accepted, naturally, because you were smart and were making moves to the top, and knew if there was any way in, this would be it.
He’d requested a thorough report on the perpetrators and then told you to meet him so he could ask you a favour.
You hadn't expected that there would be company.
And you certainly hadn't expected what he would be asking of you.
When you are done briefing him, he nods, then turns to face the man that has been standing there for some time. He’s got his signature blue and yellow suit on, and even with the mask, you know exactly who he is.
“Invincible,” You address him. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Mark's mouth dries at the sound of your voice. Smooth like honey, not a single tremble, nor a hint of uncertainty. It sticks to him, and like a fly, he's trapped.
You step forward and reach your hand out for him to shake. He stumbles for a second, then takes your soft hand in his, shaking it firmly, though it looks like he didn’t mean to.
“This is who you’ll be working with,” Cecil says, and you nod at him, and then look down at where Mark was still fixedly holding your hand.
“O-oh!,” he chuckles, letting it go, hand reaching behind his neck to scratch it bashfully. You shake your head, your warm smile never once fading. What a beautiful shade of red on your lips...
Mark shakes himself back to reality, turning to Cecil accusingly.
“Work with?! What the fuck, Cecil, I don’t need a babysitter!” The sudden change in his demeanour is shocking, but you’ve seen more surprising things. You try not to be offended since you knew what it was like to work under someone like Cecil. Ironfisted and unyielding.
Though not everyone could speak to their boss like that…
"That's all, Mark." Cecil says dismissively.
You feel him leave before you see it, with your hair ruffled, a sharp gust of wind hitting your face and in the blink of an eye, the man in the blue and yellow suit is gone.
Cecil sighs, and with a half-assed encouraging nod in your direction, teleports himself out of the room.
You’re left alone, smoothing out your hair as you try to make out what new path you were headed down.
・・・・・
Working with Mark consisted mostly of surveillance. Making sure he doesn't kill anyone, no matter how deserving he might deem them. His suit had a tracker attached to it, and the GDA's technology allowed you to have eyes on him practically everywhere.
Needless to say, it was not a particularly challenging nor stimulating job, but if it was what was required of you to gain Cecil's favour, then it was what you'd do.
It had been a couple of weeks, and you had seen Mark in person probably a handful of times since your first meeting. Still, in that time, you had noted a few things about him.
Firstly, he was half-alien. You knew that, of course. That he had Viltrumite blood coursing through his veins. But it had never really been something you fully grasped until you were in his close proximity. His strength was unlike any of the other hero's you had worked with. He seemed almost unaware of it.
Also, he was fast. Physically, certainly, but also quick to make a decision. To jump to conclusions. To come storming into the GDA because things didn't go quite to plan in the field.
He was swiftest in his guilt.
Lastly, his poker face was terrible. Mark Grayson couldn't keep a secret to save his life. He was all furrowed brows and rolled eyes, but you could tell he liked you. Maybe it was the dusty pink that would sweep over his face whenever he looked you in the eye.
Or the way he would trip over himself to help you with the smallest thing. Like when you dropped your pen in front of him. He surged forward, ready to deliver it to you, but you shook your head.
He was also very obedient. Perhaps only to you. He had no issue defying the GDA's orders, but the second you told Mark to do something, it got done.
So when you bent down in front of him to retrieve the pen yourself, it was no surprise to see the chub at the front of his suit rise as he tried, and failed, to conceal it.
You try to hide your smirk as you tuck that information away too.
・・・・・
Mark was complaining again. You roll your eyes but listen to him drone on and on about the villain and massive asshole he had to fight today.
"... made me crash into three buildings! three!" he continues, pacing back and forth in front of you.
"He sounds like a real fucker," you say, trying to comfort him.
"Thanks, he was!" He huffs.
"You should go rest," you suggest, seeing the dark circles around his eyes. There was a slump in his shoulders too, and a drag in his stride.
“We’ll call you if we need you.” He nods, and you decide to turn and occupy yourself with your daily report while he sees himself out. But nothing with Mark was ever simple.
Hearing footsteps approach, you decide to keep shuffling your papers, pretending to be busy. Maybe you were afraid of what you might do if you faced him. Maybe you wanted to help him relieve his stress.
Maybe you could put him to sleep.
Ignoring your thoughts, you continue mindlessly shuffling the papers in front of you. Gosh, you'd have to organise them all over again when he left.
He’s close enough now that his body heat was radiating to you. God, he ran hot. It was 41 degrees Fahrenheit outside, and he was emanating heat like a furnace.
Maybe that was just another component of his Alien physiology. You tuck it in, at the back of your mind, with all the rest of the facts that you've been cataloging about Mark Grayson.
"M'not tired," he drawls. "Can think of better things I'd rather do with my time."
“Careful, Mr Grayson,” You lilt, turning your head back to look at him.
“Mark.” He corrects, eyes unfocused as he stared at your lips.
“Mark,” you amend, licking your lip. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”
You brush past him, and with that, he’s left watching the swish swish swishing of your hips as you leave the room.
Shit, he thinks. He wishes he could bite those lips for you.
・・・・・
Mark had tried, he really had, but it was impossible to scrub the image of your backside as you left the room. He was the strongest person in the country, maybe the world, but he never felt weaker than he had the few seconds your body brushed past his.
He thought of you everywhere. When he kicked some amateur villain to the ground. When he took some criminals into custody. In the sky, space, his house.
He thought of you late at night, when the weight of the day settled into his bones and the idea of you there with him, in his bed, made him feel lighter.
He especially thought of you when he grabbed his half-stiff cock.
You were driving him mad. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this crazy over anything.
All-consuming. That was the only way to describe you. Like ivy, you had spread your branches all over his heart.
・・・・・
Mark looked wrecked.
There had been some misinformation that led to a lot of people getting hurt. The GDA couldn’t have known, and neither could he.
“It’s not your fault–” you start.
“Yes, yes it is.” His voice cracks, and your heart breaks for him.
"Mark," you say softly. "You can't carry the weight of the world on your own."
And he was angry. Livid, truly. He used to be so hopeful, so optimistic. Even after his father had betrayed humanity and he had to prove himself to the world all over again.
Maybe time was really all it took. The day by day chipping away of his sanguine outlook on life. A little bit of him died every time he was too late, too slow, too him.
He only ever felt like he was disappointing everyone.
You’ve only known Mark for a few months, but you think you have a better understanding of him than most.
So when he tucks his neck into the crook of yours, you let him.
When he wraps his arms around your waist, you let him.
But when he moves his head back to look at your lipa from between his lashes, and when his kips brush yours, you turn your head.
“You aren’t in the right headspace.” You say.
He nods but keeps his arms tight around you.
And of course, you let him do that too.
. . . . . .
“Him and a few other heroes… medal awarding ceremony…” Cecil drones on.
"Sir..." you trail off. "Is that a good idea right now?"
It had only been a couple days since the incident at the city square, and Mark still looked like he was spiralling. He’d show up at your place at odd hours of the night, eyes rimmed red and voice all hoarse like he’d cried it away.
He needed time.
"The people need a win." Cecil states with a tone of finality. "Get Mark to that stage. That’s an order.”
A virtually improbable objective.
But you were nothing if not a defier of the odds.
It took some convincing, some batting of your lashes, and even some ‘innocent’ touches on his arms to get him to agree.
However, here you were now, 10 minutes to the ceremony, and Mark was nowhere to be seen.
Just as you were about to give up, you feel a blast of air as he zooms into the room.
You smooth your hair out, then take him in. You had to give him credit, because he sure could clean up well when he wanted to.
"Mark Grayson!" You exclaim, gasping sarcastically. "Are you wearing a suit?"
Objective achieved.
He smiles sheepishly, then says, grumbling mostly to himself; "I always wear a suit."
You laugh. "But they're not usually this dashing."
He chuckles, then walks up to you. You keep your eyes on your phone, keeping up with the updates being sent by the crew.
When you look up, he’s still looking at you up and down, and you feel your stomach twist.
You turn around, trying your best to hide your smile. “I’m not like you,” you start. “I don’t get to take liberties with my workplace.”
“What does that mean?” He laughs softly.
“It just means I have rules.” You say teasingly, walking over to the stage curtain.
“Mm. And what rules would those be?” He follows you to the curtain, crowding you against it.
“Well, first, don’t do anything stupid.” You turn around, hands coming up to smooth his tie. He inches closer.
“Not to mix work and pleasure.” His fingers graze yours.
“And chiefly, not to fuck my coworkers.” He nods, holding your hands now, but you can see the black in his eyes engulfing the brown. The heave in his breath. His slow blinking as he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear.
You duck under his arm, smiling at the woozy look on his face.
“You’re on now.” You state, pushing him through the curtain and onto the stage.
Cheers and screams of “Invincible, invincibile, invincible!” erupt.
And the heat inside you grows just a little bit more.
・・・・・
You stood in front of a very agitated Cecil. Mark had done something wrong, but that was not surprising.
"Where's Mark?" He asks.
"He's at home right now, Sir." You respond.
"Well then go to his fucking house if you have to," Cecil raises his voice. "Mark has got to stay in line!" You nod, then march your way out of his office.
You were going to kill Mark Grayson.
"Mr Grayson?" You ask, hesitant. You have met Mark at many places, but never his house. The door had been open, probably because no one could be a threat to Mark, so you had twisted the doorknob and let yourself in.
"What'd I say about calling me that?" You hear his playful voice from behind you.
You turn, whipping your head around to face him.
He blinks at the sting of your hair on his face, having bent down to reach your height while he scrunches his nose to look at you.
"Mark."
"Cecil told me to come and tell you to stop meddling with NYC affairs. It's not your jurisdiction." You cross your arms around your chest, staring at him sternly. Him acting out of turn only made it seem like you couldn't do your job.
"Mmm..." He hums low. He grabs your waist, redirecting you until your back is to the counter, listening as you go on and on about what he had done wrong.
His hands feel large on your waist, and the blush on his face isn't from shyness, like it usually is, but from something...more primal.
He begins trailing his hands up, up, up until they're on the sides of your breasts. Your chest begins rising and falling, and you see his eyes following the movement.
"Everywhere is my jurisdiction," he states, claiming your lips with his own. His lips are soft and warm, just like the rest of him, and suddenly all your complaints feel trivial.
He spins you around, pushing you against the counter and you feel his hands pushing your skirt up.
It’s quiet for a second, and you are about to protest when he rips your tights, guiding his cock to your core and coating your panties with his pre-cum.
You’d fight him about them later, but right now you were too busy moaning at the feeling of his cockhead catching against your clit with every thrust.
Despite having intimate knowledge of his powers, you’re still surprised by how quick he flies you both to his bedroom.
You pause on the bed, and he watches you, searching for any signs of hesitance.
"It's... been a while." You admit. Focused on the career ladder, you haven't given much thought to relationships, other than the casual fling now and then. Even those were few and far between.
"That's fine," he whispers. "Me too."
Mark had never been as glad for his super hearing as he was when he could hear the smallest sounds you let out. God, you even breathed pretty.
You look at him from beneath your lashes when he settles in between your parted legs, and his warmth makes you shiver.
Mark didn’t fuck like he fought. He was gentle, watching your face when he nudged himself in. He was so attentive. The strongest man on earth, reduced to putty under your touch.
You feel yourself get wetter at the thought.
He was so vocal, too. Endless streams of–
"Been wanting to do this for so long..."
"Need to feel you..."
"Fuck, you're beautiful..."
