Bee

Twenty Four

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ show me.

pairing – garrett graham x princess!reader summary – nerves bring the night to a pause, only for trust, curiosity and garrett’s complete lack of pressure to turn it into something even more intimate. warnings – 18+, explicit sexual content, mutual masturbation, nudity, dirty talk, praise kink, nipple piercing stimulation, consensual dominance, manhandling, masturbation discussion, orgasm, aftercare notes from me – as requested here!!! i am s o o o down bad for them 🙂‍↕️ word count – 5.6k

navigation – masterlist | princess!reader masterlist

The hockey house is too quiet for what they’re doing. There’s no Logan yelling at a video game, no Tucker opening and closing cupboards, no Dean wandering into Garrett’s room without knocking because he’s never accepted that doors are intended to prevent entry.

They’re all still at the Sigma house, where the party is probably entering the stage of the night involving broken furniture and someone insisting they can perform a backflip.

She should feel relieved. Instead, the absence of everyone else seems to have made the room smaller.

Garrett is sitting against the headboard with one leg stretched over the mattress and the other bent slightly beneath her, his hand warm against the back of her neck while he kisses her like the last thirty minutes have been leading to this rather than the two of them abruptly abandoning a frat party under separate, extremely unconvincing pretences.

She had told Claire she was tired. Garrett had told Dean he needed to check whether the back door was locked.

Now she’s kneeling beside Garrett on his bed, her bare knees sinking into the comforter, sneakers abandoned near his desk and the short skirt of her cream dress gathered dangerously high around her thighs.

The dress has tiny black polka dots and a halter neckline tied behind her neck in a soft bow. It had looked sweet in her dorm mirror, feminine enough to make her feel polished despite the fact that the back barely covered the top of her underwear.

Garrett had stared at it when he picked her up. He’s considerably less subtle now.

His mouth moves over hers slowly, his tongue catching against her own while his fingers slide through the hair at the nape of her neck. She has one hand twisted into his shirt and the other against the hard plane of his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath her palm with the same fast, uneven rhythm as hers.

It feels so fucking good. That’s part of the problem.

She’s kissed men before. She’s kissed a lot of men, actually, some of them long enough that she learned the precise point where their technique would stop improving and she could begin calculating how much sleep she would get if she left immediately afterward.

She knows how to have sex. She knows how to make the right noises, move at the right moments and smile afterward as if the whole thing has been mutually transformative rather than something she endured with polite enthusiasm. She knows how to fake an orgasm convincingly enough that nobody has ever requested additional evidence, then collect her clothes and move on with her life.

Garrett already knows the noises she makes when she actually comes. He knows the difference.

The thought sends another nervous flutter through her stomach, irritatingly delicate compared to the heat gathering lower down.

Garrett’s thumb strokes beneath her jaw. His lips catch her lower one and tug gently before releasing it, drawing a soft sound from her that he answers with a quiet hum. He shifts his weight and catches her around the waist.

She moves without resisting when he pulls her over his thighs, settling astride his lap while his back presses more firmly into the headboard. The position brings her directly over the hard shape beneath his jeans. Her breath catches.

Garrett’s hands disappear beneath her dress. His palms slide up the bare skin of her waist, broad and warm, gathering the soft fabric as they go until the skirt bunches around his wrists. He traces the curve above her hips, then tucks both thumbs beneath the thin elastic sides of her underwear.

He doesn’t pull them down. He only strokes there, small movements against the delicate skin at the front of her hips while he kisses the corner of her mouth.

Her stomach tightens beneath his hands. Garrett pauses. The kiss breaks slowly. His face remains close enough that his nose brushes hers, dark eyes moving over her expression while his thumbs go still inside the waistband.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she insists, although the words emerge too quickly and slightly breathless, which means they sound exactly like every other time she has said she’s fine while visibly not being fine.

Garrett draws one hand from beneath her dress and cups her chin. His thumb passes over her bottom lip, smoothing across skin already swollen from kissing. “Princess.”

She looks at his shoulder instead of his face. His black shirt is slightly wrinkled beneath her fingers, the collar pulled sideways from where she has been holding him. “I’m just a little nervous,” she admits.

Garrett nods once. There’s no laugh. No smug comment about her being the one who dragged him out of the party or climbed into his lap. His thumb moves over her lip again, gentler now. “Baby, we don’t have to have sex tonight.”

Her gaze lifts to his. “We don’t?”

His eyebrows pull together. “No.”

“But…” She glances toward his closed bedroom door, as though Logan, Dean and Tucker might materialise behind it if she references their absence too directly. “The house is empty.”

“That doesn’t mean we need to have sex.”

“Oh.”

Garrett studies her face. “Okay?”

She nods slowly. “Okay.”

His brow remains furrowed. He strokes the centre of her lower lip once more, watching the small drag of his thumb as if he’s trying to smooth the uncertainty out of her by hand. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

She huffs, but her chest loosens enough for a little more air to enter it. “I don’t know. I thought you’d be annoyed.”

“Why would I be mad?”

She shrugs, the movement small beneath his hand. “I dunno.”

Garrett’s expression changes in a way she cannot name without becoming uncomfortable. Something soft and unhappy crosses his face before his mouth curves, not quite into his usual grin but something close enough to make the room feel familiar again.

“I’m not mad,” he says. “I like having you half-naked in my bed whether or not there’s a scheduled activity.”

Her mouth twitches. “Scheduled activity?”

“Sex.”

She presses her lips together, trying not to smile. “I understood.”

“Good. Didn’t want to overwhelm you with the terminology.”

She rolls her eyes, properly this time.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

She leans forward and kisses him. Garrett makes a pleased sound and settles his hand back at her waist, allowing her to choose the pressure, the pace, the slow movement of her mouth against his. 

The butterflies don’t disappear, but they loosen, turning warmer and less frantic beneath her ribs. She kisses him again, then once more because his mouth is soft and hot and his lower lip fits perfectly between hers.

“I like kissing you,” she whispers.

Garrett’s eyes remain closed for half a second after she pulls back. “Yeah.”

She waits.

He opens one eye. “What?”

She huffs. “That’s all?”

“What do you want, a written review?”

She pinches his side.

He laughs, catching her wrist before she can do it again. “I like kissing you too, princess.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Perfect.”

“Glad we cleared that up.”

She presses her smile into his mouth. Knowing he’s not waiting for anything seems to have removed the imaginary timer ticking somewhere in the room. She can kiss him without wondering when the kissing is supposed to become something else. She can sit on him and feel his erection beneath her without believing it’s become her responsibility.

Which, naturally, makes her want to get naked. She keeps kissing him as she reaches behind her neck and catches one end of the halter tie. The bow slips loose beneath her fingers. Garrett notices when the front of the dress begins to soften against his chest.

His hand closes around her waist. She draws the ties forward and pulls the dress up. The cream fabric slides over her hips, catches briefly at her breasts, and then disappears between them in a soft, polka-dotted heap.

Garrett stares. She’s left sitting in his lap wearing only a tiny pair of cream underwear, her nipples already hard in the cool room, the silver bars glinting faintly beneath the light from his bedside lamp.

“Hi,” she says.

Garrett’s eyes drag upward with visible effort. “You’re evil.”

“You said you liked having me half-naked.”

“That was before you launched a targeted attack.”

She smiles, pleased, and reaches for the hem of his shirt. Garrett grips the fabric himself and drags the shirt over his head in one impatient movement. His hair catches in the collar and springs free in complete disarray. She laughs.

“What?”

“Your hair.”

“You’re naked,” he mumbles. “I don’t care about my hair.”

He tosses the t-shirt toward his desk without looking. It lands nowhere near it.

She places both hands against his bare chest. Garrett’s warm beneath her palms, skin smooth except for the faint roughness of hair beneath his navel and the small marks hockey has collected across his body without permission. A fading bruise sits over one rib. There’s a pale line near his shoulder she has seen a hundred times at pools and practices, although touching it now feels like learning it again.

Garrett’s hands return to her hips. She kisses him harder. The relief of having nowhere to get to makes everything more intense. His mouth opens beneath hers. His fingers spread over the bare curve of her ass, drawing her forward until the damp centre of her underwear rubs over the hard length trapped inside his jeans.

Her lips part on a moan. Garrett does it again.

She begins moving without waiting for him, rolling her hips into the pressure, arms winding around his shoulders as she grinds against him. The denim is rough through the thin fabric between her legs. Every slow drag catches against her clit and sends another bright pulse of pleasure through her.

Garrett groans into her mouth. “Fuck,” he breathes.

His head lowers to her chest. He catches one breast in his palm and closes his mouth around the piercing.

Her entire body jolts. “G.”

He hums around the metal, the vibration moving straight through her. His tongue traces the bar before he sucks carefully, one hand holding her hip steady while she continues grinding over him.

Her forehead drops against his curls. The room contracts around the wet pull of his mouth, the heat of his body beneath hers and the heavy friction building between her legs.

This is what she likes most about him. Not only that he knows what he’s doing, although he does, which remains both deeply satisfying and personally irritating. It’s the way he makes the constant noise inside her head go quiet.

Garrett puts his hand somewhere and her body stays there. He tells her to look at him and she does. He catches her jaw, her hips, her wrists, and suddenly she doesn’t have to manage the angle or the rhythm or what expression belongs on her face. She doesn’t have to orchestrate her own pleasure while guiding a man toward the conclusion that he caused it.

She can simply let him handle her. Garrett releases her nipple with a soft, wet sound and moves to the other. His thumb circles the one he has abandoned, keeping the metal slick beneath the pad while his tongue finds the second bar. She whimpers and tightens her thighs around his hips.

“That good?” he asks against her breast.

“Yes,” she gasps.

His teeth graze her nipple. The rest of the complaint dissolves. Garrett laughs softly and turns them.

One second she’s above him, fingers twisted into his curls, and the next her back meets the mattress. He follows her down, fitting himself between her thighs while his mouth travels over the centre of her chest.

She stares at the ceiling as he kisses beneath her breasts, along her ribs and over her stomach. His hands hold her hips in place, thumbs moving absently along the elastic of her underwear.

By the time his mouth reaches the skin below her navel, she’s breathing too quickly again. She pushes herself upright, and Garrett glances up.

His face between her thighs does something dangerous to the rhythm of her heart, but her hands have already reached for his jeans. She catches the button and begins working it open.

Garrett straightens immediately. One hand closes around her jaw, fingers firm beneath her cheeks, and he kisses her. Deep. Slow. Thorough enough that the button remains trapped uselessly beneath her thumb while his tongue slides against hers and the hand at her face keeps her exactly where he wants her. Her thoughts blur.

When he finally pulls back, her lips chase his before she can stop them. Garrett’s thumb presses gently at the corner of her mouth. “Thought you didn’t want to.”

“I…” She glances down at his open fly, then back at him. “I don’t know.”

He watches her. She hates how easily he can see the confusion inside her, the desire winding itself through relief and nerves until she cannot tell where one stops and another begins.

“I want you,” she says, because that part is true. “I just don’t know if I want to, like…”

“Have sex.”

She nods.

“Okay.”

Her brow furrows. “But I don’t want to stop.”

“I didn’t say we had to stop.”

She blinks at him. Garrett’s head tilts slightly. His gaze shifts over her face, then down the length of her body, lingering where her thighs remain open around his hips.

“I have an idea.”

She nods immediately.

His mouth twitches. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“I trust you.”

The words leave her without ceremony. Garrett goes still for one quiet moment. Then he bends and kisses her, softer this time, once against her lips before sitting back on his knees. “You get yourself off, yeah?”

Heat crawls across her chest. “Yeah.”

“Mhm.” He drags the sound out, visibly pleased with the information. “Well, show me.”

Her arms loosen. “What?”

“Show me.”

Her stomach drops pleasantly. Garrett holds her gaze. There’s no mockery in his face, though his eyes have darkened and his mouth keeps threatening a grin.

“And I’ll show you,” he adds.

She looks down at the shape straining against his jeans. Her thighs press together without permission.

Garrett notices. “Interested?”

She nods.

“Words.”

“Yes.” Her voice comes out softer than intended. “Okay.”

He kisses her again as if rewarding the answer, his hand sliding into her hair while his mouth opens over hers. She feels him reach between them and push his jeans down, fabric dragging over his thighs before he breaks away long enough to stand at the edge of the bed.

She watches him strip. His jeans pool around his ankles. He steps out of them, then hooks his thumbs beneath the waistband of his black boxers and pulls those down too. Her breath catches.

She’s seen his cock before, held it and taken it into her mouth in the bathroom at Malone’s, but the cramped stall and the urgency of kneeling between his legs hadn’t allowed her to properly consider the fact that he’s… big.

Garrett’s proportionate to the rest of him, which isn’t comforting when the rest of him is built to drive grown men into plexiglass.

Garrett catches her staring. “Problem?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Just observing.”

He grips himself loosely, giving one slow stroke that makes his stomach tighten. “Observing what?”

She looks at him. “You know.”

His grin appears. “I’d still like to hear it.”

“Absolutely not.”

He drags his bottom lip through his teeth. “Worth a shot.”

She shakes her head, but her hand has already found the side of her underwear. She lifts her hips and shimmies the fabric down her thighs, kicking it toward the foot of the bed. Garrett’s grin disappears. His gaze travels between her legs and remains there.

The attention makes her want to close them, because nobody has ever looked at her as though the sight itself is doing something to them. Garrett reaches down, catches both her ankles and pulls her toward him. A startled laugh escapes her as her body slides over the comforter, stopping at the edge of the mattress with her knees bent and Garrett standing between them.

“Bossy,” she says.

He wraps one hand around himself. “You love it.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but Garrett strokes once, slowly, and the words disappear. His fist moves from the base to the head, thumb sweeping through the wetness already gathered there. The muscles in his forearm tighten. His lower lip catches between his teeth for half a second before he releases it.

Her mouth goes dry.

“Go on, baby.”

She lets her knees fall wider. Her hand slides down her stomach, fingertips brushing over skin still sensitive from his mouth. Garrett watches every inch of the movement.

She finds her clit and begins circling slowly. Pleasure moves through her at once, less sharp than Garrett’s fingers but familiar, controlled. Her body knows her own touch. She knows the exact pressure to use, the rhythm that will carry her there if she keeps it steady.

The difference is Garrett. Garrett standing over her naked, stroking his cock while his eyes remain fixed between her thighs.

“Fuck,” he says quietly. Her fingers falter. He gives himself another slow stroke. “Don’t stop.”

She resumes, cheeks hot.

“That’s how you touch yourself?”

She nods.

“Words, princess.”

“Yes.”

“Show me properly.”

The instruction sends heat pouring through her. She presses more firmly, circling in the rhythm she uses alone beneath her blankets. Garrett’s breathing changes.

His fist moves faster, not much, but enough to make the muscles low in his stomach flex with each stroke. She watches the head disappear into his hand and emerge again, wet beneath the lamplight.

“You think about me when you do this?” he asks.

Her eyes lift to his. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he repeats.

She bites the inside of her cheek.

Garrett tilts his head. “How many times is sometimes?”

“Garrett.”

“Every week?”

She says nothing.

His grin grows slowly. “Every day?”

“No.”

“That answer came suspiciously fast.”

She speeds up her fingers, partly because pleasure has begun coiling low inside her and partly because it’s becoming difficult to maintain an argument.

Garrett watches her thighs twitch. “What do you think about?”

“You know what.”

“I know what you told me before.” His thumb brushes over the head of his cock. “My hands on your tits. My mouth.”

Her breath stutters.

“What else?”

She shakes her head.

“Come on, baby. You can lie in my bed with your legs open and touch yourself while I jerk off, but you can’t tell me what you think about?”

The words move through her like another hand. She circles herself harder. “You holding me down.”

Garrett’s fist tightens. “Yeah?”

She nods.

“Moving you around?”

“Yes.”

“Putting you where I want you?”

Her hips lift faintly into her own hand. “G.”

“Thought so.” His voice has dropped lower, the amusement thinning beneath something rougher.

She watches his hand slide over himself. His shoulders are tense, broad beneath the low bedroom light, curls falling over his forehead as he looks down at her. He wants to touch her. She can see it in every small movement he refuses to make – the way his free hand flexes at his side, how his body leans toward the mattress before he corrects himself, the dark concentration in his eyes whenever her fingers slip lower and gather more wetness.

But he doesn’t reach for her. He gave her an idea. He gave her a boundary inside the moment, and he keeps it even while his breathing turns uneven. The restraint is so much hotter than touching would have been. She drags her fingers through the wetness and returns to her clit.

Garrett groans. “Jesus Christ.”