You clench around him with each groan he lets into your ear. With each sweet whisper that falls from his lips.
And when you fall off the edge, moaning his name into his mouth, you know that he had you, and you had him.
you said Jason Todd would be an annoying bf, do you have any specific thoughts on why??
im a long and diehard fan of him, I’ve read the fics, the comics, seen the movies, etc. I KNOW he’d be a difficult piece of shit but I wanna know the almighty Kat’s take on it.
NOT ME GETTING LIKE 20 MESSAGES ASKING FOR JASON THOUGHTS GUYS PLS??? I DON'T EVEN GO HERE, BUT FUCK IT, FINE.
18+ for nsfw. mdni.
JASON TODD AS YOUR BOYFRIEND HDCS—
Loving Jason Todd is not easy. It's a lifestyle adjustment at the bare minimum, and the first thing to understand is that he's not some soft golden retriever boyfriend. Never has been, never will be.
He's not Dick (charming, attentive, performative), he's not Tim (anxious, observant, analytical), he's not Damian (devoted to a fault, awkwardly sincere); he's the one who came back wrong and never fully unlearned the rage or the wrongness of that come back.
He doesn't meet people the way normal men do. No Hinge profile, no striking up conversation at a coffee shop unless he's already aware of you as a potential informant.
The way he ends up in your orbit is one of three things: you crossed paths with one of his cases (you witnessed something, you live above the wrong building, you're the cousin of some dead girl, you work at the diner three doors down from the safehouse, and he noticed you because his job is noticing things, and then he kept noticing you, and that part wasn't the job); or you're tangentially Bat-adjacent (you work at WE, you're an old friend of Babs's, you patched him up once at a free clinic and didn't ask questions), which he hates in theory and seeks out in practice; or you're a complete civilian and he's furious about how attracted to you he is, which is the funniest one (for us) and the most dangerous one for him.
For the first dozen interactions he's rude. Not really cruel or anything. Jason has a deeply skewered and fucked up moral spine despite everything but he has it. He's brusque, he's short with you, he gives you the kind of one-syllable answers that make you check whether you've offended him somehow, and you haven't, he just doesn't waste words on people he hasn't decided require air from him.
But here's the thing: he keeps showing up.
You'll see him at the bar three nights in a row, sitting where he can see the door. You'll mention offhandedly that you can't find a decent mechanic one time and a week later your car runs better than it did when you bought it and the guy at the shop says "yeah some big guy paid in cash, told me not to mention it"; you'll say in passing that the back lock on your apartment door sticks and the next time you come home it's been replaced with something that looks like it could survive a small explosion. He'll never bring any of this up, and if you bring it up, he'll go "don't know what you're talking about" with that infuriating half-smirk and change the subject completely .
This is his love language and it's unbearable, because Jason won't ask you out, he won't say anything, really. He's just slowly making your life safer and more functional and waiting to see if you notice, and every time you do notice, he gets a little more annoyed that you're getting under his skin and keep noticing.
When he finally starts engaging with you, his flirting is mean. Affectionate-mean. He'll roast your taste in music, your coffee order, your shoes, the book you're reading, the way you say a particular word. He calls you stupid pet names that are technically insults: sweetheart, princess, trouble, and the one he reserves for when he wants to see you actually flustered, baby, and he watches you very carefully to see how you respond.
If you bite back his entire face changes. He gets delighted, he'll lean in over the table and go "oh, you've got a mouth on you, huh?" and you can see him tucking this information away in real time. If you go shy he'll keep pushing, gently, until you laugh, because he's testing you, he needs to know you can handle him before he lets himself want you any more than he already does.
You will not have a defining-the-relationship conversation. He will not ask you to be his girlfriend in some sappy way. One day you'll just realise he's been at your apartment four nights in a row, there's a toothbrush in your bathroom that isn't yours, he's eating your leftovers like he pays rent, and when his phone buzzes he angles it away from you with a look that says don't ask.
And if you ask what you are to each other he'll say something like "the hell kind of question is that?", not unkindly, just like the question itself is so ridiculous he can't believe you wasted a breath on it; obviously you're his, he thought you knew, he's been acting like it, hasn't he? Keep up!
He hasn't been acting like it in any way a normal person would recognise, but to him the fact that he hasn't killed anyone over you yet is a love sonnet <3
His texting habits are a horror show: he doesn't text first, ever, until suddenly he texts you twelve times in a row at 2 a.m. (u up. u home? answer the phone. fine. ignore me. fuck. txt back when u see this) he leaves you on read constantly (he's not ignoring you, he read it, he doesn't see why a "got it" was needed), his messages are all lowercase and full of typos because he texts with one hand while doing something else (cleaning a gun, driving, running across a roof), he'll send you a single question mark in response to a long vulnerable message and then forty minutes later show up at your door with takeout and not mention it.
He saves your contact under something stupid like Trouble or Headache or Don't pick up.
He works nights, he gets shot some of those nights, and he'll absolutely disappear for 48 hours with no contact and then reappear in your kitchen at 3 a.m. bleeding from somewhere he won't show you. When you panic he'll go "Jesus, breathe, it's not even that bad" (which is the sentence equivalent of holding a grenade) and he'll not apologise for the disappearing, but he will look slightly ashamed when he realises you actually couldn't sleep.
He doesn't know what to do with the fact that you worry about him; it short-circuits him, people don't worry about Jason, Jason worries, or Jason handles it, and the role reversal, the uncomplicated care, is a wound he can't reach to scratch.
Then comes the obnoxious-about-your-attention phase, which is when he gets very annoying and very hot simultaneously, because Jason is territorial in a way that would be a red flag if he weren't so weirdly principled about it.
He'll not tell you who you can talk to, will not check your phone, he will not get jealous in the openly controlling way that signals abuser. He's not that.
But what he will do is loom (when you're at a bar and a guy is talking to you, Jason who was across the room is now somehow magically standing directly behind you with a hand on the small of your back, not saying anything, just radiating, and the guy will leave, and Jason will not comment);
Scoff (anyone shows interest in you within his sightline, he makes a noise: short, derisive, almost a laugh, like the idea is so absurd it's funny anyone is trying);
Ask too-casual questions ("who was that on the phone?" he says, not looking up from the gun he's cleaning on your coffee table (concern.) and you can hear that the casualness is performed, that he's in fact extremely invested in the answer, and he's furious with himself for caring);
Mark you in stupid little ways (steals your hair tie and wears it on his wrist, leaves his jacket at your place "by accident" four times in a row, bites the side of your neck where it'll show above your collar and is unrepentant when you complain about it).
Now: the slap-on-the-ass-then-prickly move, which is the Jason behaviour pattern that will define the first six months of dating him.
He's physically affectionate in a way that's cocky, performative, almost rude (the hand on your ass when he's walking past you in the kitchen, the fingers around the back of your neck when he's leaning over to grab his beer, the bite (he's a biter, I'm afraid, that man cannot keep his teeth to himself) at your shoulder, your jaw, your ear, the teasing physicality of pulling you back into his lap when you try to get up, holding your wrist when you reach for something, hooking his ankle around yours under the table).
All of this is easy for him, it costs him nothing because he's performing the part of "guy who is comfortable touching his girl" because it's the closest he can get to being affectionate without admitting that he wants to be.
But the second you try to flip it, try to initiate genuine closeness, try to climb into his lap when he didn't put you there, or to cup his face and look at him too long. Even say something soft like I missed you in a voice that means it, Jason goes rigid. Not for long, a second, maybe two, but you'll feel it: the full-body lock, and then he'll deflect with a joke. A kiss that's more aggressive than tender, a hand on your waist that turns you around so you're not facing him anymore.
He can't take it when you mean it. He can give and give in the language of teasing physicality, but tenderness received, sincere tenderness, the kind that means I see you and I'm not going anywhere, that's the language of the family that buried him while he was still dying, that's the language his mother used, that's Bruce's voice in the cave and Bruce's silence in the alley after.
He doesn't trust it, he doesn't know how to be on the receiving end of it without flinching, and this will be one of the hardest things about loving him.
You can't push, he's spent his whole afterlife being pushed, and you have to be willing to let him deflect six times before he takes it on the seventh, and it takes months, sometimes longer, before he can let your hand stay on the side of his face for more than a second without turning into it like he's trying to escape his own want.
The way you eventually crack it is sneakier than confrontation. You do it in transit, in passing, when he's distracted: a kiss to his shoulder while he's at the stove, fingers through the hair at the back of his neck while he's mid-sentence about something else, I love you mumbled into the crook of his arm at a moment when neither of you is looking at the other.
It has to be cheap, it has to be easy to ignore, because if you give it weight he can't hold it. Over months, he learns to take it without flinching, then to lean into it, then (eventually, miraculously) to ask for it (never with words, he will never use words for this, but he'll plant himself within reach of your hands and wait, like a stray cat learning where the food bowl lives).
He's also annoying about your safety in ways that are sometimes touching and sometimes infuriating: he has opinions about every person in your life.
He's run background checks on people you went to college with and isn't sorry, he will text you the route home (not ask, tell) take 5th not the alley tonight, he has bought you (without asking) pepper spray (good), a small folding knife (lowkey concerning), a panic button that is wired to him specifically (worrying that this exists, kinda sweet that he thought of it), and a self-defence class he'll not attend with you because "I'll just correct her form and piss her off".
He gets weirdly quiet when you mention being scared of something (not comforting, quiet, you can see him processing: who, where, when, can I get there in under fifteen if she needs me) and you have to actively redirect him before he goes and breaks someone's hands.
He'll never, ever tell you not to do something dangerous, because Jason understands the impulse to walk into things, but he'll follow you in from a respectful distance where you can't see him. Close enough that if anything happens he's the second person who knows, and this is actually one of the most loving things he does.
He doesn't try to keep you small, he just makes sure that if the world tries to swallow you, it has to go through him first.
The intimacy doesn't really start in bed, it starts in his apartment.
The first time you're allowed in there (and you have to be allowed, because Jason has safehouses you'll never see and he has the apartment, and the apartment is the closest thing he has to a self he doesn't have to hold a weapon against) and the thing that will undo you is how much care lives there: there are books everywhere, dog-eared, some stained, there's good coffee, a record player, spices in the kitchen that mean he actually cooks for himself, and the bed is made.
The bed is made. This is the detail that will catch in your throat. Jason Peter Todd, who came back from the dead, who lives with a body that's been to war, makes his bed every morning (some habit from the manor, or from before the manor, or from somewhere he won't tell you about) the corners are tucked, the pillows are arranged, and he'll be sheepish and dismissive if you notice but he'll not stop doing it.
Now, the first time. It doesn't happen in his apartment, you don't get into his apartment for months. The first time happens at yours, and it happens because the tension has been so unbearable for so long that one of you finally has to break it, and it's going to be him, and the way it happens is going to feel (at the time) like an accident, even though it absolutely is not.
He's been at your place too late, he's been finding excuses to be at your place too late, and on this particular night the excuse is your faucet, sweetheart, you said it was leaking, I can fix it, no I'm not gonna pay some guy to do it when I'm right here, and he does fix it, except then he doesn't leave.
You open a beer for him, and the two of you end up on your couch, and there's a moment (a very specific moment) where you've been laughing about something stupid and the laughter trails off and he's looking at you and you're looking at him and the whole apartment is suddenly quiet, and you can hear the fridge humming, and the click of the clock, and the way his breathing has gone shallow.
He'll break it the way he breaks everything: with a joke, with a deflection ("what," he says, low, rough, daring you, half a smirk on his face) and you're going to call his bluff, because by now you know how he works.
You're going to lean in first, and his whole face is going to do something you've never seen it do before (a flicker of oh, fuck) and then he's going to kiss you back like he has been thinking about it for a year, which is because he has been thinking about it for a year, and the kiss is not soft. It's a hungry thing. The kiss of a man who's been holding himself back from this for so long that the moment he stops holding back, there's no halfway; his hand goes to the back of your skull, immediately, fingers in your hair, and he tilts your head where he wants it, and the small noise he makes against your mouth is the first time you've ever heard him sound undone.
Jason pulls back first, and his hand is on your jaw, his thumb on your bottom lip dragging across it. He's looking at you with an expression that's somewhere between starved and pained, and he says (and you'll remember this forever, "you sure?") and the question is not a polite formality, he needs you to look him in the eye and confirm it, and when you do, when you say "yes," clearly, no hesitation, he's on you in a heartbeat.
The first time is fast, not because he doesn't have control (Jason has frightening control), but because he has too much tension in his body and he genuinely can't moderate it on the first pass.
It's also slightly clumsy in places. He knocks over your lamp (oops), he'll laugh about this later, and you'll be on the floor before you make it to the bedroom. Your shirt doesn't survive (rip). He tears the collar of it dragging it off you, mutters fuck, sorry without sounding sorry in the slightest, and goes back to your throat, and it's intense in a way that doesn't feel like sex so much as like finally, like something that's been building between you for months has finally been allowed to happen.
His hands are everywhere and they're huge. You'd noticed the size of his hands in the abstract before. The way they wrap around a coffee cup, the way they look on the steering wheel.
But the first time you feel one of them spread flat across your stomach, fingertips just barely under the waistband of your jeans, you understand the reach of him in a way you didn't before.
The sheer span, the way one of his palms covers ground. He's careful with his strength even when he's gone. In a sense, he's been careful with it his whole life because he's had to be, and the carefulness shows up as a deliberate slowness even when everything else is fast. Fingers on the inside of your thigh that take their time getting where they're going, a thumb on your hipbone that presses just hard enough to be a question
He's going to be louder than you expected, with his mouth, not his volume.
He runs commentary even the first time, which is partly nerves (Jason gets mouthy when he's anxious, you'll learn this) and partly that he genuinely can't help himself. He'll mutter against your throat ("Fuck, you have no idea how long—") and then cut himself off, because he didn't mean to say that out loud, and instead he'll bite, hard, just under your jaw, like he's trying to put the sentence back in his mouth.
He'll say "look at me, look at me, baby," not as a command but as something closer to a request, and you'll realise later that he needs you to see him for this, that he can't do it with you looking at the ceiling, that some part of him needs proof of recognition.
He'll bury his face in your shoulder when he comes and his hands will go tight on your hips; tight enough to leave marks, you'll find them in the morning, four little crescents low on each side, and the surge you feel at seeing them in the bathroom mirror will be embarrassing to think about.
He will be, for one breath, two, completely undone, and you'll feel the shudder run all the way through him.
And then almost immediately, the second it's over, the shutters come back down. Not fully, but you can feel it, the way he reassembles himself, the joke he reaches for to cover the rawness of what just happened ("so, the faucet's fixed," he'll say, voice rough,) and you'll laugh, and that will be his way of saying don't make this a thing or I will lose my nerve.
He doesn't stay over that first night. He kisses your forehead in your doorway (which is somehow more tender than anything that just happened) and he says, "I'll text you," and you know he won't, and he doesn't.
Three days will pass and you will think, oh, that was it, that was the thing, and on the fourth day he'll show up at your door at midnight with takeout and a look on his face that says I tried to stop thinking about you and it didn't work, and the second wave begins.
The early sex (the first month, maybe two) has a specific flavour to it that's worth naming: it's frequent, very intense, and it has an undercurrent of him trying to prove something, though even he doesn't know what.
He fucks you like he's daring himself to keep doing it, like every time he expects you to be different in the morning, colder, distant, regretful (or maybe he's expecting himself to be those things), and every time he's mildly stunned that you aren't, that he isn't, and he punishes himself for the relief of it by being slightly more of an asshole about everything else for a few hours after.
Physically, in this period, he's exhausting in the best way.
His stamina is genuinely a problem (he's in extraordinary physical condition, he can go for an extremely long time, he has the recovery of a man who jumps off buildings for a living), and you will, at some point in the first month, look at him afterwards while you're trying to remember how to breathe and say something like Jesus Christ, Jason, and he'll grin at you, sweaty, smug, infuriating, and say "problem?", and you will hit him with a pillow.
He'll laugh, fully, not the half-laugh he gives most of the time but something that comes from his actual chest, and you will realise, then, you're going to love him for the rest of your life and it's too late to do anything about it.
He's also a tease from the very beginning. Catastrophically so, but in the early days the teasing has a sharper edge to it. Almost competitive, like he's trying to see how far he can push you before you break. Like he needs the proof that he can take you apart in order to believe that this is real.
He'll get you right to the edge and then slow down deliberately, two fingers stilling exactly where you need them to be moving, his mouth lifting off your skin at the worst possible second, and when you complain (when you swear at him, which he loves, which you'll learn fast he loves) he'll laugh (that low, mean, delighted laugh, mouth right against your ear) and say something like "you got somewhere to be, sweetheart? we got all night", and you'll want to kill him.
He loves it when you try, it's free foreplay, and the rule he has invented entirely for his own amusement is that the more you mouth off the longer he draws it out, and he'll absolutely tell you this to your face ("you wanna keep talking? we can keep going. I got nowhere to be") while you're shaking apart underneath him, and the bastard means it, too.
He's very good with his mouth, and he knows it, and he treats it like a settled fact you don't need to discuss.
The first time he goes down on you, he does it with the same focused, watchful attention he brings to everything else. Eyes up, watching your face, two fingers wrapped around your wrist where it's gripping the sheet because he likes feeling the pulse there, and he will not be hurried, will not be talked out of taking his time, and he will absolutely look up at you afterwards with his mouth still wet and say something insufferable like "yeah, I thought so," and you will want to push him off the bed, and he'll laugh every time you try.
The shit-talking is non-negotiable from day one, he can't keep his damn mouth shut.
He runs commentary the entire time, and the commentary breaks down roughly into three modes that he flips between without warning.
The first is mean (observational, smirking, designed to make you squirm) "oh, that's what does it for you, huh?" breathed against your ear when he's noticed exactly which thing is making you fall apart,
"look at you, fuck, you're a mess for me already and I've barely touched you," "yeah? you gonna ask nice?", "that's it, that's it, sweetheart, you can do better than that, c'mon, let me hear it,"
And the meanness is never actually mean, it's delighted, you can hear the smile in it. He's having the time of his fucking life winding you up and he wants you to know it.
The second mode is filthy, full stop. Jason at midnight with his hand between your thighs is saying things like "fuck, you're so wet, you're soaking through my fucking jeans, baby, you been thinking about this all day or what?"
Running narration of what his hands are doing right now ("that's it, just like that, you feel that? right there?"), running narration of what his hands are about to do ("gonna take my time with you tonight, gonna make you beg for it, you know that, right?"), running narration of what he's planning to do once he's recovered ("give me ten minutes, sweetheart, ten minutes and I'm gonna have you on your knees, gonna fuck your mouth till you cry, you want that?"),
and (most catastrophically) running narration of what he was thinking about doing earlier, when you were just standing in his kitchen in his t-shirt making coffee and didn't know he was watching: "you have any idea what you looked like in my kitchen this morning? in my fucking shirt with nothing under it? I had to leave the room, sweetheart, I had to go take a cold shower like a goddamn teenager, I was gonna fuck you on the counter, I was thinking about it the whole time you were talking to me about your friend, you didn't even notice—"
He likes hearing himself called things, sometimes. Likes the specific small power of Jay, please, Jason, fuck, please please please. And he'll work for it, he'll deliberately drag it out of you, "what do you need, baby, you gotta tell me, I can't read your mind," knowing perfectly well he can, in fact, read your mind, knowing exactly what he's doing.
The third mode is the one he doesn't mean to do, and it slips out anyway, usually when he's lost focus and his guard drops for half a second. Almost devastatingly tender things that he covers within two seconds because he didn't mean to say them out loud, "god, you're so fucking pretty like this," and then, immediately, recovering, "yeah, you like that, huh, you like when I say nice things to you?" with a smirk back in place, like the first half of the sentence didn't happen;
Or "shit, sweetheart, look at you, look at—fuck, c'mere" and then he kisses you hard enough to shut himself up;
Or, the worst one, the one he'll pretend for years he never said, said quietly into the curve of your shoulder when he thought you were too far gone to hear him: "I don't know what to do with you, I don't know what to fucking do with you,", and he panics about it the second he hears himself.
Because I don't know what to do with you is dangerously close to a confession he isn't ready to make, and so he bites your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark and follows it up with "you got such a pretty mouth, you gonna put it to use or what?" before the pause can land.
He calls you everything (sweetheart, baby, princess, good girl, brat), and in the early days these are all you get.
He uses your name only when he's serious, when he's looking at you and he means it, and you will learn to clock the difference: the pet names mean I'm having fun, your name means I love you and I'm not going to say it yet, and you will notice (months in, looking back) that for the first stretch of your relationship, he never said your name in bed, not once.
The night he finally does (really says it, low and ragged, looking at you, fuck, followed by ragged exhale of your name breathed against your temple, is the night you'll know something has changed in him that you don't have words for yet.
Jason, almost as a rule, likes when you talk back. He likes it when you mouth off. The single fastest way to get him to lose his composure is to be a smartass while he's trying to wreck you.
He'll go "oh, you've got jokes," and then he'll prove a point, and the dynamic this creates is one of the most addictive things about being with him: you can spar with him, in bed, all the way through, he will not shatter, will not get hurt feelings, he will meet you every time, and the back-and-forth is genuinely funny in a way that almost nothing else in your life is.
Sex with Jason is, weirdly, often fun, in a way you didn't know it could be. You laugh, sometimes, mid-thing, and he laughs too, his forehead dropped against your shoulder, his whole body shaking with it for a second, and it doesn't break the heat, it deepens it, because it's involuntary, it's unguarded, and he gives it to you anyway.
Jason has a body that has been through something. He has scars he doesn't talk about, he has somewhere in him a permanent tension (a vigilance) that doesn't fully go away, ever.
In bed that tension goes somewhere; he fucks like he's trying to outrun something, and there's a quality to it (especially in the early months) of too much, too hard, too fast, like he's trying to drown out a noise in his head with the sound of you. And it's incredibly hot but it's also, sometimes, a flag.
For the first stretch he refuses to be seen during sex, in a particular way that takes you a while to clock: he prefers positions where he's behind you or above you, where you can't easily reach his face, where his expression is something you have to work to read.
He keeps his shirt on more than you'd expect for the first month or two. A faded grey henley, usually, that he won't take off, even in your bed at 2 a.m., even with his hand down your pants, and you'll learn not to push it.
He avoids long eye contact; and if you reach up to cup his jaw mid-fuck he'll catch your wrist and pin it, gently, smoothly, like he's playing, but he's not playing. It's redirecting, and you'll eventually understand that he can't let you look at him like that yet because if you do, he'll feel it, and feeling it is what he came to bed to not do.
Jason's body is a map of the life he's lived, and you'll learn it in pieces. Slowly, over months, because he doesn't sit you down and explain it. You have to find each one and decide whether to ask.