Her head presses back into the mattress. “You’re staring.”

“You’re putting on a show.”

“You told me to.”

He huffs. “Best decision I’ve ever made.”

She laughs breathlessly, but the sound breaks when she finds the right pressure again.

“That’s it,” Garrett murmurs. “Keep doing that.”

Her eyes drift closed.

“No, look at me.” They reopen immediately. Approval flashes across his face. “Good girl.”

Her stomach clenches so sharply that her thighs shake.

Garrett sees it happen. “There we go.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles. 

“You’re lying there touching yourself because I told you to, and you still think you’re in a position to boss me around?”

She makes a soft, frustrated noise.

“Yeah,” he says, stroking himself faster. “That’s what I thought.”

Pleasure builds steadily beneath her fingers, every circle tightening the coil inside her. She watches Garrett’s fist move, watches the muscles in his thighs tense and the bead of sweat beginning to shine faintly at his temple.

His bottom lip disappears between his teeth again. She’s never seen him like this. Not in the bathroom, where she had been too focused on doing everything correctly, and not the morning he fingered her, when he had kept all his attention fixed on her.

Now she gets to watch pleasure move across his face without disguise. His jaw loosens when his hand twists near the head. His brows draw together whenever he strokes down more firmly. His breathing leaves him in quiet bursts through his nose until she moves her fingers faster and a rough sound breaks from his chest.

“Fuck, princess.” She whimpers. “Look so pretty like this,” he says. “All spread out for me.”

Her fingers slip slightly.

Garrett’s eyes sharpen. “Keep going.” She obeys. “That’s my girl.”

The pressure climbs higher, her stomach tightening beneath the remains of his release-free touch. She bends one knee farther, heel digging into the edge of the mattress as her hips begin moving faintly beneath her hand.

Garrett watches.

“What would you usually do?” he asks.

She pants through the next circle. “What?”

“When you’re alone. What else do you do?”

She shakes her head, unable to organise an answer.

He tilts his head. “You use a toy?”

“Yes,” she breathes.

“What kind?”

Her face burns. “A vibrator.”

“Where is it?”

“My dorm.”

“Shame.” She lets out a broken laugh. Garrett strokes himself harder. “Next time, bring it.”

The phrase next time sends another pulse through her.

“You’d like that, huh?” His voice has become rougher, words breaking slightly around his breath. “Letting me watch you use it?” She nods. “Maybe I’ll hold it for you.” Her fingers press harder. “Keep you still while I make you come with it.”

“Garrett.”

“Or make you hold it and tell you when you’re allowed to finish.”

The pleasure spikes. Her back arches slightly from the mattress.

Garrett groans. “Fuck. You like that.”

She cannot pretend otherwise. “Yes.”

“Course you do.”

She’s never been spoken to like this without finding it embarrassing. Other men have tried. They have repeated phrases clearly acquired from pornography, asked questions they didn’t wait for her to answer and called her names that felt disconnected from everything happening inside her body.

Garrett knows where the words need to land. His bossy best friend, who wants control over every detail until his hands close around her and take the responsibility away.

Her fingers move faster. The orgasm begins approaching in heavy, gathering waves, her muscles tightening around nothing while the wet sound of Garrett’s fist fills the space between her breaths. “G,” she whimpers.

“I know.”

“I’m close.”

“Yeah?”

She nods quickly.

Garrett’s head tips back for half a second, throat working. “Me too.”

His hand speeds up. She watches him, mesmerised by the slight loss of control in his body. His hips begin meeting his fist in small, involuntary movements. His free hand grips the edge of the mattress beside her thigh hard enough that his knuckles pale.

He still doesn’t touch her. “Don’t stop,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“Come on, baby. Let me watch.” Her body tightens. “That’s it.”

She circles herself faster, no longer capable of maintaining the slow performance of showing him. Her thighs shake, knees drawing inward before she forces them open again.

Garrett notices. “Keep those legs open.”

She moans.

“Good girl.”

The orgasm breaks through her. Her mouth opens around his name as pleasure pulses hard beneath her fingers, hips jerking upward from the mattress. She half rolls onto her side automatically, curling away from the intensity while a broken moan leaves her.

Garrett catches her. His free hand closes around her hip and pulls her flat onto her back again. “No, stay there.”

The firm movement sends another aftershock through her. She gasps, fingers still pressed uselessly between her thighs while her body continues fluttering around the remains of the orgasm.

Garrett steps closer. His fist moves once, twice, faster now, eyes fixed on her face as his breathing fractures. “Fuck.”

His body tightens. Warm release spills across her stomach, landing in thick streaks over the soft skin below her navel. Garrett groans, head dropping forward, his hand slowing as the last of it pulses over her.

For several seconds, neither of them moves. Her chest rises beneath the silver bars through her nipples. Garrett’s does the same above her, shoulders shifting with every unsteady breath. The room smells like sex despite the fact that, technically, they have still not had it.

A laugh bubbles out of her. Garrett looks down. She presses the back of her wrist to her mouth, but another giggle escapes anyway, loose and delighted from the endorphins still moving through her.

His mouth curves. “Good?”

She nods, hair shifting against his mattress. “So good.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Garrett wipes his hand against the inside of his discarded boxers, then drops onto the mattress beside her with all the grace of a man whose legs have temporarily resigned.

The bed bounces beneath his weight. She turns her head toward him. His face is flushed, curls damp near his temples and chest still rising too quickly. He stares at the ceiling like it’s witnessed something life-changing.

She shuffles closer and settles the side of her head against his shoulder. Garrett’s arm lifts automatically around her. Neither of them speaks for a moment. His fingers move slowly over her upper arm while their breathing returns to normal. Downstairs, the refrigerator makes a loud mechanical hum and then stops.

She glances down at her stomach. “G.”

“Mhm?”

“You’ve got to clean me up.”

Garrett closes his eyes. “Gimme a second.”

She giggles again. “You made the mess.”

“I’m aware.”

Her nose scrunches up. “It’s getting cold.”

His eyes open. “That’s disgusting.”

“It’s true.”

“Can you give me thirty seconds to recover from the most intense mutual-masturbation experience of my life?”

She tips her face toward him. “The most intense?”

Garrett looks down at her, completely serious. “By a humiliating margin.”

Her smile spreads.

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m not.”

He nudges his nose into her hair. “You are. I can feel it happening.”

She traces one finger absently over the centre of his chest. “You were staring at me.”

“You were naked and touching yourself,” he mutters. “What did you expect me to look at? The curtains?”

“They’re nice curtains.”

“They came with the house.”

“You should wash them.”

“There she is,” he says, laughing softly as he catches her hand. “Back for twelve seconds and already assigning chores.”

She threads her fingers through his. “You like me bossy.”

Garrett brings their joined hands to his mouth and kisses her knuckles. “I like you all the time. The bossiness is an extra.”

The softness of the answer catches beneath her ribs. She looks back down at her stomach so he cannot watch it land. Garrett notices that too. His arm tightens around her briefly before he sits up with a groan and reaches for the tissues on his nightstand.

“Elegant,” she says.

“You want a warm towel?”

“Yes.”

He pauses with the tissue box in his hand. “Seriously?”

“You asked.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

She waits. Garrett stares at her. Then he drops the tissues and climbs out of bed. Her grin widens. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Nobody likes cold tissues.”

“Nobody else orders room service after getting come on them.”

She grins. “I’m your best girl.”

He points at her as he pulls on his boxers. “Weaponising my own words against me is low.”

“You love me.”

Garrett stills for barely a fraction of a second. It’s nothing. A tiny interruption in the movement of his hand as he pulls the waistband over his hips. So brief she could almost convince herself it didn’t happen.

Then he shakes his head and reaches for the door. “Unfortunately,” he says.

She throws a pillow at him. Garrett catches it against his chest, grinning, then tosses it back onto the bed before slipping into the hallway.

She listens to his footsteps move toward the bathroom. Her dress remains crumpled near the headboard. Her underwear has landed beside one sneaker, while the other shoe is somehow beneath Garrett’s desk. His clothes are scattered across the floor. The lamp casts everything in warm, uneven shadows.

Nothing has happened the way she expected. There was no awkward attempt to pretend Garrett’s size didn’t make her nervous. No pressure to continue because the house was empty and they had already taken their clothes off. No need to monitor his pleasure while manufacturing her own.

Garrett had watched her come and known it was real. The thought should leave her feeling exposed. Instead, she sinks deeper into his pillow and smiles at the ceiling.

He returns a minute later with a warm washcloth in one hand and a bottle of water tucked beneath his arm.

“You took forever.”

“I had to wait for the water to heat up.”

“Excuses.”

Garrett climbs back onto the mattress and catches her knee when she starts to close her legs. “Hold still.”

She goes still. His eyes flick toward her face, amusement warming them, but he doesn’t comment. He cleans her stomach carefully, the cloth soft and warm against oversensitive skin. Then he folds it and wipes gently between her thighs where her own release has dried tacky against them.

Her stomach turns over at the quiet intimacy of it. Nobody has ever cleaned her up before. Most men have barely noticed there was anything to clean.

Garrett finishes, tosses the cloth toward his laundry basket and hands her the bottle of water. “Drink.”

She twists the cap and takes several obedient swallows.

He shakes his head. “More.”

“You’re very demanding for someone who claims I’m bossy.”

“Drink your water, princess.”

She drinks again, mostly because the low instruction does something pleasant to the remains of her nervous system. Garrett lies beside her and pulls the comforter over them. She sets the bottle on his nightstand, then curls into his side, one bare leg sliding over his.

His hand settles on her hip. “You okay?” he asks.

She nods against his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“No regrets?”

She thinks about it. “I regret that you know how often I masturbate.”

“I don’t know how often. You refused to provide figures.”

She grins. “And I’ll continue refusing.”

“We’ll see.”

She smiles into his skin. Garrett’s thumb begins moving in slow strokes over her hip, exactly where it had rested inside the waistband of her underwear before he noticed she was tense.

“You still nervous?” he asks.

“A little.”

“About what?”

She lifts her head. He’s looking at her seriously, curls pushed away from his face and all the sharp hunger from earlier softened into patient attention.

She could say his size. She could say their friendship. The deal. The unsettling fact that sex with him will not allow her to hide inside a performance because Garrett will keep looking until he finds the truth.

Instead, she touches the small gold hoop in his ear, turning it lightly between two fingers. “You pay too much attention.”

His eyebrows rise. “That’s a complaint?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Garrett studies her face for a moment, then turns his head and kisses her fingertips. “Take your time.”

The answer settles through her more deeply than anything dirty he said earlier. She lies back down and presses a kiss against his shoulder.

Outside, a car passes along the road, headlights briefly sweeping across the curtains. Somewhere across campus, their friends are still drinking inside a crowded fraternity house, entirely unaware that Garrett is naked beneath his comforter with her polka-dot dress tangled near his pillow.

The secrecy sends a final, lazy spark of excitement through her. She smiles against him. “Dean’s going to know.”

“Dean thinks he knows everything.”

“He saw us leave.”

“I told him I was checking the door.”

“You left a frat party to check the door at your own house?”

Garrett frowns toward the ceiling. “It sounded better when I said it.”

She begins laughing. Garrett catches her around the waist and rolls her beneath him, pinning her lightly into the mattress while she squeals.

“You’re becoming irritating,” he informs her.

“Becoming?”

His mouth twitches. She looks up at him, bare chest warm above hers, one forearm planted beside her head and his knee resting carefully between her thighs. The nervous flutter remains, but it no longer feels like something warning her to leave.

She slides both arms around his neck. “I like kissing you.”

Garrett’s expression softens. “Yeah?”

She nods. He lowers his mouth to hers, slow and warm and smiling slightly when she kisses him back.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because that’s all you’re getting tonight.”

She catches his lower lip between her teeth. Garrett groans. “We’ll see,” she whispers.

His eyes narrow with immediate understanding. “Bossy.”

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[happyinamug]

Pieces pt. 2

Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: With a 3-year-old son, reader is now facing the reality of her emotional connection with a certain web-slinger. Peter is distraught seeing how the world moved on without him. Is this little boy his ticket to his old life?

Cw: angst asf, violence?

Word Count: 6.1k. Link to PT. 1

AN: Here’s part 2! Thank you for the love on pt. 1!! I've decided this is going to be a 3-parter. I got a little carried away with this one. Let me know if you want to be on the taglist for pt. 3. I've already drafted it, so it should be out soon! So sorry for how bad the NYC geography is in this. My Google Maps gave up on me, so I was mostly winging it!

Weaving between vents and electrical boxes, the rooftop provided little shelter from the wind and giant clouds rolling in, threatening to drench your pink peacoat. You could feel your hair brushing across the pilling wool. Your eyes, scanning the roof, looking for someone. Reaching the ledge and looking over, the feet below and bustling of the city was soothing. There was something meditative about seeing the distance between yourself and the ground, floors apart. Inhaling a deep breath and closing your eyes, a wash of acceptance rolled over. Almost a "giving up" feeling but not negative.

A loud thump behind you shocked your system as you turned over your left shoulder.

"Hi, baby. Sorry I scared you."

Your arms wrapped around his shoulder and neck. Taking in his scent. Ozone, men's cologne... gasoline?

"You're here now." You feel your voice say, a comfort to him or yourself, you're not quite sure. A soothing smile creeping up the corners of your mouth.

You pull back to meet his face...

Damn it. You can never hold on long enough to register his face. Not enough to discern him or identify him if he walked past you on the street. This was the most frustrating part.

He took up your whole life only 4 years ago. You began to theorize that something major had happened in the time just after high school graduation. You wondered if he was consumed with these memories too, reaching toward them just as you do. Does he cling onto these same memories as you do, hoping to remember enough to come find you?

He left you with a beautiful son that he likely has no idea about. He would have been a part of his life if he knew. You were sure of it. Weeks worth of memories made you certain of his character. Maybe he would have left you alone if in real danger, but a son is something different entirely.

Now, you had to piece together his appearance from your son's small traits.

He was probably energetic and kind, just like James. He had curly brown hair and likely had big brown eyes, though that ran in your family too. He was strong and athletic.

The problem was James was his own person. He didn't inherit all of your traits, there was doubt that he'd be his father's carbon copy. If he did, your mystery man would have a Spider-Man obsession heavy enough to enact whole fights in your living room. That'd be ridiculous.

Everyone was grateful for Spider-Man, but you worried that fostering this idolization of him to your son could put him in danger. What if James grew up and stumbled across a dangerous crime, deciding to take it into his own hands?

A car honk shook you out of your own thoughts.

MJ and Ned had finally graduated MIT and were moving home. You had been looking forward to this since that first August without them. Though Ned came home every break, minus a study abroad summer and a research job in Australia one winter, MJ avoided coming home at all.

You knew she had grown up in a shaky home that offered little stability, but you tried not to ask her too much detail in your 8 years of friendship. As a result, though, she only came and visited a handful of times over the past few years. She had stayed with you in Lissie and Ty's apartment once, but only for a day or two.

Instead, you would attempt to wrangle James in his car seat for the drive to Boston once or twice a year. It was hard to socialize the same way, though. You'd visit their dorms and apartments with an especially active small child and couldn't join them when they went bar hopping or smoking with friends. Often, it entailed lunchtime hangouts and outings across the city. You couldn't keep up with their venting about heavy classes or stories of their partying. They tried their best, though. It'd be significantly easier now that they were back in the city too.

You had kept busy in a nursing program. It wasn't the biomed focus you had dreamed of at 18, but you filled your cup helping sick people either way. After graduating with an online ADN associates and an accelerated BSN straight after, you still felt confident in your achievements.

The job you had lucked into while starting your bachelors offered very predictable hours for a single mom, too. Daycare and preschool time always lined up, so James wouldn’t need to be taken care of by somebody else. And your work was close to the preschool, located in a practice within the hospital building, the preschool only a block away.

All had worked out and you wouldn't trade it for anything. You can't imagine your life as a research student, let alone without James.

On mornings like these, pushing James in a toddler stroller to get to work, the breeze from the trees and the rising sun between the buildings gave you time to think. James had been in a good enough routine at this point, where he didn't give you nearly as much trouble as in previous months. What an energetic boy.

Finally reaching the converted firehouse that the preschool had taken over, James practically rushed out of your sight to his little friends. You had to intentionally catch him to kiss his little face goodbye. The stroller, now stowed in a closet, a deal you had made with the preschool principal.

Taking one last look at the little boy, beaming toward his friends while picking out their toys, you pushed the handle of the door to leave.