It's worth saying clearly that his scars aren't pretty. They're the body of a man who's been beaten, shot, burned and stitched up by his own hands more times than is reasonable.
There's the long, ropy line down his left forearm from a knife in Hong Kong (he'll tell you that one, eventually, a clean story he can shrug off); there are the round puckered scars of bullet wounds in his shoulder, his thigh, low on his right side where it nearly took a kidney (these are boring to him, he genuinely thinks they're uninteresting, "occupational hazard, sweetheart"); there's a long pale stripe across his ribs from something he won't name, and a smaller jagged one at the corner of his eyebrow you'd noticed before you ever saw the rest of him.
There are the ones that don't have stories he wants to tell. The scars on his back that don't match anything ordinary, a clustered constellation of marks across his shoulder blades and lower spine that you won't ask about and that he will not explain, ever. The pattern of which you will eventually stop being able to unsee, and there is, at the back of his neck, just below the hairline, a thin curved scar he touches absently when he's thinking and will never tell you the origin of.
The crowbar is not a single scar, it's a map. A knot of healed, raised tissue along his ribs where one strike landed wrong, a notch missing from the side of one knee, a hairline kink in the bridge of his nose that you can feel when you kiss him, and a small permanent deviation in the way he holds his left wrist that you'll notice when he's gripping a glass. None of which he names for you, and none of which you ask about, because some part of you already knows, and he can tell that you know, and that knowledge is part of why he can let you near it at all.
The rule, for all of it, is you don't flinch.
The first time he lets you really look at him in full light (really look, not the half-dark of your bedroom but the morning sun coming in over the bed) he's watching you like he's waiting for you to recoil, holding too still, and what you do in that moment will determine what he can be with you for the rest of your life.
And the right move is to look, to actually look, not perform unbotheredness, not avoid; trace something, if he'll let you, with one finger, pick the smallest scar, the one at his eyebrow maybe.
Something he doesn't have feelings about, and start there slowly, and don't say anything stupid, don't say anything at all if you can help it, just look at him after like yeah, and?, because that's what he needs: not for it to be invisible, but for it to be uninteresting as a verdict on whether you want him.
After that morning, eventually, he stops keeping the shirt on.
Eventually he stops flinching when you touch the rougher places mid-sex. Eventually (months later, maybe a year) he'll let you press your mouth to the worst of them, deliberately, while you're on top of him. Your lips against the knot of healed tissue along his ribs, and his breath will catch and his hand will close hard around your wrist but he'll not stop you, and that (that, more than the first I love you, more than any of the words) is the moment you'll understand he has decided to stay.
When he's having a bad night (when something happened on patrol, or someone said the wrong name, or it's an anniversary of something he won't tell you about) he'll want you in a way that is almost desperate.
He won't say it, he'll just show up at your door at midnight with a bruise on his jaw and his hands already on you, your back hitting the door before it's fully closed. His mouth at your throat hot and wordless in a way it usually isn't, and the first time you realise he's doing this (that he's using you, sweetly and gently and not in a bad way, as anchor) you'll have to make a choice: you can either let him have it, no questions asked, every time, and let him use sex to skip past the feeling, or you can occasionally slow him down.
Catch his face in your hands, say his name, make him look at you, make him be present in his own body with you, instead of running through it.
He'll hate this but he'll need it, both, equally, and the very first time you do it (the first time you stop him, hand on his jaw, Jay, hey, look at me) he'll go completely still for a beat too long, like a circuit shorting.
His body braced against yours, his breathing ragged, and you'll see an emotion go through his eyes that you don't have a name for, and then he'll press his forehead to yours and exhale, hard, like he didn't know he was holding it, his nose against yours, his whole frame trembling with the effort of not running.
That exhale is one of the most intimate things he'll ever give you, and if you handle it right (don't say anything, don't make it a moment, just stay, just stay) he will, slowly, come back to his body with you in it, and the sex that follows that pause will be different. Slower, quieter, his hands less grabbing and more holding, his mouth against your shoulder more like a kiss than a bite, and afterwards he'll not joke, just lie on top of you with his face hidden and breathe.
That moment is the hinge of your sexual relationship. Before that night and after that night are different countries. Because once he's done it once, once he's let himself be slowed down, there's now a possibility in the room that wasn't there before. From that point forward the sex begins, very slowly, to deepen: still mouthy, still teasing, still possessive as hell, but with windows in it now, moments where he lets the noise drop out and just lets himself be there with you.
Around the three or four month mark you'll notice him starting to do small things differently: he'll keep the lights on instead of always reaching for the switch; he'll let you push him onto his back instead of always being above you; he'll let you take a turn driving the pace, which in the early days he wouldn't, he had to be running it (because if he was running it then he could control how close you got to him), and the first time he just lies there and lets you set the rhythm and watches you, eyes half-lidded, his hands loose at his sides instead of on you, a little stunned at the quiet of it.
Then his hands do come up, slowly, to settle on your thighs, not gripping, not directing, just resting there, his thumbs stroking idle patterns against your skin. You'll realise, then, that this is a gift, because he's not a man who gives up control easily, and what he's doing is showing you that he doesn't need to be the one with his foot on the gas to feel safe in this room with you anymore.
You'll also notice (and this is the one that hits haard) that he stops looking away: in the early months his eyes were always somewhere else (your throat, your mouth, the line of your collarbone, anywhere but your eyes), and one night, somewhere mid thrust, you look up and he's looking at you. Full-on, unblinking, eyes dark, expression open in a way you've literally never seen on his face before.
Jason doesn't break it, and the quality of the sex changes in the next ten seconds because he isn't running anymore, he's just here, and he stays here, and afterwards he doesn't joke. He just lies on top of you with his face in the curve of your neck and breathes for a long time.
That's the night you understand that he is in this, not just with you but in it, and you don't say anything about it because you know better, but you remember it for the rest of your life.
By six months in, he's started giving you the slow nights, the ones where he fucks you like he's trying to savour you. He'll go slow, keep his forehead against yours, say your name, your real name, in a voice he doesn't use anywhere else.
He'll move like he has nowhere else to be and nothing else to do, and his eyes will be on yours the entire time; on these nights his hands are different too, more reverent, less hungry. One cradling the back of your head, the other splayed flat on your back, holding you against him, and he kisses you between every other thrust he does, constantly, like he can't stop coming back to your mouth.
The rhythm itself is different, deep and unhurried, like he's trying to make it last, and you'll feel (for once) that you have his whole attention, not the part of him that's always halfway watching the door.
These nights are still rare, still precious, still earned, but they exist now, they're in the repertoire, and that's a thing that did not exist in month one.
The kissing on those nights is different too, and over time it becomes the way you can tell what kind of night it is going to be.
Jason normally kisses like the kissing is a fight he intends to win. With teeth, with intent, a hand at the back of your skull holding you exactly where he wants you. Deep, hot and a little punishing.
But on these nights he kisses you like he's apologising for something, slow, full and quiet, mouth soft, tongue languid, slipping deep, his hand on your jaw instead of gripping your hair.
He'll come back to your mouth between everything else like a bookmark, like he's checking you're still there, and the first time he kisses you like that you'll feel a shift in your chest, and after enough of those nights you'll learn to read it from the first kiss of the evening: oh, it's that kind of night, and you'll know, and he'll know that you know. Neither of you will say a word about it.
He has a thing (and you'll notice it over time, a thing that gets more pronounced as he gets deeper into his feelings) about your hands.
Jason likes them in his hair (and his hair, you'll discover, is soft, a fact that always weirdly disarms you given the rest of him, and he has a small tell that he likes having it pulled, just slightly, just at the back, and the first time you do it without thinking you get a sound out of him that he has clearly not meant to make).
On the back of his neck where the muscle is always tight, on his face if you've earned it, and he'll bring your hand to his mouth at strange unguarded moments and press his lips to your knuckles like a reflex, and he'll absolutely not acknowledge that he does this.
If you tease him about it he'll get pink at the back of his neck and tell you to shut up.
He also has a thing about your throat. Not in a violent way, in a possessive way. The flat of his hand resting there, his thumb at your pulse, like he's checking you're right there where he needs you, real and solid,a nd his. And he has, devastatingly, a thing about being held.
Actually held, after, with your arms around his ribs and your face in the curve of his throat, and he'll never, ever ask for this, but if you do it he'll not move for a long time.
And as Jason gets deeper into it, the things he wants change: in the early days he wanted you under him, fast, now; later he starts wanting things he doesn't have a way to ask for. Wanting you to stay over even when nothing is going to happen, wanting to be the little spoon (which he can't request and you have to figure out by trial and error, because one night you'll do it almost as a joke, fitting yourself behind him, and he will go extremely still in a way that you'll learn means yes don't make me say it, and then he will reach back and pull your arm tighter around his ribs without a word).
Wanting your hands on him in non-sexual ways during sex (your fingers in his hair, your palm flat on his chest over his heart, the small of his back, the back of his neck, you lips at his jaw, the corner of his mouth), wanting foreplay that's genuinely about touching him, not just escalation.
Wanting, in short, all the things he couldn't bear to want in month one, because back then wanting them meant admitting that he needed them.
In the early days the sex is frequent because the itch is mutual and unscratchable. He wants you, you want him, the chemistry is loud, and the hunger is mostly physical, mostly now, mostly the kind of want that has a clear destination and a satisfied stillness on the other side of it.
He texts you at midnight because he can't stop thinking about your mouth, you go over because you can't stop thinking about his hands, you fuck because the tension is unbearable and the release is the point. Afterwards he leaves or you doze and the want, briefly, quiets. That's month one. That's month two. The math of it is simple: stimulus, response, relief, reset.
But somewhere around the four or five month mark (somewhere after the hinge night, somewhere after the windows started opening) the math stops working.
He'll have you, fuck you properly, completely, and an hour later he'll still want you, more than he wanted you before, in a way that doesn't make sense by the old rules. He'll be lying with his head on your stomach, fully spent, your hand in his hair, and you'll feel him press his mouth against your skin like he's checking, like he's making sure you're still there, and then he'll roll up onto an elbow and look at you and you'll see it in his face.
Not finished, not in a sex way, in some other way, a way he doesn't have language for. And he'll kiss you again, slow this time, and you'll realise the wanting hasn't gone anywhere, it's just changed shape.
What it becomes (and this is the part he couldn't have explained to you on the night you met him, the part he can barely admit to himself even now) is anchoring.
Sex with you stops being an itch he scratches and starts being a place he goes to feel alive. Jason came back from being dead, and most of his life since has been spent at a slight remove from his own body, vigilant, watchful, half a step outside himself in case he needs to move; with you, in your bed, his face pressed against yours, your hands on his back, your breath on his throat, he is (for the duration) in his body, in the moment, here, and he can feel his heart going, and he can feel yours, and the proof that he's still alive is so loud it drowns out everything else.
That quiet, that presence, is something he can't get anywhere else and has stopped trying to find anywhere else.
So the appetite changes shape. He still wants you fast and rough (that mode never goes away, that's just in him) but a lot of the wanting becomes about closeness, about contact. Feeling you pressed against him in real time.
He wants long unhurried hours where neither of you has anywhere to be. He wants the lights on so he can see you. You on top of him with his hands on your hips so he can feel you moving, breathing, being there. He wants to fall asleep with his face against the back of your neck because the rhythm of your breathing is the only lullaby that ever worked. He wants (and this is the one that costs him the most to want) to be held while it's happening.