His eyes were laser-focused on his computer, occasionally furrowing his brows and sticking his tongue out to spur his brain to work more effeciently. As if sensing your presence, his head reared over his right shoulder, eyes softening as they met yours. That same slow-motion glow overtaking him.

He looks like a carbon copy of James in these memories. These ones you let float away from you, just letting yourself enjoy the fleeting presence of him and the peace he brings. No good in tainting that memory by stressing further. Some of these ones are to be cherished in that little box in the back of your head. It never gave any extra identifiers as some of the others, so the enjoyment they gave you could just be left as is. A small gift to brighten your day and ground you to real life.

A bell rings as the door opens, your uniform non-slip shoes carrying you out the door and back into the bustle of the city.

Peter hollers from stories above the ground, swinging between apartment buildings and skyscrapers, "Whoop!"

Web,

hold on,

swing,

bring legs forward,

gain momentum,

release...

He didn't think he could ever get over how fun it was just to do the act of swinging.

And the pride it gave him to keep his city safe, unbeatable.

"X-P-four-zero-T... a transporter of explosives has been hijacked and is speeding down 20th heading east." the police scanner sounded out through the suit.

"Hey E.V., track the motion of the transporter. That's getting close to the hospital."

"Sure thing, Peter." E.V.'s robotic voice responded.

He picked up his swinging pattern, now cutting a sharp left at the next open street. He didn't usually feel much anxiety when swinging to face the next villain. On most occasions, he'd spend his swing mentally preparing himself, almost pumping himself up to lead with confidence.

This time, however, he felt a pit form in his stomach. Explosives driving down streets in transporters were not the biggest fish to fry. He had fought a slew of multidimensional villains and a universe-snapping purple behemoth.

Something felt off.

A huge crash interrupted his thought process. The massive transporter truck grazed the size of a brick building, hurling through the bodega. As he swung by, Peter assessed the damage: any civilians? any animals? The owner!

"Hey, sir, are you okay? All good? Okay, see ya! Stay safe!"

The truck regained the road and barreled down it, passersby fleeing the streets. The truck was hurling at huge speed for a metropolitan road, it was a challenge for Peter to keep up.

After webbing to the back, his whole body was being dragged along the asphalt. He pulled himself up, climbing to the roof, then crawling to the windshield

"Hey buddy! Whatcha got back there? Woahhhhh, you've got some pretty big bombs back there huh?"

The driver took a pistol and narrowly missed his shot as Peter dodged his head to the side.

"Alright, this has been fun. How do you feel about pulling over and we can settle this man-to-man?"

The driver turned the wheel, crashing into more buildings and crushing Peter against them.

He groaned for a second,

"I take that as a no?"

Took a second to breathe, then webbed the brakes down, slowing the tank very slowly

His jaw almost met the barrel of a huge gun, but swiftly moved away from it, allowing his hands to grip it and web it to the side of the van, out of the driver's reach.

As the transporter slowed, the driver once again scraped a building, then bounced off and rammed into a wall across the road, dividing two buildings: a small converted firehouse preschool and an office space.

Peter moved quickly. He knew this guy was dangerous and trigger-happy.

"Alright, let's move, move! Everybody out, head to the hospital, police are meeting there.”

He saw some younger workers leading small children out, a few carrying crying toddlers out.

He met eyes with an older woman. Her nametag showing she was the owner.

"Ma'am! Do you have rosters or attendance sheets? I don't want any little ones unaccounted for."

"They should be sitting in a folder case at the back desk. Thank you, Spider-Man!"

He manuvered with his webs across the rubble. Dust and rocks decorating rainbow carpetted floors. He remembered his years at daycare. He loved the carpet with the roads on it, always taking his tiny cars and seeing how efficiently he'd be able to drive.

His eyes rifted upward to that back desk, a child hiding under it, griping the leg of the desk and turned away from him. A tiny knit jacket over little denim overalls. A Spider-Man emblem embroidered on the front pocket, which revealed itself when the little boy turned to him.

"Hey buddy... you okay?"

His eyes looked up at him, wide open. He let go of the leg of the table with one arm and looked down at his hand, his tiny fingers not yet coordinated enough to form the web hand on his own. He took his other hand and pushed his middle two fingers down and held them out at the superhero.

Peter did it right back at him, smiling wide under the mask.

"What's your name, little spider?"

"My name's James", he replied through a lisp, making his J sound more like a "dzz" sound.

Peter's heart softened.

He focused a little harder on James' face. His ears and nose looked like his in his childhood photos. He thinks his aunt had the same picture, once.

A creaking door swung open, the villain finally finding the strength to get out of the transporter.

"Stay here, James. I'll get you out soon."

Peter assumed position to fight, the newfound motivation of a trapped civilian now running through every vein.

"Alright kaboomy, let's fight this out."

A web throwing him closer to the villain, encircling his body in web.

The man, now clad in giant vests and a huge helmet, lacked in agility, but had a massive destructive threat.

They tossed around, almost disarming the other, then being overtaken the next moment.

Peter was thrown across the preschool floor, hitting a bookcase and being covered in books

"You guys should really mount these bookcases; that's quite a hazard with little kids around," he groaned.

Then something was thrown his way. He took a second to register. A grenade!

"Woah woah woah!!" considering throwing it back to the attacker, but had enough judgment that it could cause a massive chain reaction. He webbed over it instead, filling the whole building with the sticky, strong webs.

It was enough to slow the attacker and web his hands behind his back and wrap him against a front pillar, the police swarming behind him.

James!

He knelt down to the little guy and inspected for damage, "You okay?? You were really brave out there!"

James locked around his shoulders, "That was so cool!"

He swiftly carried him out of the building and into the streets, which had been barricaded off. A nurse emerged from the crowd, weaving through the police. "James! Oh god, I was so worried, baby."

His face found hers.

The world slowed to a halt. A fuzzy, warm haze covered his vision.

It was you.

4 years, he had spent leaving you to live your life.

Was this your son?

Oh god, wait. How does that timeline line up? How old is James? Like 2? 3?

Before he could reel more, your eyes locked, even through the opacity of the white in his goggles.

Your eyes were just the same, without the sparkling reflection of your tears overflowing them and spilling down your cheeks.

Was he holding his son?

James reached out to his mom, "I helped Spider-Man, mama!", making a sound to emulate the shooting of webs.

Your eyes softened, processing the whole situation.

"Thank you." Your voice wavered as your words stumbled out.

"You have a beautiful son. He did very well."

"He scared me half to death. Thank you for protecting him." A small, nervous laugh joined your crying.

The world seemed to speed up when an officer called him over. By the time he had finished this conversation, you had disappeared.

Holy shit.

He closed the window of his tiny apartment behind him, throwing off his suit in anger.

For a second he tried to calm himself down with a cleansing breath. Then, rushed to the kitchen, grabbing the first glass he could find and running it under the tap to gather water. He leaned down and rested his head on his bent arm. Every nerve in his body was buzzing. every breath awoke the cells at every endings in his lungs. Absolute terror and panic was pouring into his body, as if filling him from the feet, to the torso, to the neck, through his throat, finally spilling out through his eyes as the glass in his hands overflowed.

He threw the cup down into the sink, not caring how many shards of glass he'd have to pick up.

He had spent 4 years trying to give you space, let you live your life. He had convinced himself that he was giving you a gift by leaving your life. You could finally have sleep and free time and friendships. You would be able to walk down the street without fear of being targetted.

Instead, he had left you with a baby to raise and abandoned his son.

Every night he spent crying, convincing himself not to stop by your apartment, every anxious thought when a crime would happen close to Lissie's apartment, every rooftop pep talk he would scream at himself...

It had only ever been hurting you.

He turned his attention to his suit, now discarded on the floor.

The goggles, laying on the top of the pile, staring straight into his soul.

His son's birth

First steps

First day of school.

Christmases

Birthdays

...

A proposal

Maybe even a wedding.

His anger only tripled. Every thought, fueling exponential growth in his anger.

Absolute distain for what that terrible spider had brought into his life.

Disgust with what that suit represented. He had missed his son's life. He abandoned the love of his life. Aunt May had been killed. To others, that suit was a saving grace. To Peter, it was a life sentence.

The spell was supposed to fix it for everyone. Nobody could be hurt for knowing Peter as Spider-Man again.

He felt cursed. He felt betrayed.

He threw the suit across the room, then picked up the closest thing he could find to hit against the nearest wall.

Crash!

Shattering glass.

After taking a second to focus his mind, he looked down at the fallout.

A picture frame upside down, surrounded by broken glass.

No. Oh no no. No.

Peter knelt down beside it.

Your prom photo. The solo one May had requested to get a full look at your dress. Your makeup was beautiful. Your hair pinned back in big curls. A big smile that missed slightly behind May's camera. You had been looking at him in the last second before the picture was taken.

It was his absolute favorite photo of you, though you thought it made you look dorky.

He slowly began to pick up the shattered glass, placing the picure frame delicately on his huge desk. Then, swept, mopped, and looked around.

He walked toward the suit, folding it back up and putting the mask on his stand.

Lastly, Peter gathered the broken glass from the cup in the sink, tossed it, inspected for smaller shards, then plopped himself on his bed.

He wrapped himself in his blankets and allowed his mind to wander off, cooling off his seething frustration from just moments ago.

He found himself at a crossroads. Attempt to organically fall in love with you... a few holes already. What about the little boy? That wouldn't cover why he was his twin. Or, find you and tell you straight up, risking your anger at him.

Does he start with Spider-Man right out the gate? Does he have ot go through a second reveal?

He took a second to take a breath in, toss himself to the other side of the bed, then finally exhale.

What if it wasn't black and white. You could start as friends, then tell you. He could maybe wing it from there. If you were raging mad at him, he could still check on you and keep both of you safe.

He didn't think he had it in him to pretend. It might overwhelm him again. Make him freeze up.

He bet you had moved in with Lissie. It was worth a shot to check that old apartment building he had seen you crying in all those years ago.

You had been running. A panic had crept up to the edges of your neck, lingering by your ears. The crumbling beneath your feet, not yet noticable to you, but growing increasingly obvious to him. You didn't even feel when the huge chunk of cement from the bridge began falling, slowly sliding toward the water below. Mysterio, still focused on fighting the monster on the other edge of the bridge.

He watched in slow motion as your foot slipped, knocking you to the ground. The ground that was extremely unstable, only held to the bridge by friction, but threatening to plunge into the frigid water below at another stomp of the monster.

Just then, you felt the ground move below you, jerking you to the right and scraping up your elbows on the jagged rock.

Air beneath your feet. Nothing was keeping you stable. Your limbs reached out for any rock nearby to cling to, but had been knocked off at the force of the monster's heavy punch to the bridge. Your hair blew in front of your eyes. Was it an act of mercy to not see the water below, or a way to make you more docile when the water enevitably caught your body.

Before you could even keep up with your inner monologue, a gentle hand was keeping with your pace, then supporting your head and pulling you upward, catching you at the very bottom-most point of a swing.

Setting you down across the road from the mouth of the bridge, he frantically grabed to your face, searching to see any visible injuries.

"Are you okay?? Hey, can you hear me? Are you hurt at all?"

When your focus pulled back in, his face came into view. He was covered in a Spider-Man mask.

Wait that's not how that memory should go.

A loud thud outside your bedroom window woke you from your dream. Memory? Your whole body shot up in fear and surprise, jolting befor you could even register the end of the dream. Where you would normally be reeling trying to hang onto the memory, your brain couldn't process anything at all, making your eyes dart to the window before even registering danger.

Your blinds were a sheer off-white and were covering the window with a dreamy haze. A slight wave made them move like sails. Behind the creases in the waves of the curtains, an uncertain flash of red was hidden out of sight.

Though you felt unease, it was the same feeling you had felt at prom, when you had to make yourself trot downstairs in your flashy gown and makeup. It was the sense that this situation couldn't be avoided, but had to be marched into with courage.

Your legs threw themselves off of the bed, allowing your feet to slowly meet the carpet and bring your body upright.

James.

The scene from Tangled flashed in your mind. A mysterious figure wrapping your baby up and taking them out the balconied window.

Your panic was soothed seeing the sleeping boy in his tiny bed, tucked into the closet, his makeshift bedroom. His tiny snores tucked into the pillow, his little eyelashes resting on his round cheeks.

Your attention turned back to the window, where the figure was now facing you, kneeling just outside on the fire escape.

Your body began moving without your permission, as though it felt it knew better for you. As though you had done this a million times.

Peeling back the sheer curtains, an overwhelming somberness crept up your body like a vine.

Your eyes locked with white goggles, then quickly scanned his figure, red and blue. Spider-Man?

Your first thought was danger. Spider-Man fought danger and was only attentive to individuals when an active threat was nearby.

But he was so calm, even as you slid the window open.

His head tilted slightly and froze, staring at you.

It could have been seconds or minutes you stood like that, peering slightly upward to meet his face.

Muscle memory kicked in again, pushing off of your hands onto the windowsill and onto the fire escape.

Slow motion as your manuvered yourself onto the cramped sheet of grated metal and crouched to meet him.

You felt him almost snap out of it, realizing he had been lost in the situation, frozen with his eyes locked on you.

Your face had a new maturity.

Not wrinkles, but age. Your eyes looked much more tired. Not from lack of sleep, but hard work.

Your hair had been cut shorter. Peter wondered if it was one of those "mom cuts" he had heard about. He wondered if baby James had gripped his fingers in your hair one too many times, finally spurring you to keep it short.

Your nails were now short and unpolished, too. You used to occasionally get them done, then neglected them until they were chipped and bitten away. Now, they were well-groomed, almost. Filed, maybe. Smooth around the edges in a way they never had been.

"Spider-Man?" Your voice frayed at the edges, cracking slightly toward the end.

He froze for a second again. He took in the sound of your voice, the way your teeth shone, the worn-off chapstick on your lips. Mint? You still smelled like your same conditioner. A hint of that green apple detangler Aunt May used on him as a child. Back when Aunt May let him grow his hair longer, then decided to cut it, by the little knots next to his ears that just wouldn't let up. You used that on James, didn't you?

"Hi..." in an exasperated sigh.

Your brows tied together.

"Is something wrong?"

A warm tear fell down his face, gathering at the bottom of his goggles.

"Your son's name is James?"

"Uh, yeah. James."

"Is he..." his head gestured toward the window "...in there?"

You nodded.

Anxiety was moving up your chest, beckoning, gathering tears.

He let out a deep sigh. An attempt to soothe his system. It didn't help much, though. He pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning his head down.

Your face, similarly tilting downward to try to find his eyes.

"It's you, isn't it?"

He felt like his heart had stopped. You continued,

"I have these flashes of memories, but I have no idea who it is. I don't know where they are. It has been killing me not knowing."

A beat.

You tried again, "I've been so scared. Did something happen?"

His hand reached out to your arm. You let him. His fingers met your pajama top.

An oversized shirt. A band shirt.

That was his shirt. An old Tears for Fears shirt. You once had joked about how silly they had looked in the album cover.

He didn't fight the tears anymore. Instead, "Can I hug you?" in a very small, broken voice. You had never imagined Spider-Man to have ever shown an ounce of fear-- or sadness, whatever this was.

You pulled him in before he could keep up with what was happening.

You didn't hold him too close, though. You kept that same distance on late nights when he'd come in really hurt. When black, gnarly bruises were latching onto his ribs.

You held him by his shoulders, pulling his head to rest in the crook of your neck, not yet allowing his chest to meet yours. The crouching position you both were in probably didn't allow that either way, though.

A few minutes passed, with tears falling between the two of you. Quiet sobs in each other's necks. Both of you were losing awareness of the sleeping boy inside.

A little snore, louder than the rest, pulled you both out of it, darting your heads to his bed.

The wind blew through the sheer curtains, only allowing small flashes of the bedroom inside. You noticed Spider-Man's breath hitching seeing James sleeping inside.

"Can I?" You could tell he was fighting back a full collapse of himself, cutting off his sentence before he could lose all control.

You gave him a little nod, using his hand to gesture him inside.

After he pulled himself inside, you held onto the sides of the window for support. While trying to get your footing on the windowsill, you lost your grip. Though you certainly could have found your way down safely, Spider-Man caught your hips before you could realize you were falling.

Rubble had fallen all around the taxi, your body safe in the backseat, but only having sunlight pour in through a small hole above. He had rushed to your side, talking you down from your panic. After minutes of encouragement and breaks where he would try to chip away at the rubble, you had finally gained the courage to attempt to crawl out, despite the groaning of pressure from the boulders of concrete. One step at a time, one hand, one foot. It could only be less than 10 feet, but it became evident you were running out of time.You could see his mask and outstretched red glove from the small crawlspace, finally pulling you out. He grabbed your hips on the way down, pulling you into his body. "Oh thank god, thank god. You're okay, my love, it's okay.", he had mumbled into your hair.

It was him.

You held the back of your hand out and felt the ridges of black rubber on his mask.

Bump, bump, bump

"I knew it." Your eyes looked up at him in wonder.

But you both turned back to the bedroom, the little boy only a few feet away.

You led him by his wrist to kneel down to James' tiny bed. Silent sobs shook his whole body, your head resting on his shoulder as you both faced your son. Your son. His son. His tiny boy.

"I'm so sorry I missed this. I had no idea..."

"What happened? Why can't I remember you?"

A pause.

He leaned closer to you, his hand finding the edge of James' bed to keep him close.

"My identity was revealed. It threatened your school, MJ and Ned’s, too. All of these villains came into the universe angry at Peter Parker..." he took a breath and continued. "My aunt died. I couldn't risk it... I had Doctor Strange cast a spell so nobody would remember me."

You held his face, urging him to continue.

"I saw how free your life became in the days after. You didn't have to watch your back for angry journalists or stay up late for me anymore."

The anger at yourself. You had fallen asleep again, and he needed you. You groggily reached for the first-aid kit.

He continued, “I wanted you to have a better life. I didn't want you in danger. But I didn't know about him; I swear I didn't! I would have come to you immediately. You never would have done this by yourself."

He reached back to your hands, holding them as if that would convince you. As if you needed convincing. You knew him... even if you didn't remember him.

"I need to know who you are." You began. "I can't keep living without knowing."

"You will know, I promise. I will find you. I don't want to risk association with me and Spider-Man. I will come find you soon."

It disappointed you to hear this. You had always pictured him running to you and immediately confessing his identity.

He turned his head back to James before you could process a response.

"He's so beautiful, baby. You did so well with him. I'm so sorry I wasn't here"

You both spent the next minutes or hours sitting like that, admiring your son.

A crime notification popped up and shook him out of it. He let out a frustrated sigh, leaning his head on yours, kissing your hair as he spoke, "I'm so sorry, I have to go. This is a big one."

You sniffed.

He looked you dead in the eyes with a determined, almost intimidating gaze. "I will come find you, I promise. We will do this right." A beat, "and I'll keep an eye on you both."

He pulled you in for a deeper hug than before, not quite how you both remember, but enough to sense change.

"I love you," just as he had before.

Weeks had been spent between then and now.

You had tried to find his face in every person around you. Bodega workers, taxi drivers, policemen...

But he said he would find you.

On a few occasions, you would find your favorite bag of chips sitting on your bed, gummy bears sitting on James'.

Though you would, in any other situation, be uneasy with a stranger finding their way into your apartment, he has immediately gained your trust. You had felt guilt not telling Lissie or Ty about this. You wondered if they would understand if they knew who he was.

He was late for Thanksgiving dinner. His aunt agreed to join your family's dinner this year. Aunt May! That was her name. Another step closer. Lissie even came home from college for it, too, a rarity during that time of year, when she was still in school. It was so exciting to have everyone together. Everyone but him. He finally barreled through the front door 30 minutes late, kissing May on the cheek and hugging Lissie...

They were close.

You were close to trying to trap him, just to talk to him. It had been so long; you were starting to wonder if this would be forever. Just waiting for him to leave presents on your bed.

After finally wrangling James into little sneakers, you were able to load him into the stroller and head out of the apartment building, leaving a note for Lissie and Ty that you were stocking up on preschool lunch items.

It couldn't be more normal on a day like today. New York had a slight overcast and a little breeze running between the buildings.

You still lingered your eyes on every man with brown, curly hair you passed. It had become a habit at this point. Eventually, you both reached the small store.

Milk, cheese, bread, snacks.

Your eyes ran between items, while James slept. He had been totally wiped out from an earlier tantrum over candy. Okay... found milk next aisle. You turned the corner, eyes catching a red masked vigilante.

"Hey... do you mind helping me with this? I feel pretty confident in math, but these elements are really giving me a hard time." Your eyes were low and batting eyelashes at him. He looked nervous. "Uhhh, yeah. Yeah! Of course!" You had been playing this game for months. You would tease him just enough to make him flustered. It always took him a second to finally flirt back. When would he finally ask you out?

An idea popped into your head. "Oh, hey Spidey." Your eyes only flickered on him for a second, then turned to the food in front of you, unsuccessfully holding back a smile that was creeping up your lips.

"Hey." An uncharacteristic certainty decorated his voice. You don't think the game ever went this way.

He turned his body toward the food, as well, pretending to inspect the groceries with the same determination you did.

"You come here often?", your voice said, echoing back to his ears like water in a desert.

"No, no. I followed a beautiful girl in here. I've been having a hard time reaching her."

"That's sweet, Spider-Man.", your hands picking up some grocery item, checking the label. As if you ever cared enough to do that.

His voice dropped to a whisper, and he leaned his head to the side, still facing the food. "Did'ya think I forgot about you?"

"I don't know, I think I'm entitled to a few more visits. Maybe a few kisses too. A date night with wine, maybe." A giggle was shared between the two of you.

"You just wait, love. I'm working on it." his head nodded with a twinge of embarrassment.

You moved the stroller around him and started walking around him. You missed this game. This was fun.

"Where are you going, miss?" Smiles crept up both of your faces, though you felt more vulnerable as the only unmasked one.

"Oh, I don't know... I have someone waiting at home for me."

"Oh yeah? Is this someone okay with you being walked home?"

"Hmm... I'm not too sure; are you equipped to talk to a very mysterious, physically distant guy?"

"I think I can manage that."

Your hair fell in front of your face, then was tucked behind your ear with your hand.

You were absolutely addictive.

After a mostly silent walk home, with a few pedestrians stopping and paying attention to the amazing Spider-Man, you reached the apartment building and spoke.

"This is us. Sorry our walk was so short."

His voice was significantly lower than before. "4 more days, I promise. I'll find you. We can do this the right way."

Despite the flirty game you had just been playing, you started to get choked up, small tears forming at the corners of your eyes. You didn't want to have to wait any longer.

"I know, honey. Please don't cry." He wanted so badly to reach out and touch you, but he didn't want to risk anything above a low whisper.

You sniffled, "Can I have a code word or something? So i know its you."

"Of course, sweet girl. Uhh, how about..."

"What was the first thing I said to you?" You interjected.

He took a second; you could tell he was smiling beneath the mask. "You asked what LEGO set Ned and I were working on. I'll ask you that when I find you."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

That was familiar.

Tag list:

@4ria790 @lauranehme @yagurlannastasia

----

[happyinamug]

Pieces

Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: reader finds out she is pregnant just after the spell in NWH. Now, with no memory of a father, has to live with the mystery of who is haunting her memories.

Word Count: 4.9k Link PT 2!

Cw: pregnancy, secret baby?, mj erasure (srry ily mj), angst, sex briefly described, mentions of abortion, mild emetophobia trigger! depictions of anxiety attacks, sad peter

AN: omg it’s my first fic! I’ve been a lurking reader on here since like 2018 but finally worked up the courage to write. Pls lemme know if yall have any advice or tips! Esp with writing on tumblr. Yay yay! This kind of sucks, but whatevs

Wake up, worry over him, watch him on the news, patch him up, warn him to be careful, go to sleep. Rinse. Repeat.

How many months had you spent doing that? Years, maybe?

A fuzzy haze of nights spent scrolling replacing it. Nights of his breath on your neck, band-aids on bare skin, the feeling of his stubble again your shoulder, all replaced with fog.

No memories of that at all.

You had no memory of your giggly first encounter, teary night spent when he ditched you at prom, heart racing guilt and fear when he told you he was Spider-Man…

Coffee shop first date, meeting May, making out on your rooftop, intimate nights together sneaking from the parents.

At one point, he was the first thought in the morning and the last thought at night. You knew his whole schedule, you could tell someone anything about him.

All gone.

———

The view out the window was uncharacteristically serene. The bustle of the city was a welcome soundscape against the rustling green leaves and light pattering rain. And just outside your window, on a neighboring building, Spider-Man crouched in the shadows.

He wasn’t watching you, per se, or so he told himself. Just yesterday, his life was flipped upside down, the spell that brought the universe to him, killed May, and tore apart the memory of Peter Parker from the minds of all his enemies, had also ripped away his love.

What could your life be like without him?

Who would keep you safe?

But your bedroom, clad in lights and posters, was taunting him. You looked so peaceful. Most nights, you’d be up waiting for him to tap on your window for medical aide (cuddles and kisses, mostly). He can’t recall the last time he’s seen you in bed so early.

Meanwhile, you’d been sitting with the feeling of restless anticipation for no clear reason. The same feeling in your youth when summer would come and no homework or studying was waiting up for you.

There was too much time. Too much free time.

His eyes glazed across, watching your brows furrow, looking for something to do.

Had you done that every night before he would crawl over your windowsill?

His throat tightened up, aching his tongue and watering his eyes.

Your hair

Your pajamas

The sound of your heartbeat

A deep intake of oxygen when you finally gave up

The click of the switch

He shook himself out of it, turning his head to take a moment to breathe.

Breathe. Breathe.

His hands brushed against his thighs and shook themselves out, the ridges of the black rubber lines scratching against his glove. He could hear the beat of his heart in the heat of his ears.

Thwip!

Maybe it’s for the best. How many hours of sleep had you lost for him? How much anxiety built up watching the news?

He made a deal with himself.

She can be loved from a distance, for now. If she’s in danger, you save her, as you would anyone else. She can know later.

Every Christmas, you had watched Its a Wonderful Life in your cozy pink bedroom, cuddling against the fluffy throw pillows on your bed. It was through he was George Bailey, watching his life move on without him. He could picture himself running to you, screaming your name, getting dragged away as a mad man. He was speeding down his old streets in terror, just the same. Something unnerving settled over him in this thought: Instead of the world falling apart without him, he saw the world soothe.

A new calm was settling over his old life.

The rough seas you had endured as a toll for loving him, completely quiet.

All those hours of stress… hell, your college career was on the line last week. That guilt had been unbearable on him. Your world was turned upside down. You would be a biomed major in a month. You’d need those hours to sleep, not stress over his wellbeing.

It’s for the best.

Puffy eyes beneath the white sheer goggles. Shaky breaths. The pull of gravity from feet below him.

She will be okay.

———

Bzz! Bzz!

The 5 minute timer finding its way to your eyes, alongside a news article notification:

“Spider-Man saves subway riders from flood!”

Here we go.

The world around seemed to slow down, finding a new importance. The kind of physical reaction where you can sense the forking of two roads. The sense that after this moment, there is no going back.

Hesitation in the tingling of your fingers.

Before you could even process your own movement, your fingers found the side of the tub, flipping the blue cap and rolling the test to its side, at which point you could grab hold.

What am I doing?

Flip

Pregnant.

…

The world around stopped. Your upper arms heating up and tingling, panic setting into your throat before your brain could process.

There’s that feeling. The feeling that you are in no control whatsoever. Monumental, life changing moments are passing and you are out of control.

Your ears. Warm and obvious.

Your tongue is dry. When did you open your mouth?

Your cheek has a rushing, sobering tear cooling it before you even realize you are crying.

Oh god.

Oh god, oh god.

When did this even happen? You have no memory of having sex.

Flashes of stubble in your hands.

Had you had sex? When was the last time you drank? You couldn’t have been that drunk.

Had something happened with a man you never knew? How could you not remember this.

No.

This is a mistake.

Come on. Getting yourself all worked up over a false positive? You’re better than that.

You let out a panicked chuckle.

In a frantic move, as seconds stretched and minutes furiously rushed by, another test processed, blinking like a maddening torture method.

Blink

Blink

Blink

Pregnant.

How?? How??

A sick feeling of violation settles in your bones.

Oh god.

Had you had a drunk hookup? How did you not remember anything?

The bile rises in your throat, threatening to decorate the bath mat.

Fingers in your hair. “You okay?” A kiss on your cheek.

You gripped the countertop, closing your eyes. Deep breaths. Pull it together. In through your nose, out on a straw-shaped blow.

Your eyes meet your own in the mirror, then flicker down in unease, eventually closing.

Warm, comforting kisses on your neck. Firm hands on your hips. The kind that show trust and confidence, not possession.

God, why can’t you remember?

—

The world suddenly came into focus.

“Woah…”

He stopped at the next rooftop and took in his surrounding.

No notifications of crime nearby.

He looked down.

His heart dropped.

A girl, clad in a grey pair of sweats and an oversized hoodie, was bolting down the street sobbing.

His head tilted slightly and his shoulders turned to parallel the road below.

“Sorry… excuse me, sorry…”

She was weaving past street goers in a frantic, manic attempt to make haste.

Analysis… then recognition… then his heart skipped. The world was moving too fast for him to catch up. Was she hurt? Did something happen??

Your flushed and damp face turned away, hair flying to your side, as you rushed faster.

He watched you turn the corner, then took a second to shake himself back to life. He swung onto the next rooftop, slightly above the one under his feet, so he had to climb against the panic beating into his chest.

He peeked around the building and saw you buzz a doorbell.

Your sister’s apartment! Aww sweet Lissie. A nickname you’d given her young, in a story he could Frankenstein together from old memories. She’d finally moved in with that guy. What was his name… Ty! Tyler. He was always so sweet, Peter had poked her to finally open up to him, on more than one occasion. Your sister had the best smile and best personality, but felt too much pressure to protect you and be brave, she never felt vulnerable enough to open up to a guy. A warm settle came over him at the thought that Lissie was doing well.

Then was quickly jolted out as you booked it through the door and up the stairs.

Nope. Nope.

We’re not doing that again.

The more you get involved the harder it’ll be for everyone

She needs her time.

But he stayed. Minutes and minutes pass by of scanning every window. He felt his goggles squint with his eyes.

When time passed and he couldn’t feel any movement, he gave up.

Just one. Just one peek.

He listened intently for your heartbeat.

His brain shuffled through the whole building, finally settling on one he knew well. That heartbeat had been his anchor on many anxious nights. He’d leaned on you and cried when missions when awry. He’d heard that heartbeat leaping when he finally asked you out. It was a dialect he could understand and it was sticking out in the dozens of heartbeats in the building. When he felt it settle slightly, he let out a sigh. A cleansing breath. Intaking trust and exhaling the urge to crash into your life.

And just as a precaution, Peter allowed himself the gift of swinging by your apartment tonight. If you were still in shambles, he’d consider where to go from there. He’d help you. That’s fair! Fair settlement.

She’ll be okay

A crime watch notification ripped him out of his relief. He zoomed into the location, sighed one more deep breath, then

Thwip!

And off he pulled his body to go save the day again.

She’ll be okay.

———

Tears pooled all the way onto the wooden kitchen table, where your cup of calming lavender tea was sitting slowly more stale by the minute.

“It’s going to be okay, sweet girl.”

Your eyes settled focus on the white rings on the wooden table, no doubt where Lissie and her boyfriend had spent mornings with hot coffee, too in love to even consider something as trivial as coasters.

“I can’t remember anything, Lissie. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what happened.”

“Could it be a false positive?”

“I took two!”

A beat.

A deep breath echoing behind you.

“Okay. So you’re for sure pregnant...” Another tear joined the strings of your hoodie. “There’s only 3 ways this could go, sissy. You could keep it and live with not knowing, you could give it away but endure 40 weeks of anticipation… or you could forget this whole thing ever happened and move on with your life. I’ll support you in whatever you need”

Your heart was pounding. Your hands were still shaking, how was it possible to shake for this long?

It’s not that you were against getting rid of it. That was the logical conclusion you should go to. But there was something sitting deep in your bones. You’d felt more aware in the past few weeks than at any point in your memory. There was a new sharpness. Could it be the little thing in there? Was it heightening your awareness or something?

“You know, bunnies know they are pregnant straight away.” Lissie said to you, her missing teeth shining through her tiny face.

“Really? How do they do that?”

“I don’t know…” she picked up the fluffy little creature from the pen, little fingernails decorated in chipping pink nail polish, “maybe they feel their little souls” You leaned your head toward her, resting against her long, tangled hair, watching Buttercup’s ears twitch against the fuzz of Lissie’s fleece sweater. Buttercup… after Princess Bride.

All those nights you’d spent together curled up watching it. Green hills you’d rolled down together “Aaaaaas youuuuuu wiiiiiiiishhh!” And she’d toss herself down the decline. The little hill in Central Park must have known your hair types to a tee from all of the times you had rolled down it, giggling the whole way down until a mess of little girl limbs sat dizzy at the bottom.