Your arms around his ribs, your mouth at his temple, your whole body wrapped around him while he moves inside you, and he will never ask for this, but if you do it, if you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him down against you and hold him tight, his whole frame will settle in a way you've never felt from him before, and the sound he makes will be something between a groan and an exhale and a quiet, broken fuck, and you will know.
You'll catch him, sometimes, in the middle of it (eyes closed, forehead against yours, his rhythm slowed almost to nothing, just staying there inside you, breathing, his hand splayed flat on your sternum over your heart) and he'll not be moving toward an end. He'll not be building toward anything. Just be with you, in his body, breathing in time with you, and you will understand that he isn't trying to come, he's trying to stay, he's trying to make the present moment last because in the present moment he is alive and you're alive and the both of you are warm, breathing and the world has not ended yet.
And the tell (the one that gives him away, the one you'll learn to read) is what Jason says at the end. In the early days, after, when he could still pretend, he'd give you the smirk and the joke: "yeah, that'll do, sweetheart," a kiss to your forehead, a stretch, a deflection.
Later, after the wanting changes, he stops saying anything at all for a long minute, and then what comes out (quiet, half-mumbled, into your hair, like he's not sure he means to let you hear it) is some version of "don't move, just—don't move yet," or "stay there, stay right there," or simply "god, I needed that," and he's not talking about the sex, not really, he's talking about you, about the warmth of you, about the proof of you, about the fact that he's here and you're here and for one more night he gets to stay.
He also gets quieter over time in general, which you will find a little shocking. Jason is mouthy, Jason is a shit-talker, Jason will happily narrate the apocalypse if he could.
But as he gets deeper into his feelings there are stretches in bed when he just goes silent, and the silence isn't absence, it's the opposite. It's him being so present he can't quite manage the words.
The first time it happens you'll wonder if something is wrong, and it's not, it's the most right something has ever been. You'll feel his breath ragged against your shoulder, his hand fisted in the sheet next to your head instead of running its mouth, his rhythm slowed almost to nothing.
The first time he comes quietly (without the muttered curse, without the bitten-off line of dirty talk, just a long shuddering exhale against your throat and your name, once, not loud) you'll know that something has migrated in him, that this is the version of him that didn't exist three months ago, and you will stroke the back of his neck and not say a word about it.
The vulnerable conversations happen at 3 a.m., in the dark, when neither of you is looking at the other, because he can't do them face to face. He needs the cover. He'll tell you things in bed, after sex, in the warm aftermath when his guard is down. About Ethiopia, about Sheila, about waking up in the dirt, about the year he can't really remember.
He'll tell it flatly, quietly, and wait for you to react, and don't react big: don't gasp, don't well up, don't reach for him too fast, he's testing whether you can hold it without dropping it. The way to win is to listen, to ask a quiet question, to not try to fix anything, to let him say the thing and then let it just exist in the air without you needing to clean it up or soften it.
If you do that, he'll tell you more, slowly, over months and months. The story of him will arrive in fragments and you will assemble it like a mosaic, and he'll never once say "thank you for listening", but the way he kisses your forehead before he leaves will mean it. You'll eventually realise that the sum total of what he's told you is more than he's ever told another living person, and you'll understand that this is what he has instead of words for love.
He will also, occasionally, ask about you (quietly, in roundabout ways, in the dark) and the rule there is the inverse: he wants the real answer, not the cleaned-up one, because he can smell a lie at fifty paces and the fastest way to lose his trust is to give him the version of yourself you give to people you don't know yet.
Jason doesn't want to be one of those people, even though he hasn't earned the right to ask not to be, and what he's doing when he asks you a question at 3 a.m. is asking let me in to the room I haven't earned yet, and the answer is supposed to be yes, but the yes has to come in the same coin he's paying in: quiet, unfussy, no big deal, while neither of you is looking at the other.
He doesn't say he loves you for a long time.
The first time will be by accident, muttered into your hair when he thinks you're asleep, and you have to pretend you didn't hear it because if he knows you heard it he'll panic and undo it.
The second time will be in a fight, yelling, angry: "Because I fucking love you, you idiot, that's why!" and then a horrible silence, then him walking out, then him coming back four hours later with takeout and not bringing it up.
By the time he can say it sober, calmly, looking at you, it will have been a year, maybe more. When he does it will undo you, because he will say it like it's been on his tongue the whole time and he's just finally letting it through, and his voice will be a little rough, and he'll not break eye contact, and the way he says your name after will be the kindest sound he has ever made.
And the first time he says it in bed (which is later, much later, because for him these are different rooms) the first time he says it mid-fuck, breathed against your throat, ragged and ungoverned, I love you, fuck, I love you, you'll know that the wall has come down all the way.
That this is the version of him no one has ever gotten to see, and what you do in the next thirty seconds will become the foundation of the rest of your life with him, and what you do is: you don't make it weird, you don't make him repeat it, you don't perform astonishment, you just say it back, simple and sure, and you let him hear it, and you let him have it, and you let him know that the room he just opened a door into is one he is allowed to live in.
Aftercare, which he would rather die than call aftercare but which he does, every time: he gets you water (always water, the man is on a mission), he cleans you up (his hands are surprisingly gentle for someone who breaks ribs for a living, there's a particular thing he does where he runs a warm cloth over your stomach, your thighs, with the same focused patience he uses for cleaning a wound, and you'll never quite get used to how careful his hands can be when he wants them to be).
He'll check casually like it's nothing whether anything hurts, and if it does he'll be quiet about it but he'll be careful with you for the rest of the night; he'll get you food if it's that kind of hour, he'll let you wear his shirt.
He likes you in his shirt, and he doesn't have the language for why, but there's a softness in his face the first time he sees you in one of his too-big henleys that you will think about for years, and if you fall asleep on him Jason will not move. He'll lie there dead-still for hours even if his arm goes numb, because he doesn't want to wake you, and this is the most romantic thing he's capable of and he does it constantly.
The aftercare also evolves: in the early days it was efficient, almost practical (water, check-in, joke, distance), and over time it becomes longer, more lingering.
He stays in the bed instead of getting up, he traces shapes on your back with one finger while you doze, he'll talk to you about nothing, real nothing, the stupid shit. What he ate that day, something a kid said in a bodega, the dog he wants you both to maybe think about getting (a sentence which makes him visibly regret saying it the second it's out of his mouth), and these post-sex small-talk hours become, by month eight or nine, one of the most important parts of your relationship.
Because this is when he's most himself, the least armoured, and also the funniest, and you'll find yourself looking forward to them in a way that has nothing to do with the sex and everything to do with the man underneath the noise.
On the nights when he needs aftercare (and there are nights) he won't ask, but you'll be able to tell: he'll be quieter than usual, his hands will linger longer than usual, he won't joke as fast as he normally does, and the way to handle it is the same way you handle his trauma stories: don't make it a thing, don't ask if he's okay (he'll lie), just stay close, bring him water, run your fingers through his hair while he's lying with his head on your stomach pretending to be asleep.
When he eventually says something (usually a half-sentence, half-mumbled, bad day, or just don't go yet) you say okay and you don't go, and that's how he learns, slowly, that there's somewhere on this earth where he's allowed to need things, and that the somewhere is you.
Jason doesn't sleep well. This is the single most important thing to know about being in his bed.
He doesn't fall asleep easily, and when he does he doesn't stay under, he's a light sleeper because if he wasn't he'd be dead again. He has nightmares all the time (about the warehouse, about the crowbar, about his mother, about the Pit, about Bruce's face, always the face), he wakes up with his hand already moving toward where his gun isn't.
Early on this means he doesn't sleep over: he'll fuck you and leave, or he'll wait until you're under and slip out the window, and he'll feed you a line about "shit to do" and you both know it isn't true.
When he finally starts staying (and it'll take time, and you'll want to mark the date) there are rules nobody told you about that you'll learn by trial and error: he sleeps on the side closest to the door, always, don't argue.
He keeps something within reach (a knife under the mattress, a gun in the drawer), he won't apologise, you'll get used to it or you won't.
Don't wake him by touching him. Say his name first, say it twice, thrice. He has exactly once grabbed your wrist hard enough to bruise it because you reached for him at the wrong moment, and the look on his face when he registered what he'd done was the closest you've ever seen him come to regret. He didn't sleep over again for two weeks after that, and the thing that finally fixed it was you showing up at his apartment with your wrist healed and saying nothing about it, just climbing into his bed like nothing had happened, because he needed to learn that you weren't going to keep score, and you needed him to learn it on his own.
He runs hot (stupid hot) he's a furnace and he steals all the blankets and he doesn't care, and if he stays the whole night you'll wake up tangled around him.
Because he's a clinger when he's actually under, he'd just rather die than admit this, and you can feel his face against the back of your neck and his arm heavy across your waist and his breathing slow and steady, and it's the only time you ever see him truly soft, and it's gone by the time he wakes up.
The morning after the first time he stays the whole night, he'll be weird about it. Quiet, gruff, making coffee with his back to you. You'll think you did something wrong, but you didn't; he's just rattled, because he slept, actually slept, and he didn't wake up swinging, and somewhere in the part of his brain that doesn't talk to the rest of him there's now knowledge that says safe here, and he doesn't know what to do with that, so he is, as always, an asshole about it for a few hours until he settles.
The big picture, the actual truth of dating Jason Todd is this: he will never be easy.
He'll never be the boyfriend who texts back in under ten minutes, who shows up on time, who tells you he loves you in the morning over coffee. He's been broken and reassembled and broken again, and the seams show. He's dangerous and grey in a way that means sometimes you'll not love what he does. He kills people (he has rules about it, but he does), he keeps things from you, he disappears, he's occasionally an asshole.
But he's also the man who, when you're sick, will sit on the edge of your bed for six hours and not check his phone once. He's the man who memorises your coffee order the first time and never gets it wrong.
He's the man who, when you tell him about a thing that happened to you when you were younger (a thing you've never told anyone, a thing that still wakes you up sometimes) will sit with you in the dark and not say anything at all. Because he understands that some things can't be fixed and he won't insult you by pretending they can.
He'll just stay, all night, without moving, and he is, against everything that was done to him, a person who chose to love you, knowing what love costs, knowing what it does when it goes wrong, knowing how it ends sometimes in a warehouse in Ethiopia with a crowbar and no one coming, and he chose anyway, and he keeps choosing, and that is not nothing—that is, for Jason Peter Todd, everything.
He is the worst and you will love him forever, godspeed.
Synopsis — you have recently relocated to the GDA headquarters, and subsequently, right into Invincible's arms. Will you be able to navigate love, sex and all the rest with a superhero, or will it prove all too much for your human heart?
Warnings/tags— 18+, smut, angstttt, i kinda dogged on cecil this whole fic but he's the man fr, masturbation, p in v sex (use protection!!)
Word count—3k words
Nomi's note— this was supposed to be a pervy coworker! mark x reader but then it spiralled into this beautiful mess. i hope you enjoy, and if you want to be added to my taglist, comment below!
Fucking Cecil wouldn’t leave him alone.
This was the third time this week he’d called Mark in to discuss “erratic behaviour.”
So what if Mark beat that man half to death?! He deserved it!
Not to mention that Mark had been working for this man for nearly 8 years without payment! He saved lives for a living, and this is what he got in return?!
It was getting redundant. Mark was no longer the naive little boy that needed coaching. He was 25, tired, and just trying to get through the day without some old man bitching in his ear.