As your little head rested on her shoulder, the fluff of the little rabbit tickled your hands, no doubt covered in dirt from outside playtime.

The need for something grounding was gnawing at you. Why had your memory felt so fuzzy for so long and only now was opening back up? Was it this little thing growing inside you? What would it be like in another life?

You could picture the sweet baby wrapped up cozy in a warm blanket, a tiny hat sitting on top of that chunky face. You could feel the comb running through little curls, as you gather them into a small hair tie.

“Look how cute this is!” A little pink onesie held up in front of him, the comforting, faceless man.

You could see drawers packed full of little clothes. A tiny crib and a little mobile. You’d put glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceiling and their little eyes would jump from star to star.

You could feel yourself shuffle through the folding chairs, finding a seat to watch their first dance recital. Their little face lighting up after finding you in the crowd. A tiny hand waving at you mid-dance, too overcome by excitement to remember the routine.

A little toddler tucked into your side at Christmas, worn out by a long day of toys and stuffed full of mashed potatoes and little nibbles of turkey. The soft glow of Christmas lights and the heat of a little kid snuggled tight.

Your head resting on his chest “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings”, his lips mouthed with the movie line. Your own sweet George Bailey, he’d give you the moon.

You could see fights over clothes in a store. “You have to get a winter coat, you can’t slump around in shorts in February!” “You can buy me whatever, I’m NOT wearing it!” Growing feet stomping off to another aisle. The emotional apology in the car, the sound of a phone connection playing the new fad music.

Band concerts, basketball games, emails from teachers about your amazing student…

A life flashed before you.

“I can’t do this.”

Your head rested against the wooden table.

She rushed to your side as sobs overtook your whole body, tears falling onto her hair, forever unkempt. A kiss to the side of your head

A kiss to your cheek and stubble catching your hair.

Lissie breathed a sigh of determination and sought out her phone, excusing herself to arrange an appointment for you. Forever the caretaker, that one.

———

3:42am

Peter caught himself against the brown brick of your apartment building, dodging windows and fire escapes as he moved to your room.

He doubted he would ever forget. 6th story, 8th window from the left. He’d spend years doing that routine.

He doubted you’d be awake. The only time you had ever stayed up like this was waiting up for him and his fights. Even then, he’d spend many nights moving quietly inside, finding you passed out (against your own wishes). He’d twirl your hair through his gloved fingers, the ridges of black rubber catching the strands. He’d run the back side of his closed fingers against your cheek and wrap you in his arms from behind, breathing in the scent of your leave-in conditioner.

Without him, you were out cold with all of the lights out.

Your hair, splayed across the pillow, was still tied in a ponytail. You never did that. You cared to keep your hair from damage.

As he leaned in to peek further through your sheer curtains, he spotted your dirty sneakers kicked off on the carpet. Any other time he’d visit, you would keep tidy and tuck them neatly in your closet.

Concern began to infect his brain and cloud his judgment. His fingertips sticking to the windows and sliding it open, allowing him to crawl against the wall and look at you from a distance.

Were you still wearing that same outfit from today? He crawled further up the drywall to get a look at your face.

You were puffy and flushed, even still, but carried a grace that sleep had provided.

His brows furrowed with growing concern.

Just then, your body threw itself flat, facing the ceiling, and in taking a deep cleansing breath. It was enough to spook Peter, as he maneuvered himself back through the window and efficiently slid the window shut.

Through heavy breaths, he leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. As his head slid down to look at his hands, the squeal of lycra and rubber against glass stirred you inside and he threw himself against the next brick wall. A dizzying, overwhelming sense of frustration came over him and called him to leave.

With a thwip, Spider-Man swung back into the night, heavy breathing fueling sobs that shook the spider emblem on his chest. Tears gathering in his goggles.

This is unfair to her.

Leave her be.

She will be okay.

Another day.

———

The clinic was a beige cinderblock. One singular line of white moved horizontally, then arched over the glass double doors and back horizontal again. Very 80s. 70s?

“That’s 70s. It looks 80s because it was everywhere by then! A contractor would call that 70s.”

Huh.

As you worked up the courage to go inside, the intimidation of a crowd of maybe 7 angry strangers stood menacingly, mockingly at the door of the clinic.

You didn’t want this.

Did they think you yearned to go here?

An older woman in a white shirt, stark black lettering against it. A huge sign covered in fake blood and more words in her hands. The words looked foreign in your brain, stumbling against the reality of the situation.

A college-age boy. He had a hat with a diagram of a fetus and umbilical cord. You lingered for a moment. Just a moment.

A little boy, the most striking. The maybe 10-year-old clad in a Catholic school uniform. Brown khakis and a green polo with a familiar logo. You’d babysit a set of sisters from there. They’d complain about the teachers nagging them to tuck in their shirts. His was untucked, as though he had rushed straight from school and untucked it. A huge sign covering his head. Was he embarrassed to be here? Was he tired from a long day at school and his arms had gone lazy?

As you walked past, his eyes locked with yours. The sign, still aimed parallel to the street, was held up by a wrist, decorated by a small purple friendship bracelet. Lissie made you one like that after coming back from Girl Scout one year. You’d begged and begged to go, not making the age requirement to even be a Daisy Scout yet.

Little brown eyes and a bowl cut followed your face, then turned back to the blank side of the sign, as you walked out of his line of sight.

In the carpeted room of the clinic lobby, you attempted to catch your breath against the soundtrack of projected yelling from the protesters outside. A frazzled, anxious breath attempted to cleanse your brain of what just happened.

Holding your chest as though to tame it downward, your eyes found the confused eyes of the front desk attendant.

“Uh, hi? Do you need something?”

Your hands shook more at the request for information.

“Uh yeah… I have an appointment.” Your voice seemingly shaking in on itself as the sentence took shape.

“Did you fill out the paperwork?”

“What?”

“We emailed you about your online paperwork.”

“Oh… I’m sorry I didn’t see that. My sister helped me set up-”

“Okay well we need your paperwork.” She interjected.

Panic crawling through every inch of your body. You felt your throat tightening against your vocal cords.

She rolled her chair backward, seemingly toward a printer, with an audible, exaggerated sigh.

When the clipboard of paperwork was finally slid to you with a pen tied to it, your shaky hands reached for it on autopilot. When

*click*

The clipboard was zip tied and attached the the desk, with little wiggle room.

“This is for patient confidentiality. Those guys used to run in and take these to get girls’ numbers and harass them. Just fill it out here.” A sickly smile, laced with accusation flashed at you.

A beat.

“Everyone is spooked by medical stuff” he said. He offered to go first for the blood drive and slipped his grounding hand down your arm as distance grew.

I can’t do this.

Before you could process it, your hands dropped the clipboard and your feet carried you out the door. The cold metal of the handle shocked your nervous system, the boy’s little brown eyes laced with confusion, the thump of the pavement beneath your jogging feet. When did you start jogging?

The ring of the phone was the next thing you processed. You must have turned the corner somewhere back there, because you were crouched down in an ally, hiding behind a dumpster. Looking back at the phone, Lissie was your contact.

You broke down sobbing the second her voice registered in your ears

“I couldn’t do it… the eyes… the lady… so mean… I just” Shaky breaths betraying you, interjecting on your frantic explanation.

“Hey, hey calm down! Can I come get you?”

The jingle of her keys through the speaker.

Bzz. Bzz.

A notification.

“Spider-Man defeats crime ring in Jersey!”

You were going to be sick.

———

You arrived at your apartment with Lissie in shambles.

After walking her through the series of events, her face turned red. You could see her shaky hands reach toward her phone, but her care for you wouldn’t allow her to cuss out the clinic receptionist just yet.

Instead, she cuddled you in blankets and brought you soup, turning on a movie in the process.

Through the tears, the TV’s speakers immediately calmed you with the voice of Winona Rider’s Jo March saying, “My sisters and I remember that winter as the coldest of our childhood” Oh, Little Women. Forever the comfort movie for sisters across the world. An immediate calm settled over you.

The panic tears then turned to relief and love as sweet Lissie wrapped her arms around you and pulled you into her shoulder.

Maybe it could be okay.

She didn’t even feel the need to hash it out more. Just soup and Little Women uninterrupted for 2 hours. Enough to reset your system.

Once the movie ended, a new sense of calm washed over you. Clarity opened up new avenues of your brain, your awareness dialed to 11.

A look shared between sisters. Something along the lines of “are we okay to talk now?”

Then comfortable silence, then words.

“Do you want to keep it? We can still give it away, I’ll help you through everything”

Damp, brown curls over you. Heavy breathing. A look down at you and eyes closed in ecstasy. “I love you so much.”

That toddler at Christmas forming more tangible imaginary traits. Brown curls now settling across your chest.

“I think I might want to keep it.”

A beat.

Relief that you had never anticipated felt like it was pouring through every pore of your body. How had you been so tense for so long?

Lissie cleared her throat, “Alrighty. We can do that. Let’s make some plans for you to move in.”

School.

MIT.

God, that was an amazing program.

You were set to dorm with MJ.

“Hey, that’s great! We’ll dorm as double duos! I’m with Ned in that smaller dorm up North.”

“Lissie. School…”

“Okay… what if we look into some online programs. Maybe you could still graduate with MIT. Maybe you could start at community college and move up or something”

In a second of disappointment and silence, the subject was dropped in agreement.

She let out another breath. An exaggerated smiley expression dawned on her face, like a 2000s romcom best friend, in the wake of the big breakup, “What if we run around shopping all day tomorrow. We can get some cute baby things… and we can put together a basket or something for Mom and Dad!” A singsong painted every syllable.

A little laugh escaped your throat before you could register.

She took your hands in hers, brushing over the back of them. “You know what…” a little smile gathering at the corners of her mouth. “We’re going to love this baby, no matter what! I love kids, Tyler loves kids, it’ll be okay!”

You started choking up in a refreshing, relief way.

She continued, “I just hope it’s a girl, or I won’t give it any presents”

Giggles echoing off of the walls of the apartment.

It’ll be okay.

Maybe it will all be okay.

A gloved hand rubbing your back as you cry on his shoulder. You can’t remember what you were crying about, just the comfort of having him there.

Who is this guy?

———

A decision on and a plan had been finalized. In August, you had started full time gen ed classes at the community college, in hopes of getting an associates and a scholarship when the time came.

Moving in with Ty and Lissie was a breeze. He had graciously emptied out his home office, which was really a gaming room undercover. Tyler really was an amazing person. You were so happy that Lissie had finally pushed past her discomforts and let herself find love in him.

Tyler would sit with you and watch all the girly shows. He would run out to get late-night veggie straws when you were drawn to tears with cravings. He protected you like a brother.

Then one night, after on and off braxton-hicks, your contractions had officially kicked up and your water broke.

In your dream world, you'd be doing a peaceful home birth with a midwife, but in the already crowded apartment, it became evident that this plan would not work.

Instead, Lissie filled the hospital room with lavender essential oils, bought you the fancy birth comb for pain, and kept your water bottle full of ice-cold water.

You felt lucky for such a quick labor experience. Your parents had gone to bed that night and woken peacefully to a new grandchild, none the wiser.

Your sweet boy was born at 7:42am the next morning. A head full of those brown curls you had imagined. No wonder your heartburn had been so debilitating.

He outstretched his little fingers the second he was out, like he was excited for all the space in the world. His little scream relaxing everyone in the room. Poor little guy, that was a rough night for both of you. You leaned down at his face, now resting on your chest, with all of the gratitude in the world. How could you be proud of a newborn?

A boy! Lissie had never pictured a boy. She detested it, even as a young girl. She proclaimed that you both would have a coven of little girls only. But when he came alog it all changed. His tiny eyes were so excited to intake his surroundings. Babies’ neck are rarely strong enough to hold up their head, but he would pull his head away from your chest to look up at you. His personality was already taking shape so early.

Though it had been so unconventional, there was only joy brought with him.

There were so many names that had crossed your notes app. Leo, Finn, Ezra... but one look at that screaming baby, so full of life, your brain settled on James.

James.

He fit it so well.

He was a great sleeper. He brought you peace.

And you brought you an achor.

He threw you a life vest in that storm.

You had been riddled with uncertainty. You were consumed by fear. You barely trusted yourself. He tied you to these small flashes of memories.

You couldn't even admit to yourself that they were real. That you had memories at all. They could be entirely false.

But you had seen that smile before. His little chuckle, even as a baby. You had heard that before. It was like remembering a dream. The harder you tried to hold on to the fleeting memory, the faster it left. It betrayed you.

----

Little James was just learning to walk. Clinging to the edge of the coffee table, James lost his balance and toppled to his knees, giggling slightly. His little head turned up to yours.

He hops to the ground, catches himself, and looks up at you. His smile, cheeky almost. He knew what he was doing.

Frantic searching, as you always did. Racking your brain with all your might. Flipping through files in your memory to spark something.

As per usual, it vanishes as quickly as it arrives.

What could incite these. Could you trigger them somehow? Is there an event that woudl rush all of these memories back at once.

Who was this man? You could never find his face. It was like he had features and expressions, but they were impossible to conceptualize. Your brain couldn't recognize it as a face, almost.

You knew you loved him. Once.

He had been a huge part of your life at some point in time.

The world had been changed radically since the Avengers. Ideas of alternate universes, different dimensions... are these some alternate timeline bleeding into your subconscious? No physical anomaly like a baby had been obvious, though. How would that possibly work?

Logic escaped you. This life you were living was a gift, but was still completely nonsensical.

James' giggle pulls you out of your spiraling, gurgling some saliva as he attempts the climb to the summit of the coffee table again.

A smile crinkling his eyes as he found you in the crowd.

Years had passed of this endless inner monologue. Years of uncertainty. Years of foggy memories plaguing your everyday existence.

Even still, life had to go on. James needed a present mom. Your ability to be there for him was top priority. You would have to find a more effective way to cope.

-----

AN: I hope you like! I brought in some very loose memories from my own life, which was very fun. Let me know if yall have any tips or suggestions! I’m already drafting pt. 2 when I’m posting this. YAY!

[thebostonboys]

wrong brother

featuring matt x reader (face claim is glambyflo)

in which... reader is dating matt but frequently drags chris around town when matt doesn't want to leave the house. since fans don't see what goes on behind closed doors, they begin to speculate.

author's note: I've never done a smau before and have no clue how to format these things, please be gentle

*

yourusername made a post

yourusername: introduced bestie to matcha and kept him occupied at the beach by sending him scavenging

tagged: @/christophersturniolo

christophersturniolo: don't act like you're not impressed with my haul

> yourusername: you didn't find the magic conch :(

> nicolassturniolo: make me a necklace 🐚

>> matthew.sturniolo: make me a necklace too but make mine better

yourbestfriend: I've been replaced?!

> yourusername: I had to spare his feelings, trust you'll always be my #1 🫶🏻

>> christophersturniolo: rude

fanuser: chat is this real???

fanuser1: I can't decide who I'm more jealous of #bipanic

fanuser2: they're actually so cute together

*

yourusername posted a story

> christophersturniolo replied: ew get away from me

>> yourusername: damn okay no more free coffee for you

*

yourusername made a post

yourusername: matcha trips are more fun with friends ♡

tagged: @/christophersturniolo

christophersturniolo: I've never seen this woman before in my life

> yourusername: your life would be so boring without me and you know it

>> christophersturniolo: unfortch

>> yourusername: on second thought, I've never seen this man before in my life

> fanuser3: are they flirting???

>> fanuser4: @/fanuser3 literally not even being subtle about it either

yourbestfriend: me next, me next!

❤️ liked

matthew.sturniolo: absolute smoke show 🔥

❤️ liked

> fanuser5: MATTHEW THAT'S YOUR BROTHER'S GF

>> fanuser6: @/fanuser5 men and women are allowed to be just friends

>> fanuser5: @/fanuser6 she's literally with chris all the time, it's so obvious they're together

>> fanuser6: @/fanuser5 this is so weird, just let them be friends

*

yourusername posted a story

> matthew.sturniolo replied: I need a haircut

>> yourusername: only if you want to be single!!! I'm so serious rn keep the long hair!!!

>> matthew.sturniolo: 😔

>> yourusername: I need something to hold onto

>> matthew.sturniolo: 😏

*

yourusername made a post

yourusername: life lately 🍣🍵

tagged: @/sturniolo.triplets, @/matthew.sturniolo, @/christophersturniolo, @/nicolassturniolo, @/yourbestfriend

yourbestfriend: that raspberry matcha was genuinely lifechanging

❤️ liked

nicolassturniolo: delete this now

> yourusername: but you look so pretty 🥰

>> nicolassturniolo: I will shoot you with a gun

christophersturniolo: who's the hottie in the last one?

> nicolassturniolo: I'll shoot you too

fanuser7: is that chris in #5???

matthew.sturniolo: hot coffee

❤️ liked

> fanuser8: I thought she was with chris??? what is going on???

>> fanuser9: @/fanuser8 it's literally just written on her tote yall are insufferable

fanuser10: I can't even be mad, she's gorgeous 😭

> fanuser11: nah I'm still mad lmao chris should be with me 💔

fanuser12: chris might be the luckiest man on earth

*

christophersturniolo made a post

christophersturniolo: went outside 🌲

tagged: @/yourusername

yourusername: thanks for not pushing me in 😇

> christophersturniolo: pretty sure matt and nic would both kill me if I did

>> matthew.sturniolo: I'm glad you know I'm stronger

>> christophersturniolo: okay let's not talk crazy

fanuser1: so sweet of her to take him on a walk! get those zoomies out!

fanuser2: need to find a man like chris who actually takes good pics of his girl

fanuser3: the more they post together, the more I think I love this???

fanuser4: the real question is where y/n managed to find cute hiking boots

> yourusername: merrell brand! so comfy and reliable!

*

yourusername posted a story

> christophersturniolo replied: this is why everyone thinks we're dating 🥴

>> yourusername: I can't believe they think my standards are that low 💔

>> christophersturniolo: your standards literally look exactly like me???

*

matthew.sturniolo posted a story

> yourusername replied: you're so lucky to have such a beautiful amazing wonderful delightful caring sweet incredible girlfriend 🥰

>> matthew.sturniolo: I'm hoping if I play my cards right, we'll both be lucky tonight

>> yourusername: matthew!

>> yourusername: 💦👅

*

yourusername made a post

yourusername: wining and dining 💕

nicolassturniolo: you are STUNNING

❤️ liked

> yourusername: no u 🥹

christophersturniolo: without me? smh

> yourusername: well that depends on who you ask

>> fanuser13: WHAT DOES THIS MEAN

fanuser14: pls tell me everyone saw matt's story bc this is driving me crazy

> fanuser15: I feel like it was a double date with her and chris??? and that's why she said it depends on who you ask???

fanuser16: I'm fr gonna crash out if she's not dating chris, they're too cute to not be together

*

matthew.sturniolo shared a post

matthew.sturniolo: wrong brother

tagged: @/yourusername

yourusername: love you so much!!!

❤️ liked

christophersturniolo: thank god, dating your girlfriend was exhausting

> nicolassturniolo: she's just out of your league

[sintaera]

Hi sorry for bothering but I saw from your other blog, the fandoms you write for that you also write for Marvel. I just watched BND a few days ago and I was hoping you'd write something for Peter Parker? I had this idea that maybe you are an arachnologist and Bruce wants you to monitor Peter? I leave the rest to your imagination as I absolutely love how you write for Baelor, especially the Blood and Ruin one. I didn't choose a dialogue prompt, but I did send another request for 6. and 39. for Baelor. Hope you are okay and thank you! Love your work and love you!

Oh, certainly. I watched it on Sunday with a friend, and I absolutely love the idea of the reader being an arachnologist. I hope you are happy with what I wrote.

The amount of time I spent googling the correct terms, a spider's anatomy, how they work, damn, it had me pooped. The scientific terms, fuck me, I don't even understand half of these words, but here you go.

𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐊 | 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑.

“But I’m also standing here looking at you, and I can’t pretend I don’t feel this. Whatever this is. It’s real. And it’s getting harder to ignore.”

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒; porn with plot, fingering, p in v, romantic tension, sexual tension, rough sex, use of organic webs, a shit ton of scientific words I never thought I'd have to google, as this is the first time I am writing for any character in the MCU, minors dni.

You did not expect the call to come from Bruce Banner.

You are an arachnologist.

Your world is silk proteins, vibration-sensitive setae, the quiet architecture of webs spun in the dark corners of laboratories and forests.

You have published papers on the tensile strength of major ampullate silk and the neurological mapping of spider sensory systems.

You have stood for hours in climate-controlled rooms photographing the geometric perfection of an orb-weaver’s overnight construction.

You have never, not once, considered that your expertise would place you across a metal examination table from the man the city calls Spider-Man.

Banner owes you a favour from years ago, something involving a shared grant application and a late-night conversation about radiation-induced morphological change that neither of you has ever spoken of again.

When he contacts you, his voice is careful, measured, the voice of a man who has seen too many experiments go sideways.

“There’s a young man,” he says. “His physiology is… evolving. Faster than any of the models predicted. I need someone who understands arthropod systems at a level most medical doctors don’t. Someone discreet. Someone who won’t treat him like a specimen first and a person second.”

You agree before you fully understand what you are agreeing to and the laboratory he arranges is private, reinforced, tucked beneath a nondescript building in Queens that looks like every other industrial address on the block.

You arrive early the first day, tablet in hand, mind already cataloguing the equipment: high-resolution dermal scanners, vibration sensors calibrated to frequencies no human ear can detect, a centrifuge modified for organic polymer analysis, and find yourself wondering whether you are in way over your head, but you tell yourself this is simply another consultation, unusual, yes, high-stakes, most certainly, but still science.

The first time you meet Peter Parker, he is already seated on the edge of the reinforced examination table.

He is younger than the news footage suggests, early twenties, perhaps, and thinner, the kind of lean that comes from too many nights without proper meals and too many mornings spent healing from injuries no ordinary person could survive.

The red-and-blue suit is nowhere in sight. He wears a faded Columbia hoodie, dark jeans frayed at the hems, and a look of polite wariness that does not quite hide the exhaustion carved beneath his eyes.

“Dr. Banner said you’re the spider expert,” he says. His voice is light, almost playful, but there is a careful distance in it, the sound of someone who has learned not to trust new adults too quickly. “I hope that means you won’t try to put me in a jar.”

You set your tablet down and meet his gaze directly. “I’m here to help you understand what’s happening to your body. Nothing more. No jars. No cages. Just data, and whatever answers we can find together.”

He studies you for a moment longer than is strictly professional. Something in your tone seems to settle him. Then he nods, as if deciding something important. “Okay. Let’s do science.”

The first sessions are clinical by design, you take baseline readings with methodical care, heart rate at rest and under mild stress, reflex measured to the millisecond, dermal conductivity across the spinneret sites at his wrists, the strange new organic webbing that now extrudes when the mechanical shooters fail or when his emotional state spikes.

You document the accelerated healing that closes lacerations in hours instead of days.

You map the hyper-acute sensory processing that lets him track a conversation through three walls and you note the occasional black-eyed aggression that flares when his stress hormones crest above a certain threshold.

Peter endures it all with a stream of self-deprecating jokes that never quite reach his eyes. He calls the blood draws “vampire hour.”

He asks if you plan to name any newly discovered proteins after him, he makes light of the way his body sometimes produces webbing without conscious command, as if the whole thing is a mildly inconvenient party trick rather than a fundamental rewriting of his biology.

You notice the things he does not say.

He checks the exits the moment he enters a room, a quick, almost unconscious sweep of doors and windows. His shoulders carry a tension that never fully releases, even when he is sitting still.

When you ask about pain levels after a particularly intense fight the night before, he answers too quickly, too smoothly, the practiced ease of someone who has been minimizing his own injuries for years.

The bruises across his ribs are already fading to yellow-green by the time you examine them, but the way he flinches, barely, almost imperceptibly when your gloved fingers brush a deeper contusion tells you the pain is still there, sharp and present.

One afternoon, while you are calibrating a vibration sensor against the skin of his forearm, he goes quiet for a long stretch.

The lab is filled only with the soft hum of equipment and the distant, muted sound of traffic filtering down from the street above.

You can feel the heat of his skin through the thin barrier of the sensor pad. You can smell the faint metallic trace that clings to him after nights spent swinging between buildings, ozone and city dust and something uniquely his.

“You’re staring,” he says eventually, not looking at you.

“I’m observing,” you correct, keeping your voice even. “There’s a difference.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, almost reluctant. “Is there?”

You do not answer immediately. Your fingers rest lightly against the inside of his wrist, feeling the steady, too-fast pulse that never seems to slow to ordinary human rates.

You are aware of the warmth of his skin, the way the fine hairs on his forearm rise slightly under the cool air of the lab. You pull your hand back a fraction sooner than the protocol requires.

Professional courtesy, you remind yourself. Nothing more.

It is during the third week that you begin to see the grief clearly.

Peter does not speak of the people he has lost. He does not need to. It lives in the way his eyes sometimes go distant mid-conversation, the particular quality of silence that falls whenever the subject of family or close friends surfaces.

You know that the people he once called family no longer remember him at all, that a spell cast to save the multiverse erased Peter Parker from every mind that had ever loved him, this he told you himself, and it had left you burdened with guilt that you did not wish to carry.

You know there is a young woman named Michelle Jones whose name he never says aloud in your presence, though once, when a news alert flashed across his phone with a photograph of her at some MIT event, his entire body went still for three full seconds.

The stillness was more revealing than any confession.

You do not ask. You have learned, in the quiet hours of these sessions, that pressing him only makes the walls go higher.

Instead, you leave a cup of black coffee on the edge of the lab bench one evening because you have noticed he forgets to eat when the data becomes interesting. He finds it, looks at you with something unreadable moving behind his eyes, and says, quietly, “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” you reply. “Drink it anyway.”

He does. The next session, he brings two cups without comment. The gesture is small. It lands harder than it should.

The conversations begin to stretch beyond the boundaries of pure data. Scientific questions bleed into quieter ones. He asks about your work with actual spiders, the ones that do not wear masks or swing through midtown traffic.

You tell him about the orb-weaver whose web you once spent three hours photographing under controlled light, about the way the silk catches illumination like liquid, about the almost meditative patience required to observe without disturbing. He listens with a focus that makes the rest of the room fall away.

When you speak, he watches your mouth as much as he listens to your words.

“You talk about them like they’re people,” he says one night, after you have described the way a particular species adjusts its web in response to vibrational feedback from prey.

“They are living systems,” you answer. “Complex, adaptive, worth understanding on their own terms rather than forcing them into the categories we find convenient.”

His gaze holds yours a moment too long. “Yeah. I get that.”

Something shifts in the air between you. You feel it in the careful way he looks away first, in the way your own pulse has quickened without permission.

You return to your notes with deliberate focus, writing measurements you already know by heart simply to give your hands something to do. The numbers blur slightly. You blink them back into clarity.

You are aware, painfully, constantly aware, that Peter Parker still loves Michelle Jones. It is written in every careful silence, every time his phone lights up with a notification and he does not reach for it, every time the conversation drifts toward the future and he goes quiet. You tell yourself that your role is scientific.

That the growing warmth in your chest when he laughs at one of his own terrible jokes is irrelevant. That the way your eyes track the line of his throat when he tilts his head back in exhaustion means nothing that cannot be set aside at the end of a session.

You are lying to yourself, and the lie is becoming harder to maintain.

Weeks turn into a month. Then six weeks. The organic webbing stabilizes somewhat under your guidance; you help him understand the neural pathways that control its extrusion, the way stress and unresolved emotion feed the process the same way they once fed the mechanical shooters’ reliability.

He begins to trust the data you give him. More than that, he begins to trust you.

He starts lingering after the formal examinations end. He invents questions about silk protein folding and beta-sheet crystallinity that he already knows the answers to. You answer them anyway, standing closer than necessary under the cool fluorescent lights, the scent of coffee and ozone and his skin filling the small space between you.

Sometimes your shoulders brush when you both reach for the same instrument. Neither of you comments on it. Neither of you moves away as quickly as you should.

One evening the power flickers during a late summer thunderstorm.

The backup generators take a full eight seconds to kick in.

In the brief darkness you hear his breath catch, not in fear, but in the heightened sensory overload that storms sometimes trigger for him.

The rain against the building’s outer shell becomes a thousand separate impacts. The distant traffic becomes individual engines and tire patterns and when the lights return, he is closer than before.

His hand is braced on the edge of the table beside yours. You can feel the heat of him through the narrow gap of air that remains.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He nods, but his eyes are darker than usual, the pupils dilated wide. “Yeah. Just… a lot of input all at once. The rain. The electricity in the air. You.” He stops, as if the last word escaped without permission.

You do not move away and neither does he. The moment stretches, fragile and charged. You can see the pulse at the base of his throat, just as much as you can smell the rain that still clings to his hair from the rooftop he must have crossed to get here.

Your own body is answering in ways that have nothing to do with science, heat low in your belly, a tight, restless awareness of every point where you might touch if either of you shifted even an inch.

Peter’s gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second and the look is open, hungry, and immediately shuttered.

Then he steps back, running a hand through his damp hair. “I should go,” he says. “Early patrol. The city’s restless when it rains like this.”

You nod, throat dry. “Be careful.”

He pauses at the door, one hand on the frame. “You always say that.”

“I mean it every time.”

The smile he gives you is small and real and devastating in its quiet sincerity. Then he is gone, and you are left alone with the hum of the equipment and the knowledge that the professional boundary you have been so carefully maintaining is beginning to fray at the edges.

You sit on the edge of the examination table he just vacated and press the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to will the heat in your blood back into something manageable.

It does not work.

You try harder after that night. You keep the sessions shorter, more rigidly structured. You focus on the data with almost aggressive precision.

You stop bringing coffee. You stop lingering over questions that are not strictly necessary. You become, for a week, the model of clinical detachment.

Peter notices immediately.

“Did I do something?” he asks one afternoon, after you have spent twenty minutes discussing dermal regeneration rates and cellular turnover without once meeting his eyes for longer than a second.

“No.” You keep your voice even, professional. “We’re simply being efficient. There’s a lot of data to process.”

He is quiet for a long moment. You can feel him watching you. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, stripped of the usual humor. “You’re pulling away.”

The honesty of it startles you into looking up. He is watching you with an expression that is equal parts concern and something hungrier, something that has been building in the quiet spaces between your conversations for weeks.

“Peter—”

“I know,” he interrupts, soft but firm. “I know this is complicated. I know I’m… not free. Not really. There’s someone I still—” He stops, swallows, forces the words out. “There’s someone I still love. Someone who doesn’t remember me. And I carry that every day. But I also know that when I’m in this room with you, I can breathe for the first time in a long time. And I don’t want to lose that because we’re both too scared to admit something’s changing between us.”

Your heart is beating too hard. You set the tablet down carefully, as if sudden movement might shatter the moment.

“I am trying to keep this professional,” you say. The words taste like ash. “Because if I don’t, if I let myself want more than data and careful distance, then I don’t know how to stop.”

“If you don’t, what?” His voice is rough.

You do not answer, you cannot, because the truth is too large and too dangerous: if you stop holding the line, you will cross it, and once you cross it, there may be no returning to the careful, safe distance of scientist and subject.

There will only be this, the heat, the wanting, the knowledge that he still carries another woman’s name in the quietest part of his heart.

Peter steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to hold his gaze. The air between you feels charged, thick with everything neither of you has said.

“I’m still in love with her,” he says, quiet and raw. “I won’t lie about that. I won’t pretend the spell made those feelings disappear just because her memories did. But I’m also standing here looking at you, and I can’t pretend I don’t feel this. Whatever this is. It’s real. And it’s getting harder to ignore.”

The air between you feels electric. Your skin prickles with awareness. You can see the faint scar along his jaw that has almost finished healing, the way his pupils have expanded, the careful control he is exerting over every muscle in his body. You can smell the clean scent of his skin beneath the residual city dust.

“Peter,” you whisper. “We can’t.”

“I know.” His voice is rough. “But that doesn’t make it go away.”

He leaves shortly after and you stand in the empty lab for a long time, hands braced on the cold metal table, trying to slow the frantic rhythm of your heart. The fluorescent lights hum. Somewhere above, the city continues without either of you. You tell yourself that tomorrow you will reassert the boundaries. That you will be clinical and distant and safe.

You already know you are lying again. It happens on a night when everything goes wrong at once.

Peter arrives late, still in the suit, the mask pushed up to his forehead so that his face is bare and open and exhausted.

There is blood on the fabric, his own, you realize quickly from the pattern and the way it has already begun to dry and a wildness in his eyes that you have only seen in fragments before.

The black-eyed aggression is closer to the surface tonight, the evolutionary edge of his mutation sharpened by stress and injury and the chemical cascade of a fight that went on too long.

His hands shake as he peels the gloves off and drops them on the nearest counter.