He huffs, close to flying out of the room (door, not ceiling), when he hears heels clicking up to the door. He’s about to warn Cecil of the intruder when the man looks at him and waves him off.
“Come in.” Cecil says.
The doorknob twists and you walk in. You were in business wear, a pencil skirt, fitted blazer, the whole getup, and Mark can’t help but gulp. He didn't give two shits what Cecil or anyone else in the GDA wore, but he suddenly felt extremely underdressed in his skin tight suit in front of you.
You look at him and smile, then turn to Cecil, handing him some files and running him through the information. Mark tries to listen, really he does, but all he can hear is your heart beating in your chest.
The bum-dum, bum-dum, slowly ticking in his head like you’d set a bomb off and were waiting for it to explode.
Of course, you had no idea of your effect on the man. It was your first day working at the head office of the GDA, having been a supervisor at another division for a couple of years.
Cecil himself had requested your presence following some rebel attacks near headquarters. You had accepted, naturally, because you were smart and were making moves to the top, and knew if there was any way in, this would be it.
He’d requested a thorough report on the perpetrators and then told you to meet him so he could ask you a favour.
You hadn't expected that there would be company.
And you certainly hadn't expected what he would be asking of you.
When you are done briefing him, he nods, then turns to face the man that has been standing there for some time. He’s got his signature blue and yellow suit on, and even with the mask, you know exactly who he is.
“Invincible,” You address him. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Mark's mouth dries at the sound of your voice. Smooth like honey, not a single tremble, nor a hint of uncertainty. It sticks to him, and like a fly, he's trapped.
You step forward and reach your hand out for him to shake. He stumbles for a second, then takes your soft hand in his, shaking it firmly, though it looks like he didn’t mean to.
“This is who you’ll be working with,” Cecil says, and you nod at him, and then look down at where Mark was still fixedly holding your hand.
“O-oh!,” he chuckles, letting it go, hand reaching behind his neck to scratch it bashfully. You shake your head, your warm smile never once fading. What a beautiful shade of red on your lips...
Mark shakes himself back to reality, turning to Cecil accusingly.
“Work with?! What the fuck, Cecil, I don’t need a babysitter!” The sudden change in his demeanour is shocking, but you’ve seen more surprising things. You try not to be offended since you knew what it was like to work under someone like Cecil. Ironfisted and unyielding.
Though not everyone could speak to their boss like that…
"That's all, Mark." Cecil says dismissively.
You feel him leave before you see it, with your hair ruffled, a sharp gust of wind hitting your face and in the blink of an eye, the man in the blue and yellow suit is gone.
Cecil sighs, and with a half-assed encouraging nod in your direction, teleports himself out of the room.
You’re left alone, smoothing out your hair as you try to make out what new path you were headed down.
・・・・・
Working with Mark consisted mostly of surveillance. Making sure he doesn't kill anyone, no matter how deserving he might deem them. His suit had a tracker attached to it, and the GDA's technology allowed you to have eyes on him practically everywhere.
Needless to say, it was not a particularly challenging nor stimulating job, but if it was what was required of you to gain Cecil's favour, then it was what you'd do.
It had been a couple of weeks, and you had seen Mark in person probably a handful of times since your first meeting. Still, in that time, you had noted a few things about him.
Firstly, he was half-alien. You knew that, of course. That he had Viltrumite blood coursing through his veins. But it had never really been something you fully grasped until you were in his close proximity. His strength was unlike any of the other hero's you had worked with. He seemed almost unaware of it.
Also, he was fast. Physically, certainly, but also quick to make a decision. To jump to conclusions. To come storming into the GDA because things didn't go quite to plan in the field.
He was swiftest in his guilt.
Lastly, his poker face was terrible. Mark Grayson couldn't keep a secret to save his life. He was all furrowed brows and rolled eyes, but you could tell he liked you. Maybe it was the dusty pink that would sweep over his face whenever he looked you in the eye.
Or the way he would trip over himself to help you with the smallest thing. Like when you dropped your pen in front of him. He surged forward, ready to deliver it to you, but you shook your head.
He was also very obedient. Perhaps only to you. He had no issue defying the GDA's orders, but the second you told Mark to do something, it got done.
So when you bent down in front of him to retrieve the pen yourself, it was no surprise to see the chub at the front of his suit rise as he tried, and failed, to conceal it.
You try to hide your smirk as you tuck that information away too.
・・・・・
Mark was complaining again. You roll your eyes but listen to him drone on and on about the villain and massive asshole he had to fight today.
"... made me crash into three buildings! three!" he continues, pacing back and forth in front of you.
"He sounds like a real fucker," you say, trying to comfort him.
"Thanks, he was!" He huffs.
"You should go rest," you suggest, seeing the dark circles around his eyes. There was a slump in his shoulders too, and a drag in his stride.
“We’ll call you if we need you.” He nods, and you decide to turn and occupy yourself with your daily report while he sees himself out. But nothing with Mark was ever simple.
Hearing footsteps approach, you decide to keep shuffling your papers, pretending to be busy. Maybe you were afraid of what you might do if you faced him. Maybe you wanted to help him relieve his stress.
Maybe you could put him to sleep.
Ignoring your thoughts, you continue mindlessly shuffling the papers in front of you. Gosh, you'd have to organise them all over again when he left.
He’s close enough now that his body heat was radiating to you. God, he ran hot. It was 41 degrees Fahrenheit outside, and he was emanating heat like a furnace.
Maybe that was just another component of his Alien physiology. You tuck it in, at the back of your mind, with all the rest of the facts that you've been cataloging about Mark Grayson.
"M'not tired," he drawls. "Can think of better things I'd rather do with my time."
“Careful, Mr Grayson,” You lilt, turning your head back to look at him.
“Mark.” He corrects, eyes unfocused as he stared at your lips.
“Mark,” you amend, licking your lip. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”
You brush past him, and with that, he’s left watching the swish swish swishing of your hips as you leave the room.
Shit, he thinks. He wishes he could bite those lips for you.
・・・・・
Mark had tried, he really had, but it was impossible to scrub the image of your backside as you left the room. He was the strongest person in the country, maybe the world, but he never felt weaker than he had the few seconds your body brushed past his.
He thought of you everywhere. When he kicked some amateur villain to the ground. When he took some criminals into custody. In the sky, space, his house.
He thought of you late at night, when the weight of the day settled into his bones and the idea of you there with him, in his bed, made him feel lighter.
He especially thought of you when he grabbed his half-stiff cock.
You were driving him mad. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this crazy over anything.
All-consuming. That was the only way to describe you. Like ivy, you had spread your branches all over his heart.
・・・・・
Mark looked wrecked.
There had been some misinformation that led to a lot of people getting hurt. The GDA couldn’t have known, and neither could he.
“It’s not your fault–” you start.
“Yes, yes it is.” His voice cracks, and your heart breaks for him.
"Mark," you say softly. "You can't carry the weight of the world on your own."
And he was angry. Livid, truly. He used to be so hopeful, so optimistic. Even after his father had betrayed humanity and he had to prove himself to the world all over again.
Maybe time was really all it took. The day by day chipping away of his sanguine outlook on life. A little bit of him died every time he was too late, too slow, too him.
He only ever felt like he was disappointing everyone.
You’ve only known Mark for a few months, but you think you have a better understanding of him than most.
So when he tucks his neck into the crook of yours, you let him.
When he wraps his arms around your waist, you let him.
But when he moves his head back to look at your lipa from between his lashes, and when his kips brush yours, you turn your head.
“You aren’t in the right headspace.” You say.
He nods but keeps his arms tight around you.
And of course, you let him do that too.
. . . . . .
“Him and a few other heroes… medal awarding ceremony…” Cecil drones on.
"Sir..." you trail off. "Is that a good idea right now?"
It had only been a couple days since the incident at the city square, and Mark still looked like he was spiralling. He’d show up at your place at odd hours of the night, eyes rimmed red and voice all hoarse like he’d cried it away.
He needed time.
"The people need a win." Cecil states with a tone of finality. "Get Mark to that stage. That’s an order.”
A virtually improbable objective.
But you were nothing if not a defier of the odds.
It took some convincing, some batting of your lashes, and even some ‘innocent’ touches on his arms to get him to agree.
However, here you were now, 10 minutes to the ceremony, and Mark was nowhere to be seen.
Just as you were about to give up, you feel a blast of air as he zooms into the room.
You smooth your hair out, then take him in. You had to give him credit, because he sure could clean up well when he wanted to.
"Mark Grayson!" You exclaim, gasping sarcastically. "Are you wearing a suit?"
Objective achieved.
He smiles sheepishly, then says, grumbling mostly to himself; "I always wear a suit."
You laugh. "But they're not usually this dashing."
He chuckles, then walks up to you. You keep your eyes on your phone, keeping up with the updates being sent by the crew.
When you look up, he’s still looking at you up and down, and you feel your stomach twist.
You turn around, trying your best to hide your smile. “I’m not like you,” you start. “I don’t get to take liberties with my workplace.”
“What does that mean?” He laughs softly.
“It just means I have rules.” You say teasingly, walking over to the stage curtain.
“Mm. And what rules would those be?” He follows you to the curtain, crowding you against it.
“Well, first, don’t do anything stupid.” You turn around, hands coming up to smooth his tie. He inches closer.
“Not to mix work and pleasure.” His fingers graze yours.
“And chiefly, not to fuck my coworkers.” He nods, holding your hands now, but you can see the black in his eyes engulfing the brown. The heave in his breath. His slow blinking as he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear.
You duck under his arm, smiling at the woozy look on his face.
“You’re on now.” You state, pushing him through the curtain and onto the stage.
Cheers and screams of “Invincible, invincibile, invincible!” erupt.
And the heat inside you grows just a little bit more.
・・・・・
You stood in front of a very agitated Cecil. Mark had done something wrong, but that was not surprising.
"Where's Mark?" He asks.
"He's at home right now, Sir." You respond.
"Well then go to his fucking house if you have to," Cecil raises his voice. "Mark has got to stay in line!" You nod, then march your way out of his office.
You were going to kill Mark Grayson.
"Mr Grayson?" You ask, hesitant. You have met Mark at many places, but never his house. The door had been open, probably because no one could be a threat to Mark, so you had twisted the doorknob and let yourself in.
"What'd I say about calling me that?" You hear his playful voice from behind you.
You turn, whipping your head around to face him.
He blinks at the sting of your hair on his face, having bent down to reach your height while he scrunches his nose to look at you.
"Mark."
"Cecil told me to come and tell you to stop meddling with NYC affairs. It's not your jurisdiction." You cross your arms around your chest, staring at him sternly. Him acting out of turn only made it seem like you couldn't do your job.
"Mmm..." He hums low. He grabs your waist, redirecting you until your back is to the counter, listening as you go on and on about what he had done wrong.
His hands feel large on your waist, and the blush on his face isn't from shyness, like it usually is, but from something...more primal.
He begins trailing his hands up, up, up until they're on the sides of your breasts. Your chest begins rising and falling, and you see his eyes following the movement.
"Everywhere is my jurisdiction," he states, claiming your lips with his own. His lips are soft and warm, just like the rest of him, and suddenly all your complaints feel trivial.
He spins you around, pushing you against the counter and you feel his hands pushing your skirt up.
It’s quiet for a second, and you are about to protest when he rips your tights, guiding his cock to your core and coating your panties with his pre-cum.
You’d fight him about them later, but right now you were too busy moaning at the feeling of his cockhead catching against your clit with every thrust.