“Bad night,” he says, voice hoarse. “Damage Control got aggressive. Hand operatives mixed in. Jean’s safe—I got her out—but it got messy. I need—” He gestures vaguely at the examination table, at you, at the equipment. “I need you to check the webbing systems. Something’s wrong. They’re overproducing. I can’t shut it off properly. It’s like the valves are stuck open.”

You move on instinct, the scientist in you taking over even as the rest of you registers the blood, the tremor in his hands, the way his pupils have already begun to expand. “Sit. Top half of the suit off. Let me see the spinneret sites and the surrounding musculature.”

He strips the upper portion of the suit with efficient, almost angry motions. The body beneath is a map of fresh trauma, bruises blooming dark and wide across his ribs, a shallow but ugly laceration along one shoulder that is already trying to close, the faint sheen of sweat on skin that runs hotter than any ordinary human’s.

You step between his knees without thinking, the better to examine the spinneret glands at his wrists. Your fingers are careful, clinical, pressing lightly to assess swelling and heat.

The organic webbing is indeed hyperactive. Fine strands keep emerging even as you work, sticky and strong, responding to the elevated stress hormones still flooding his system.

You murmur observations under your breath, trying to keep your voice steady while your mind catalogues the elevated heart rate, the dilated pupils, the way his breathing has gone shallow and quick.

“Peter. Look at me.”

He does and the irises are almost completely swallowed by black. The careful control he usually maintains is slipping, eroded by exhaustion and pain and the sensory overload of a night spent fighting at the edge of his limits.

“I can feel everything,” he says, low and strained. “The city. The vibrations in the floor from the subway three blocks over. The electricity in the walls. Your heartbeat. It’s too much. I can’t filter it the way I usually can. I can’t—”

Your hand is still on his wrist and he turns his hand and catches your fingers, holding them with a strength that is careful even now, as if some last thread of control is still trying to protect you from him.

The contact sends a jolt straight through you, heat and want and weeks of denied tension crystallizing into a single point of contact.

“I need you to stay still,” you tell him, though your own voice has gone unsteady. “Let me try to regulate the neural feedback with the sensor array. If we can dampen the input—”

You reach for the small sensor array on the nearby tray, but his other hand comes up and stops you.

His palm is warm against your waist, the pressure light but unmistakable, fingers spreading against the fabric of your lab coat as if he needs the anchor.

“I don’t want the sensors,” he says. The words are rough, almost broken. “I want—”

He does not finish the sentence and instead he pulls you forward in one smooth motion until you are standing fully between his thighs, your bodies nearly flush. The heat of him is startling after the cool air of the lab.

You can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours, the hard line of muscle and the residual tremor of adrenaline.

“Peter—”

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers. His forehead rests against yours. His breath ghosts over your lips, warm and uneven. “If this isn’t what you want, if I’ve misread everything, tell me right now and I’ll let go. I’ll walk out and we can pretend this never happened.”

You should, every professional instinct, every careful boundary you have drawn over the past weeks, demands that you step back.

You are supposed to be the scientist. He is supposed to be the subject, there is a woman he still loves, a city that needs him whole, a future neither of you can fully map.

You do not tell him to stop.

Instead you close the last inch of distance and kiss him.

The sound he makes is raw, almost broken, a low, wounded noise that vibrates against your mouth. His hands tighten at your waist, then slide up your back, pulling you harder against him with a strength that is carefully leashed even now.

The kiss is not gentle.

It is weeks of denied tension breaking open all at once, hungry, desperate, tasting of adrenaline and copper and need. You feel the faint stickiness of webbing against your sleeve where his wrist presses, the thrum of his pulse under your fingertips when you cup his jaw and hold him there.

He stands in one fluid motion, never breaking the kiss, and turns you so that your back meets the edge of the examination table.

His body cages yours, broad and hot and trembling with the effort of restraint. You can feel the hard line of his cock already pressing against your hip through the remaining fabric of the suit, thick and insistent, and the evidence of his arousal sends a fresh wave of heat flooding through you.

“I’ve wanted this,” he breathes against your mouth between kisses. “Every time you touched me to take a reading. Every time you looked at me like I was something worth understanding instead of something broken or dangerous. I tried so hard not to want it. I told myself you were just being kind. That I had no right—”

You silence him with another kiss, deeper this time, your tongue sliding against his. Your hands map the planes of his chest, the ridges of old and new scars, the tight muscles that jump under your palms when your nails skim a particularly sensitive spot just below his ribs. He shudders hard, a full-body tremor, and the black in his eyes expands further.

The last of his control frays.

Peter lifts you onto the table with effortless strength. The metal is cool beneath you; his hands are burning hot as they push your clothing aside with single-minded focus. Lab coat first, shrugged from your shoulders and discarded. Blouse next, buttons dealt with more carefully than the urgency in his movements would suggest.

The soft fabric of your bra is unhooked and drawn away. When your bare skin meets the cool air of the lab he makes a low, almost pained sound and lowers his mouth to your breast.

The sensation is electric. His tongue is hot, wet, his teeth carefully sharp as they graze your nipple before he sucks hard enough to draw a broken moan from your throat.

You arch into him, fingers threading into his hair, and he answers with a deeper pull that sends sparks racing down your spine, one of his hands slides down your stomach, finds the waistband of your trousers, and works them open with the same focused intensity.

He tugs them down your hips along with your underwear in one motion, and then you are bare from the waist down on the cold metal table while he is still half-dressed in the lower portion of the suit.

When his fingers slip between your legs and find you already wet, slick and ready, he groans against your skin.

“Fuck—you’re soaked.” The words are rough, almost disbelieving. “All those weeks of careful distance. Were you thinking about this too? When you were taking my pulse? When you were measuring the webbing?”

You can only nod, hips shifting restlessly against his hand. He strokes you with devastating precision, two fingers sliding deep into the heat of you, thumb circling your clit in tight, perfect pressure.

The dual sensation makes your thighs tremble. You can feel the organic webbing beginning to spin from his free wrist in earnest now, fine strands that catch against the table and your skin like living silk, warm and slightly elastic.

“Peter—please—”

He kisses you hard, swallowing the rest of the plea, and works a third finger into you. The stretch is intense, perfect, filling you in a way that makes your head fall back against the table.

You rock against his hand, chasing the friction, while his mouth moves to the sensitive join of your neck and shoulder.

Every sense is heightened, the scent of him, the taste of his skin when you turn your head and bite lightly at his jaw, the low continuous sound of need he cannot seem to stop making, the faint sticky pull of webbing as it anchors and releases against the metal.

When he finally withdraws his fingers you make a soft, involuntary sound of loss. He answers by shoving the remaining lower half of the suit down his hips with impatient force.

His cock springs free, thick and flushed dark and already leaking at the tip. The sight of it, of him, bare and desperate and looking at you like you are the only solid thing left in a collapsing world, makes your mouth go dry and your cunt clench around nothing.

He does not ask again.

He positions himself between your thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging against your entrance, slick with your wetness and his own precome, and pushes in with one long, relentless thrust.

The stretch is overwhelming.

You cry out, head falling back, nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. He seats himself to the hilt in a single continuous motion and holds there, trembling, forehead pressed to yours as he gives you time to adjust to the sheer size of him.

You can feel every pulse of his cock inside you, the way it twitches against your inner walls, the heat of him flooding every nerve ending. The fullness is almost too much and somehow still not enough.

“Okay?” he manages, voice completely wrecked.

“Yes—move—Peter, please, I need you to move—”

He does.

The first few strokes are controlled, almost careful, the last remnants of restraint trying to protect you from the full force of what he is.

Then something in him snaps cleanly.

The black of his eyes expands until almost no color remains. A low, animal sound tears from his throat, and he begins to fuck you in earnest, deep, powerful thrusts that rock the reinforced table beneath you and drive the breath from your lungs in sharp, punched-out sounds.

Each impact sends bright sparks of pleasure racing up your spine and down into your toes. You wrap your legs around his waist and meet him thrust for thrust, the wet, filthy sound of your bodies coming together obscenely loud in the quiet of the lab.

Webbing spins freely now, anchoring his hands to the table on either side of your head, holding him in place as he drives into you with relentless force.

The silk is warm, slightly elastic; when you test it with your fingers it holds firm, a living restraint of his own making.

He has trapped himself above you, and the knowledge that he cannot easily pull away only heightens the intensity of every thrust.

“You feel—god—you feel perfect,” he gasps against your ear, the words broken by the force of his hips. “Been wanting to be inside you for weeks. Every time you touched my wrist to check the glands. Every time you looked at me like I was more than the mask or the mutation or the mistakes—”

Your answer is a broken moan as he shifts the angle of his hips and hits a place deep inside that makes your vision white out at the edges.

He notices immediately, of course he does, with senses that sharp and adjusts to pound that same spot again and again, relentless, precise, until you are shaking apart beneath him.

The orgasm crashes through you without warning, sharp, overwhelming, your cunt clenching hard around his cock in rhythmic pulses as you cry out his name and dig your nails into the webbing-anchored muscle of his arms.

He does not slow.

If anything the tight flutter of your climax drives him harder. He fucks you through it and beyond, chasing his own release with a single-minded intensity that borders on feral. Sweat slicks both your bodies.

The table creaks under the force of his thrusts. Fine strands of webbing catch in your hair and across your bare shoulders and the soft skin of your inner thighs. You dig your heels into the small of his back and urge him deeper, wanting every inch, every desperate snap of his hips, every low broken sound he makes when he bottoms out inside you.

“Come on,” you manage, voice raw. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

The words seem to undo the last of him. When he comes it is with a guttural, almost pained sound that is pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips snap forward one final time and he buries himself to the root, cock pulsing hard and thick as he empties into you in long, hot spurts.

You feel the flood of him, the way his body shudders and locks above you, the full weight of his enhanced strength held carefully so he does not crush you even in the depths of release.

For a moment he is completely unguarded, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open against your neck, the webbing at his wrists creaking under the tension of his grip.

The silence that follows is broken only by the ragged sound of your shared breathing and the soft creak of cooling webbing as it begins to lose some of its immediate elasticity.

Peter’s eyes, when they finally open, are still darker than usual, but the pure black has receded enough that you can see the familiar warm brown again. He looks at you as if he is only now fully remembering where he is, what he has done, the line that has been crossed and cannot be uncrossed.

One hand carefully dissolves the webbing anchoring him to the table; the other stays cupped against the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone with a tenderness that is almost painful after the intensity of what just happened.

“I lost control,” he says quietly. There is no regret in the words—only a kind of stunned, honest recognition. “I didn’t mean to take it that far. I mean—I did want it. I’ve wanted it. But not like I was going to break something.”

You silence him with a soft kiss, slower this time, tasting the salt of sweat and the residual copper of the night’s earlier violence. When you pull back you keep your forehead against his, breathing the same air.

“I know,” you murmur. “I didn’t stop you. I didn’t want you to stop.”

He searches your face for a long moment. Whatever he finds there seems to ease something tight and frightened in his expression.

He eases out of you carefully; the sudden emptiness makes you both hiss softly. For a moment neither of you moves. Then he helps you sit up, finds a clean soft cloth from the supply cabinet, and tends to you with a care that is almost reverent, wiping the evidence of his release from your thighs, checking the faint red marks left by the webbing, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist where his fingers had held too tightly.

Later, when the lab is quiet again and the worst of the physical evidence has been cleaned away, he sits beside you on the edge of the table, bare shoulder pressed to yours.

The city hums beyond the reinforced walls, sirens in the distance, the low continuous thrum of traffic, the thousand ordinary lives continuing as if nothing in this room has changed.

Somewhere out there is a woman he still loves, a city that still needs its Spider-Man, a future neither of you can fully see or promise.

Here, in the fluorescent quiet of the lab, there is only the residual heat of what just happened and the careful way his fingers eventually lace with yours.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says eventually, voice low. “I don’t know how to hold both things at once—the way I still feel about her, and the way I feel when I look at you.”

“Neither do I,” you answer honestly. “But I’m not sorry it happened. I’m not sorry we’re sitting here.”

He turns his head and presses a lingering kiss to your temple. The gesture is soft, almost shy, a stark contrast to the way he took you only minutes ago, the way he lost every careful boundary and fucked you senseless against the metal table while his webbing held him in place.

“Neither am I,” he whispers against your skin.

Outside, a brand new day is already beginning to thin the darkness at the edges of the city, but inside the lab, for a little while longer, the two of you simply sit in the aftermath, scientist and subject, arachnologist and spider, two people who never meant to fall into each other and did it anyway, thoroughly and without restraint.

And neither of you is ready to let go of the other’s hand.

[scrimsturn]

can you handle a little more? | p. parker ᝰ.ᐟ

pairing — fwb BND!peter parker x fem!reader

warnings — MDNI, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, dom!peter, oral (r receiving), bondage (webbing), slight choking, drool/spit, edging, mocking/teasing, multiple orgasms, cream pie, pet names, vulgar wording/expression, peter gets a bit rough, porn w little to no plot. slight BND spoilers (?)

summary — you and peter have a complicated relationship. just [best] friends that fuck, even more now that peter can’t help himself when his arachnid levels skyrocket.

wc — 2.8k

a/n — this is my first fic on this account woooo! saw the movie last night and i feel like a feral animal. didn’t rlly proof read this so srry. entirely self-indulgent.

In the moment, you wouldn’t be able to describe how you got here. With your thoughts clouded, tainted and filthy, you found yourself underneath your best friend, his legs straddling yours with his knees dipping into the plush mattress on both sides of your hips. Tongues tangled together, you held the sides of his face, gently swiping your thumbs over his cheekbones as you relish in the feeling of his soft lips effortlessly aligning with yours.

With both of your legs being imprisoned between his, you took the advantage and began to gently graze your knee against the tent forming on his sweatpants, earning a soft moan from him in return. The moment of pure transparency made him feel vulnerable, and after a few moments of you gently repeating your movements, it took much strength for him to not succumb to your advances, gently grasping your legs to wrap them around his waist.

After that, there was no turning back.

Grabbing a free pillow from the bed with one hand, Peter wraps his opposite forearm underneath your lower back, lifting you to place the pillow on the mattress beneath you. With a soft gasp at the sudden movement, you realize what he's doing, ultimately lifting your lower back even further to help, your back arching against the bed. Once Peter has done so, he pushes you back down against the pillow, which noticeably raises you up just a little less than enough to be in level with him.

“Can I do it?”

Peter raises a brow, “Do what?” he inquires in a genuine tone, stroking himself slowly as to not disturb the tender moment. The two of you, tangled together fully unclothed, was not something Peter would have expected five months ago by a long shot -- but this wasn't the first time. Hell, he's lost count at this point. Thankfully, you've managed to keep your friendship strong with no strings attached.

Instead of answering, you take it upon yourself to wrap your fingers just above his around his length, gently pulling it closer to your core, ultimately forcing him on top of you. Peter easily catches himself, his hands landing on the pillow that rests underneath your head. He would have teased you for your impatience if it weren’t for the sudden doe eyes catching him off guard.

Of course, you knew he would melt and have to oblige.

You gently guide the tip to your folds, your eyes never once leaving his as he watches your lips gradually part open the more he fills you.

Fuck, Peter thought, though his facial expression remained clear. He knew you had him wrapped, and you knew too.

It wasn’t long before...

“I know,” Peter fake pouts, dipping his thumb between your teeth, feeling your tongue wrap around the pad of his thumb, along with a vibration of a muffled moan. His hips worked at a deep, meaningful pace. He wanted to make sure he felt all of you with each thrust, loving the way your eyes would cross ever so slightly when he’d bottom out, but yet he still managed to keep his pace slow and calculated. One side of his lips gently quirked into a smug smirk before it quickly fell back into focus. Peter softly pulls his thumb down, dragging your bottom lip with it.

The look of your swollen lips along with your gently furrowed brows was enough for him to start fastening his pace, each deep thrust of his hips against yours forcing your legs to lose balance around his waist. He feels your heels desperately digging into him, trying to stay in place but his force was nonetheless causing your legs to drop further with each movement.

“-m slipping,” you softly whine, your fingernails absentmindedly digging into his shoulders. The feeling of them combined with your heels in his sides were a clear representation of your attachment to him; no matter the challenge, you continue to hold on. Peter was always a challenge, and who were you to ever turn that down?

Sure, you were cold and reserved on the outside, preferring to preserve yourself for only those you wanted let in. Peter was, and has been, one of the few people to make your walls dishevel in such a way that he could have you this vulnerable in front of him. This vulnerable for him.

At first, it was hard getting him to open up to you, especially about the fact that he’s fucking spider-man. It seemed to only bring you closer — very close.