Despite having intimate knowledge of his powers, you’re still surprised by how quick he flies you both to his bedroom.
You pause on the bed, and he watches you, searching for any signs of hesitance.
"It's... been a while." You admit. Focused on the career ladder, you haven't given much thought to relationships, other than the casual fling now and then. Even those were few and far between.
"That's fine," he whispers. "Me too."
Mark had never been as glad for his super hearing as he was when he could hear the smallest sounds you let out. God, you even breathed pretty.
You look at him from beneath your lashes when he settles in between your parted legs, and his warmth makes you shiver.
Mark didn’t fuck like he fought. He was gentle, watching your face when he nudged himself in. He was so attentive. The strongest man on earth, reduced to putty under your touch.
You feel yourself get wetter at the thought.
He was so vocal, too. Endless streams of–
"Been wanting to do this for so long..."
"Need to feel you..."
"Fuck, you're beautiful..."
You clench around him with each groan he lets into your ear. With each sweet whisper that falls from his lips.
And when you fall off the edge, moaning his name into his mouth, you know that he had you, and you had him.
Content: contrary to popular belief, the fire lord can't have everything he wants. however, even he’d admit that what he wanted was troublesome in itself, which is why he forces himself to be okay with having you by his side as his advisor. [tw: MDNI, angst/fluff/smut, apothecary diaries coded, so much yearning and longing, slowburn, porn with plot, there is no power imbalance he’s afraid of your father, zuko’s a little shit, jealous!zuko, we’re already married in his head, found family trope(ish), zuko has daddy issues] wc: 4.7k
m.list | chapter two | chapter three | next chapter
With a gate of its own that requires special permission to enter, the western part of the palace grounds is considered to be one of the most guarded locations in the world. It’s where you can find the Fire Lord’s most precious treasures, his concubines.
It’s also where you can find the orphanage he had built a few years ago— a decision he needed no advising on, as it was an idea of his own. There was no better place for a child.
Zuko doesn’t expect everyone to agree with every action he makes. In fact, he encourages everyone to think for themselves. By all means, ask questions, disagree with him, show him a different perspective— allow him to serve his people.
He is a fair man.
However, the number of individuals that were against building the orphanage made him question just who exactly was he serving, because at that moment, he was surrounded by a bunch of fucking monsters.
Apparently, placing children that were of low birth in the western court would’ve sent a ‘bad message’. In other words, it’d bring their value down to that of an abandoned child.
Do you know how morally bankrupt you’d have to be to think that? The entire purpose of closing off the area was to keep women and children safe, it shouldn’t matter if they’re biologically his or not. Even the strategist saw no validity in their concerns, and he’s known for rejecting proposals, for no reason other than finding joy in others' struggles.
Needless to say, he continued with his plans.
The circumstances of one’s birth and status becomes irrelevant once they become a child of the palace. Zuko made sure of that by making an actual title out of it, all while hoping it’d be enough to appease a few nobles.
He may have also let Aang take part and have a little fun with the drafting process. It looks ridiculous on paper— the document starts off by declaring them as the cutest members of the court— the failure to recognize them as such will result in the immediate loss of one's honor.
Jokes aside, the document is as valid as it gets and it has been advised that it be treated as such. It’s one of the very few documents that mentions the death penalty— testing the legitimacy of it is not a game you want to play with him.
The orphanage takes up a fair amount of space. The home itself is double the size of a high ranked concubine’s, with a decent sized vegetable garden obstructing the view of it. If some of the concubines are anything like their families, the last thing they need is the constant reminder that their chambers could be bigger. They are more than welcome to visit the children, though— many of them actually do, along with the servant girls.
And you, surprisingly.
Aside from all the planning, you never mentioned anything about the orphanage, let alone show interest in the matter. He just assumed you weren’t the maternal type, only to catch you there six months after the palace started taking in children. He then assumed you were just there to make sure everything was running smoothly.
Wrong.
He looked closer and the sight had him reconsidering just how much he knew you because you were clearly there to give a chubby, mindless baby a tour of the garden. You gave them a tomato to gnaw on while you pointed out all the different vegetables being grown, too.
The conversation he had with you shortly after sounded more like an interrogation.
“What are you doing here?”
You looked at the child, then back at the lord who just awkwardly stood there like a child lost at the market, before stating the obvious. “Visiting.”
“Yeah, but… why?”
Your brows raised, “Am I not allowed to?”
“I mean— yeah. Of course you are, but—” he paused and gestured at the child, “why did you give the baby a tomato?”
“Because she wanted it,” you said, voice calm despite growing visibly frustrated with the questions. He gave you a puzzled look, because babies can’t fucking talk, and you further elaborated. “She was reaching for it and I let her have it.”
He almost asked if you were worried about the child choking, but you obviously weren’t since they couldn’t even break the skin of it. You seemed quite confident in your ability to keep the little human alive, which also took him by surprise. “Wait— so you come here a lot?”
You let out a sigh. “Yes.”
The questions stopped there. He didn’t want to offend you or discourage you from making future visits.
Zuko still doesn’t know your visiting schedule, you never tell him when you go even after he’s expressed wanting to visit with you. He thought today would be his lucky day since your visits have been longer due to Mira being there, but the gods never seem to grant his wishes no matter how simple they are.
The next time he would see you is at the training site, speaking with your father. He was somehow able to give you and the soldiers his full attention, because he stopped talking to you for a split second to bark at one of them to fix their posture.
He took that as his sign to leave. The strategist apparently had eyes on every side of his head and for all he knew, he’d be the next one to catch some odd form of that man’s wrath.
. . . . . .
It’s easy to forget just how big the palace is, but unfortunately for your fathers assistants, they are reminded of that fact whenever he summons you. The task is time consuming, your location changes depending on what you’re working on, and a lot of the time, you are working on multiple things at once. What’s worse is half the time you’re too busy to go see him, making their efforts all for nothing.
Today’s unlucky assistant checked every single location there was to think of before giving the west wing a try. He wasn’t a fan of the guards there, they’ve always treated him as if he were trying to break in and steal one of Lord Zuko’s concubines.
You would’ve declined to meet your father today had his assistant not been in such rough shape. Not only was he tired, but he was also afraid thanks to the guards.
“How was your trip to Republic City?”
The question made your face momentarily drop— that’s what he wanted to ask? He could’ve written you a letter!
“It was busy, but good, I guess. Found some volunteers for the Silk District project.” You don’t spare him the details. Ever. He’s the type to nitpick at them in hopes of catching a mistake that could be pinned on the Fire Lord.
He raises a brow. “You’re not too tired, are you?”
“No,” you assure him. “Not at all.”
He gives you a suspicious look before continuing. “Good— anyways, I’d like to send a few soldiers with you on your trip to the Silk District. I’ve received word that it’s only grown more violent since the incident with the brothel workers and I wouldn’t be surprised if those beasts tried to target you.”
It’s like he forgot that you tried to kill him once. He also called you a beast that day… and an evil little bitch.
You smile. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he barks out an insulting laugh. “The Fire Lord may be a ruler, but don’t expect him to play the role of a protector, too. That man has a duty to stay alive and needs to focus on saving himself. You will have soldiers there to keep an eye on you.”
You let out a laugh of your own, letting it die out into a silence that ends up getting dragged out past the point of comfort. “I understand your concerns. However, that is not necessary and I’m going to have to respectfully decline your offer.”
“It’s not an offer—”
“Father,” you’re calm as you cut him off with a simple warning.
“No, listen to me—”
“I will break them beyond belief.” You casually threaten him, making it sound as if it were an event you were looking forward to. It makes the strategist quickly drop it— he’d rather not see you go through with that promise. You take a deep breath, pleased at how easy that was to settle, and move on as if you didn’t just threaten his men. “I am fully capable of protecting myself and will be just fine without soldiers. So please, don’t worry about me.”
You don’t know what kind of nonsense that old man’s head is filled with. He knows you're strong enough to protect yourself, he also knows you would never count on anyone to save you, and yet he still does… that.
Sending people after you, demanding your presence, making you accept his help.
He was worse when you were a child, there was a point in time where his control reached even the simplest parts of your life. But that wasn’t the part that infuriated you, it was the part where he’d say you had everything.
You couldn’t even let your mind wander without being interrogated over what thoughts were in your head.
You spent your entire childhood yearning for the freedom of adulthood, only to have it ripped away while reading an acceptance letter from the most elite subdivision in the military. To be accepted into a program was considered to be the highest honor. Yet, it was just another reminder of all the choices that you never had— it wasn’t even you that applied.
Your memory of what happened afterwards is vague. You just remember showing your father what an elite soldier looked like and the experience was enough to send him into a full-blown crisis. It left him panicking over just what kind of punishment was awaiting him after death— he was certain he’d have to answer to someone for giving the world nothing but evil children.
Needless to say, he didn’t push you to go to that program. You were going to be the next head of the clan regardless, which shows you’d done enough.
The thought of you training for another few years was also deeply unsettling.
Your father has toned down since then, but there’s moments when he reverts back to the man that raised you. He still wants you to join the military, except this time around he wants you to work for him and be his replacement once he retires, just as he was for his father. He never takes no for an answer, either, and will continue to bring it up. You understand the role of an advisor doesn’t last forever, but that doesn’t mean your time as one is coming to an end soon.
The constant pursuit of control is an exhausting one. It’s become a sad sight over the years, one that makes it hard to stay angry with him.
It’d be nice to watch him take a break for once.
Unlike your fathers assistants, you don’t have to mindlessly search for the lord. There are currently no meetings, which means he’s either in his office or his personal courtyard.
Hopefully he’s in his office, you’re least likely to be met with an unwelcome surprise there.
The courtyard isn’t that bad— it’s what his courtyard leads to: his chambers. Aside from the times he’s requested your presence, it’s a place you’ve learned to heed with extreme caution.
It doesn’t get easier with time. The moment you’re met with an empty office, you’re already cursing to yourself and begging the gods that he’s clothed today. Seeing the lord naked once is already far too much and it’s already happened a handful of times throughout the years.
There is a reason why fights break out so often between concubines. It’s the same reason why Zuko laughed when that man assumed he had a small dick, and it has nothing to do with his personality.
Getting the image out of your head is a task on its own and has driven you nuts at times. It’s as stubborn as the lord himself, lingering around and refusing to fucking leave.
You soon find yourself at the entrance of his chambers, nervous as you are frustrated that he refuses to get a door. His reasoning for covering the entrance with curtains is because he enjoys the extra airflow. There’s apparently also no need for a door when he already has one at the entrance of his courtyard. Which is idiotic, in your opinion, he never hears when you knock.
You make your presence known by calling out to him. No answer. You pull the curtain aside ever so slightly and take a peek. No idiotic lord in sight.
You prepare for the worst. The first step is taken and you call out to him again, this time it’s more of a warning. Your footsteps echo throughout the dim space, and with each second that passes, you find yourself feeling more and more like an intruder.
This really is the worst job sometimes.
You call his name, again. Nothing. Your eyes land on the hallway leading to his bedroom and the doors wide open. If he were in there, he would’ve come out by now.
He’s not here.
The conclusion brings a sigh of relief as you move on with your thoughts. There’s one other place he could be and that’s the western court, which leaves you torn. If he’s with a concubine, then that means you can take the rest of the day off. It’s getting later in the afternoon though and you’d rather not end up with more work tomorrow just because you made that assumption.
You turn on your heel and begin to walk out, too lost in thought to pay much attention to what’s in front of you. It’s not until you’re just steps away from the entrance when you're startled by a figure blocking it.
Startled may be an understatement. You let out this quick, blood curdling scream that left your throat raw afterwards.
You’re dying inside from the embarrassment and Zuko thinks it’s fucking hilarious.
“What kind of an intruder gets frightened like that?”
Your heart’s still pounding against your chest from the initial fear, making it difficult to answer back, let alone argue. “I was just— I’ve been trying to look for you— god I fucking hate you— you been standing here this whole time and you couldn’t even say anything?”
"It’s not like I was hiding.” His grin widens. “I expected you to be a little more aware of your surroundings.”
“Yeah? Well not everyone’s used to living in a cave,” you say bitterly, finally looking back at him again. “Sorry I’m not used to the darkness.”
He dressed down in training pants and a tunic, but clothed nonetheless. He must’ve been getting some training in since his hair’s up, too.
“I thought you only trained in the mornings?”
He crosses his arms and leans against the entryway, then shrugs. “The afternoon’s nice sometimes when it's quiet. One of the servants told me you were looking for me on the way there— you alright?”
“I’m wonderful.” You weren’t sure what kind of an answer he was expecting— he asked as if that wasn’t your job to look for him. “Was there anything that needed to be finished before the day ended?”
He hums and thinks about it, then shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Are you sure?” you ask, giving him a skeptical look.
“Positive.”
“I don’t believe you.” There’s a tinge of defeat in your tone and the little smile he gives tells you he’s in that little mood to fuck with you. “Zuko, I’m serious— I don’t want to have more work for tomorrow.”
Oh, wow. You’re actually saying his name.
He lets out this warm, airy laugh, further making a mockery of your suffering. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“You didn’t have to!”
“No,” he laughter dies into a low hum. “You’re all done for the day. Promise.”
You just stare at him for a moment. It’s not that you don’t believe him, you do. He’s just a pest and you can’t believe he’s in charge of millions of people sometimes.
“You should come train with me— I think it might help with whatever you got bottled up right now,” he casually offers.
“You scared me senseless and then you made me go around in circles trying to get an answer,” you slowly spell it out for him, not realizing it only fills his chest with a sick sense of pride. “This is because of you.”
“And now you can get revenge” he gives the solution easily, making it sound like the opportunity of a lifetime. “You won’t have to hold back on me, either. It’s probably been a while since you got to spar with someone without worrying about killing them.”
A smile manages to break through as you prepare to shut him down, yet words come out surprisingly sincere. “It pains me to say this, but I’m not sparring with someone as important as you.”
“That’s the sweetest thing you ever said to me, you know that?” he manages to get a little remark in right before you start listing reasons why.
“Aside from Uncle Iroh, you’re pretty all alone. There is no one next in line, not even a child— that you could’ve had by now, by the way.”
“Yes, I could’ve had multiple,” he comments in amusement.
“You have multiple meetings a week and they’re all with important people, too. Their job is to notice what’s wrong, especially when it comes to you. Any concerns they have, whether it be a scratch or bruise, can be made into a problem.”
“So what you’re saying is you’re afraid to hurt me?” he asks, words dripping from his lips like warm honey.
You’d think he’d be offended or maybe even start to make fun of you for thinking that, and you’re getting neither. He’s more flattered than anything right now.
“I would love to.” you coldly break it to him, then go on to say a bunch of things that you hope he doesn’t make fun of you for. “But it’s you who puts on the Fire Lord’s crown everyday and people are safe now because of that— they get to live their lives in peace. Even if it were something light, I’m not going to spar with someone who has a title that actually means something. It’s not like I enjoy bending that much, anyway.”
Zuko finds himself completely still as he takes your words in— not tense, nor shocked, just processing them.
He thought you were kidding when you said he was too important.
It’s not like his title was something you overlooked. He’s never even had to wonder if you approved of having him as the nation’s ruler. You’ve worked with him for years— of course he had your approval, of course you thought he was competent. He just never expected you to hold him in such high regard as the Fire Lord.
Taking responsibility for his family’s crimes has been nothing short of rewarding, but with it comes a certain guilt whenever he sat on that throne— it makes him wonder if it was time to shed some of that weight.
“Thank you.” His words come out tender, eyes golden and filled with awe. He’d like to say more, but something tells him that your words haven’t caught up to you yet, and so he clears his throat and moves on. “So what’s this about never having liked bending?”
“I don’t know, I just don’t really like fighting. All the running and jumping around is tiring” You murmur, just the thought of it makes you look miserable. “I only went to training because I had to.”
“I’m sorry about that,” he hums, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t around for a good chunk of time, but he’s heard about how brutal that training was— all the fainting and bloody noses due to exhaustion. “Are you happy now, at least?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re family was set on turning you into a fucking killing machine,” he huffs out a laugh, still surprised that you hated fighting this entire time. “Are you happy with where you ended up instead?”
“Mmm— yeah.” You pause and Zuko waits for the complaint. “It’d be nice if you made my job easier though and just answered my questions with a simple yes or no.”
“You know I like messing with you,” he murmurs, poking the tip of your nose and earning himself a little glare. “Makes my day a lot more fun.”
“I am not your jester.” You try to say it with a straight face, only for you both to end up having to suppress a laugh, then remember what you came here for just shortly after. “I guess I should get going then since there’s no more work for today.”
“Yeah— easy day.” He wishes you wouldn’t go right now. “…Are you returning to the north wing?”
That’s where your chambers are, on the complete opposite side of the palace grounds.
“Mhm,” you nod, shifting your stance— you can’t actually leave, he’s blocking the door.
“Your chambers are up to standard, right?” He doesn’t move, he knows exactly what he’s doing. “I remember you complaining about them once.”
“That was two years ago,” you kindly remind him, his ability to remember such a small detail leaving you slightly concerned. You only complained about a creaky cabinet. “But, nope. I’m very cozy there.”
“Can I see?”
“No,” you say as politely as possible. “Any other questions?”
He gives a contemplative hum— the longer it goes on the more concerned you grow. It’s not like you can leave since he hasn’t moved, so you’re forced to stand and wait.
Now he’s tilting his head and studying your face.
“Do you plan on ever asking anything?”
“I was still thinking about it. But since you’re in a rush right now, sure.” The fabric of his shirt stretches over his biceps as he crosses his arms, eyes lazily trail down to your lips. “Let me kiss you again.”
You let out a long sigh as you start to murmur to yourself. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not,” his brows furrow with the defensive response. “Just one.”
“Why?”
“I find it unfair that we both share the same experience, yet be in two different states of being— I was drunk.” It’s a pathetic excuse, one he just came up with.
“That’s your fault.” You almost mentioned the fact that he basically jumped on you and you had no idea about, but decided against it out of fear that it’d create an entire argument. “Besides, I was tipsy, too.”
“I still think you should let me kiss you,” he persists.
“Of course you do.”
“Can I?”
“You are a pest,” you murmur to yourself once again. “Would you like me to escort you to one of your concubines?”
“No, thanks,” he curtly says, before thinking again. “C’mon, I gave you a baby—“
You cut him off, because he did not— Mira is a child of the palace. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Alright, fine, sorry.” He lazily holds his hands out in defense. “It’s really easy if you close your eyes, by the way.”
“You're full of shit.”
“I am a man that would like a simple kiss.”
You look at him, then the entrance he’s blocking, then back at him again.
Zuko notices and smiles. “One kiss and you shall be released.”
You were right, he was blocking the door on purpose. Bastard. It takes you a moment to even take his wishes into consideration. It probably won’t be awkward afterward since it’s happened before, but then that opens the door to him asking again.
You look at him and he’s never looked more smackable with how unapologetic he is about it all.
“You’ll let me go after?”
“Mhm.”
You take more time to respond, clearly struggling with the idea of allowing something like this to happen. A part of you wants to make a run for it, but you also don’t want to find out if he’d actually catch you.
“Alright, fine,” you quietly say, already growing nervous from the grin that pulls out of him.
“Don’t look so scared,” he hums as he starts walking closer.
His words pull a slight frown from you. “It’s hard not to when you say it like that.”
He stops right in front of you and gently lifts your chin to look at him. “Like what?”
“That.” There’s less of a bite in your tone, he’s more intimidating when he’s this close. “Don’t make this any harder for me.”
He rubs his thumb over your chin, giving you a sympathetic look. “I like it when you’re sweet like this.”
Just moments later, both of hands are cupping your jaw and he’s leaning forward.
His lips are soft.
They’re not crashing into you this time and you can’t help but think about how they’re pressed against you so gently. Even with the way he takes his dear time, everything feels so light, it’s easy to breathe.
Slowly, he pulls away and you’re met with heavy lidded eyes. His hands are still cupped around your jaw, you’re not sure if you want them to pull away just yet.
His thumbs rub over your cheeks. “Would you be mad about one more?”
You know you should pull away, the disappointment for not doing so comes out in your voice. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I know,” he murmurs, nose brushing against yours before pressing another kiss against your lips. “I’ll leave you alone after this.”
“I don’t believe you.”
His only response was another kiss. It starts off like the first, but becomes more familiar. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in and deepening it, until the faint sounds of your lips parting and moving with his could be heard.
By the time he pulls away, you’re both slightly out of breath, and you’re wondering if this is where the line should be drawn.
Zuko’s thinking the exact opposite. “Still think we shouldn’t be doing this?”
“We shouldn’t be doing this at all,” you let out a small laugh.
His hold on you is firm and when you fail to turn your face away, he looks at you in amusement. “Why are you laughing then?”
“Because I was supposed to leave after the first one.”
“Sorry about that.” He smiles and presses a kiss against your temple. “You’re allowed to admit that you’re liking this, by the way.”
“I’m not doing that,” you say, words stubborn and final.
And Zuko laughs because you wouldn’t have the privilege to come up with such an answer if you were in another scenario. You’d be admitting to all kinds of things if he could have his way with you.
He of course doesn’t say that, being the gentleman that he is. “You’re a very cruel woman, you know that?”
You press your finger into his chest. “And you are a very selfish man.”
Which probably wasn’t a very good idea, the poking and the name calling. It seems to have put an inappropriate thought in his head given the groan he had to suppress.
“I am a very selfish man,” he says in a dangerously low tone.
And then his lips are on yours because for years he’s been deprived of one of the most simple joys in life: touching a woman he likes.
So he touches you gently. He kisses you deeply. He has been fucking starving, but he savors you completely.
Until there’s metal crashing down on the floor, followed by a yelp that makes you push him away, hard. The servant’s apologizing profusely for dropping the platter that was carrying his tea and for intruding.
Then she scatters away, ashamed and embarrassed. She was under the impression that all of the Fire Lord’s intimate encounters took place in the chambers of his concubines. She was also under the impression that he only had intimate encounters with his concubines.
Which is correct. It’s also why you take off running after her. If the details of what she had just encountered began to spread, you are fucked.
notes: god i need him so fucking bad i just know he'd talk u through it wait im the writer HE DOES talk u through it
From the new invincible fic I've got cooking up. Lmk if you want to be tagged!
Maybe that was just another component of his Alien physiology. You tuck it in, at the back of your mind, with all the rest of the facts that you've been cataloging about Mark Grayson.
"M'not tired," he drawls. "Can think of better things I'd rather do with my time."
“Careful, Mr Grayson,” You lilt, turning your head back to look at him.
“Mark.” He corrects, staring at your lips.
“Mark,” you amend, biting your lip. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”
You brush past him, and with that, he’s left watching the swish swish swishing of your hips as you leave the room.