“I gotcha,” Peter softly whispers, assuring you that no matter how weak you become, he will be able to hold your weight. He wraps his hands around your underthighs, pushing them to force your knees to your shoulders as much as you could withstand. The angle was electrifying, unlike anything you had experienced before. He’s so fucking strong. The sounds of your cunt, along with your pitiful moans grew stronger the longer he held your thighs against your chest.

“G-onna cum… m’gonna cum,” you breathlessly manage to gasp as he rams into you, your cunt practically splashing against his bare thighs with each thrust. It was pretty obvious, but he loved when you’d tell him. The thought of feeling you cum around him made his skin feel hot, his grip on your thighs tightening so much you thought he might crush you beneath his fingertips.

“Oh yeah?” he softly instigates your orgasm, keeping his pace the same as to not disturb it. “I don’t know… I think you can hold on longer than that.”

A pitiful, desperate cry falls from your lips at his response, as you know fully well that he would be just as satisfied if you couldn’t hold out, but you wanted to try for him.

“F-fuck,” your chest heaves with a whine, your eyes screwing shut. “I don’t know if I can.”

Your moans continue with no particular end, your slick walls tightly clenching around him as you try to hold back, the rippling sensations gradually growing stronger. Your heart pounds in your chest as your eyebrows furrow tighter, your mouth hanging open and jaw trembling as you attempt to control yourself.

“You’re doing so good,” you hear Peter praise, intently watching your facial expressions and tightly closed eyes as your thighs tremble around him. Peter suddenly deepens his next thrust, ramming your sweet spot that was sure to send you over the edge. Your eyes fly open, landing right on him as you felt yourself begin to unravel.

“O-oh god,” you huff before warning, “I’m-i’m c—“

Quickly, Peter pulls his hips back, disconnecting from you. This was a complete surprise to you, since Peter had never ruined a climax for you before. Before you can protest, he firmly grabs your hips, twisting his wrists to easily flip you over. A whimper falls from your lips at the sudden change, falling into the bed with a ruffled thud, but you ultimately lift yourself onto your knees, lifting your ass just enough for him.

“My god,” Peter groans deeply but quietly, his grip on your waist tightening before he presses numerous wet kisses on the plushy skin on the edge of your lower back. Despite being frustrated, you knew he wouldn’t leave you like this, patiently anticipating his next move.

While your body continues to tremble in his hold, he rolls over onto his back, moving up the bed as to fit his face underneath your dripping slit, yanking your thighs down. You land perfectly on his tongue, with which he wastes no time swirling through your lips, collecting your arousal with a muffled groan. Although your face is further away than before, he can still hear your unfiltered moaning and whimpering as the trembling in your body grows worse.

You grip the pillow in front of you for slight stabilization, your knuckles turning white as they curl around the cotton. You couldn’t speak, overwhelmed with pleasure to the point where you were ready to start begging.

The room was otherwise quiet, the only light illuminating the room coming from the lamp next to Peter’s bed, and the city lights from the large windows.

“Can’t take it,” you manage in a weak whisper between your incoherent mumbles, knowing he wasn't able to hear you. “c-can’t take it.”

Peter could hear that you were speaking, but he couldn’t make out your words. Withdrawing his tongue from your clit, he asks, “What was that, baby?”

Baby. You shiver at the feeling of his breath against your swollen cunt. You try, you really do, to answer, but you couldn’t properly take control of your thoughts just yet, mustering a muffled moan in return. Peter hums, his cold fingers slipping up the sides of your bare thighs before landing on your waist. His tongue gently swipes up your folds one more time before firmly gripping your waist, lifting you to allow himself to slip further up the bed.

“Sit up,” he gently demands. You weakly push your arms off the mattress to sit up, your knees continuing to dig into the bed as you watch him move up into his new position. Now, you're straddling his lap, his cock resting against your inner thigh as he sits up with you, his mouth inches from yours.

He wastes no time connecting his lips with yours, sharing the taste of you on his tongue as it dips onto your mouth. His hands remain busy, gripping your waist with one hand as he uses the other to wrap his fingers around his cock. The unspoken action results in you lifting yourself up, his only focus now being on what you want most.

He gently pushes the tip past your folds, your desperate cunt practically sucking it in as you easily slip down, filling yourself completely as he watches. You begin to softly roll your hips, bouncing gently so that all that could be heard was his shaky breath, your desperate moans, and the sounds of your slick cunt accepting him inch by inch.

“Can’t even let me take my time,” he softly murmurs to himself with a raised brow, his sarcastic, blank eyes staring into yours. He wants more than anything to throw you back into your previous position and fuck you senseless into the mattress, but this moment is for you. Your grip on his shoulders tighten, your movements becoming faster as you feel your high building once again, desperately chasing it. He takes note of this. “Mm, getting close…”

To him, you’re an open fucking book. You couldn’t hear him, and if you could, you weren't paying attention. Your mind was lost in the feeling of him, the feeling that you only allow him to provide you.

Your whimpers and whiny moans grow louder, and you desperately wrap your arms around him as if you were seeing him for the first time in years. Raw cries escape your lips as you roll your hips faster, feeling your orgasm creeping closer and closer. Peter does the same, wrapping his arms around your frame, bear hugging you. Weakly, your chin takes place on his shoulder to rest, though your hips continue to move. Peter’s arms tighten around you and he lifts you slightly, his strength and the shift in position allowing him much more stabilization to start moving his own hips, thrusting them up to meet your movements.

“Oh fuck.. oh fuck,” you ramble in his ear, your muscles spasming. He feels the additional grip of your pussy as it tightens around him, your climax barreling into you. You don't warn him, your eyes rolling back, nails digging into him, desperately grabbing at his skin to hold onto him as he thrusts up into you. Your body jolts as you hit your peak, a string of pretty, pitiful moans falling from your lips as your orgasm strikes and slowly dissipates. Peter knows your body well enough to know you were cumming, that rhythmic flutter of your cunt quite familiar by now… but that didn’t stop him from thrusting even deeper.

His strength felt stronger, if it were even possible. More purposeful. You couldn’t see it, the way his eyes clouded with darkness, a darkness that had only started occurring just recently and would especially happen whenever you’d have sex. The feeling of you cumming around him was so overwhelming, so electrifying, that his arachnid levels would skyrocket. Peter’s sweet, coffee brown eyes were gone, now entirely jet black. It was as if black ink had spilled and spread so quickly, so effortlessly, that it would be impossible to fix the stain.

“Pete… Peter…” you weakly moan, chin still planted on his shoulder. “I can’t.. s’enough.. babe!”

You moan desperately, measly pushing his waist back as a reflex in response to the overwhelming sensations as he continues to hold you in a bear hug, thrusting into your wet cunt that’s practically oozing around him. Peter unwraps an arm from around you, using his hand to grab both of yours and plant them against your lower back.

thwip!

You tug, it’s not budging. Peter practically handcuffed you against yourself with his webbing, the wet strings giving slightly before becoming tighter the more you fight it. Your eyes roll back completely, your body shaking uncontrollably as he takes full control of you. You were fucked out. You knew fully well that you could use the safe word you’d made, but deep down, you didn’t want to. All you wanted was to keep feeling this fucking good.

You feel his arms wrap around you once again, the heat of his breath tickling your neck,

“You’re done when I think you are,” Peter grunts, his cock pulsing as your pussy continues to suck him in with greed. You feel your heart thud in your chest, his sudden gravely tone sending a shockwave down your spine. It’s happening.

With his arms still wrapped around you, he reaches up with one hand to grab the back of your neck, his long fingers making it to the sides of your throat. Pressing his fingers against the right spots, your moans grow louder and more pornographic than before.

“Listen to yourself… you really wanna stop?” Peter fake pouts in your ear, and at this point, a small dribble of drool is spilling from your lips, down your chin and onto his shoulder. He feels it instantly.

“You’re fuckin drooling,” he growls, his grip tightening around you, but not tight enough to completely restrict your breathing. You had never felt this fucked used before. The overstimulation was insane, sending shocks through your entire body, and you fucking loved it.

“More.”

Peter smirks to himself, gripping your throat tighter as your fingernails dig into his skin. “Like that?”

You whine, to which he mutters, “More what?”

Unable to respond, you roll your hips with his, chasing more friction. Getting the hint, he reaches down and yanks your hands off your back, ripping the webs with ease before he flips you onto your back, his right arm remaining underneath you while his other hand moves to tighten around the front of your throat. With the new position making it much easier for him to move, he lifts your lower back with his arm, angling you to aim much deeper than before, the pillow for that purpose before being knocked off the bed a long time ago.

You felt yourself gush around him at the sight of his eyes, at the sight of him taking you like a man starved. They were like a black hole you could get lost in over, and over. You felt as if the wind was being knocked out of you each time his tip would ram your cervix. You have not been this vocal before, not this loud. Peter didn’t mind it though, no. It surprised him.

“Please… can I—”

“I want you to,” he shuts down your inquiry with his answer before you have to muster your thoughts. Nearly instantly, your back arches, forcing your hips onto his to close any gap as your peak crashes. Your eyes blow wide and glisten with tears as you cum again, your mouth agape as your pussy spasms around him.

You squeak when Peter suddenly fastens his pace, teetering on the edge himself. Your nails grip at his biceps, taut and tense as he finally cums with a strained, pitiful grunt of your name. You feel him pulse inside you, each rope of cum gradually filling you as your eyes struggle to stay open. The sight of you is fucking intoxicating.

Peter shows you mercy, gently holding your hips and slowing his thrusts as you both ride it out, your body jolting in his hold. That sweet feeling of you cumming around him is torturous. He just couldn’t help himself.

Through hooded lids, you watch the black in his eyes dissipate, replaced by the usual warm brown you’re used to. Soft gasps fall with each jerk of your body, your focus slowly growing steady. Peter slowly pulls his hips back, his dick coated in his thick, viscous cum as he watches it leak out of you. Without another thought, he leans down and plants a soft kiss on your mound before trailing upward. Feeling the featherlight kisses he places on your stomach, Peter unravels his arm from underneath you.

You look up at him, lashes fluttering as you struggle to keep your eyes open. You want to speak, but your mouth fails you, resulting in a huff instead. Peter smiles at you,

“Can you handle a little more?”

[cumkissed]

　　. ｡❀ “ 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 . . “ ̼︵

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄 : after a long patrol, peter climbs through your window exhausted, bruised and still half in the spider-man suit. a stupid joke about whether spider-man could eat you out while hanging upside down turns into peter taking the question far too seriously, and what starts as teasing curiosity becomes a filthy little experiment neither of you wants to stop. 18k

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : 18+ . adult!peter parker x fem!reader . established relationship . porn with little plot . spider-man suit kink . upside down oral . cunnilingus . panties kink . overstimulation . multiple orgasms . spit + cum play . messy kissing . face licking . blowjob . handjob . riding . boob worship . nipple play . neck biting . vocal needy peter . floor humping . cum leaking . eating cum out

navigation : kofi .

PETER PARKER HAD DEVELOPED the deeply irritating habit of treating your apartment window like the front door, although calling it a habit made it sound newer than it really was. Somewhere during the months you’d been together, you’d stopped jumping whenever something landed against your fire escape after dark,

stopped reaching instinctively for whatever heavy object happened to be nearest when the window frame suddenly scraped upward, and started recognising the difference between Peter arriving normally and Peter arriving after the kind of patrol that had gone badly.

Tonight landed somewhere in the middle. There was a heavier thump outside than usual, followed by several long seconds of silence, then the faint metallic rattle of somebody getting their footing before your window finally began creeping upward from the bottom.

You were curled beneath a blanket at one end of the couch with some terrible action movie playing on television, and instead of turning around, you merely glanced toward the reflection in the darkened glass across the room as one red-gloved hand appeared around the frame.

Peter was apparently attempting to enter quietly, which might’ve worked considerably better if his shoulder hadn’t knocked against the side of the window and made him mutter something irritated beneath his breath. You waited until half his body had disappeared through the opening, one leg still awkwardly outside while he tried not to catch the suit on the frame, before you finally called, “You know normal boyfriends use the door.”

Everything behind you stopped. Completely. For a second, there wasn’t even the sound of fabric moving, and when you finally turned your head slightly, Peter’s masked face had appeared around the side of the curtain, one white lens narrowed at you while the other remained slightly wider in a look that somehow managed to communicate exhausted offence without revealing an inch of his actual face.

He stayed like that just long enough to make your mouth twitch before finishing his climb inside, landing carefully with one boot against the floor and pulling the second over the sill. Peter straightened with a small roll of his shoulder, glanced down at himself as though checking he hadn’t brought half the fire escape in with him, then looked toward you again.

“Normal boyfriends don’t usually have to explain why there’s blood on their shirt to the neighbour in 4B,” he said eventually, his voice slightly muffled beneath the mask and flatter than the dramatic defence you’d expected.

The word blood made your amusement disappear at once, your gaze dropping instinctively across the red and blue suit as you searched for whatever tear or stain he was referring to, and Peter noticed before you could even sit upright.

Both of his hands lifted immediately in a placating gesture, palms facing you while he shook his head once. “Not mine.” The tension left your shoulders almost as quickly as it had arrived, and even beneath the mask you could see the tiny shift near his mouth that told you he’d noticed.

Peter looked back toward the still-open window, hooking one hand beneath the frame before pulling it shut with considerably more care than he’d shown while climbing through it. “Also,” he added as the latch clicked into place, turning back toward you with the faintest shrug, “the window’s faster.”

You snorted and sank deeper into the cushions, watching him pretend that was the entire explanation. “You mean you don’t want Mrs. Alvarez asking whether you’ve eaten recently.”

Peter’s posture changed immediately, shoulders slumping by half an inch as though you’d found the actual weak spot. He stared at you for a second through the mask, then lowered his chin in reluctant defeat. “That too.”

He reached behind his head and caught the edge of the mask between his fingers, peeling it upward with a tired exhale until his face finally appeared beneath it, and the teasing comment already sitting on your tongue died before it could leave your mouth. Peter looked exhausted.

Not badly injured, not dangerously so, but worn down in the particular way you’d become increasingly familiar with since Spider-Man had stopped being something he squeezed between all the other pieces of his life and started becoming the thing his life seemed to orbit around.

His hair was damp around his forehead, flattened beneath the mask in some places and sticking out stubbornly in others, and a faint bruise was beginning to darken along one cheekbone beneath a streak of grime that travelled almost to his jaw. Peter caught you staring almost immediately.

His eyes flicked over your face, registered the concern there and then moved away before you could say anything, one hand rubbing awkwardly over the back of his neck while the other folded the mask between his fingers. “It looks worse than it is,” he murmured, even though you hadn’t asked, his attention suddenly fixed on the crumpled fabric in his hands.

You didn’t answer straight away. Instead, you slowly raised one eyebrow and let your gaze travel deliberately back toward the bruise. Peter caught the expression from the corner of his eye, closed his mouth and released a quiet sigh through his nose. His shoulders sagged a little more before he looked back at you.

“Actually,” he corrected himself, voice softer now, “that’s probably not true. It looks pretty much exactly as bad as it is.” The dryness of it made the corner of your mouth pull upward despite the lingering concern, and Peter’s expression softened when he realised he’d managed to get even that much of a reaction from you.

You shifted beneath the blanket and patted the empty cushion beside you, expecting him to drop there, but Peter only looked at the space for a moment before walking toward you instead. His steps slowed once he reached the couch, and for several seconds he simply stood between your knees, eyes lowered as if he were deciding whether he wanted to talk about whatever had happened outside.

Then something in him seemed to give. His shoulders dropped, his hands loosened, and Peter bent forward until his forehead came to rest against your stomach. The sudden weight of him made you sink slightly into the cushions, but your hands were already moving before you thought about it, fingers sliding through his sweaty hair and scratching gently against his scalp.

Peter’s eyes closed. His hands settled loosely against either side of your waist, not quite holding you and not quite willing to move away either. “Bad night?” you asked quietly, your fingertips moving more slowly through his hair when you felt the tension still gathered at the base of his neck.

Peter remained silent for a few moments. You could feel him breathing against your shirt, each exhale gradually becoming less tight, before he finally muttered, “Guy threw a parking meter at me.” Your fingers stopped.

Peter must’ve felt it because one eye opened and he tipped his head just enough to look up at you without fully lifting it. “Missed,” he added quickly, almost sheepishly, like he knew exactly where your mind had gone.

You stared down at him for a long second, your expression caught somewhere between concern and disbelief, until the faintest smile finally appeared at the corner of his mouth. Your hand resumed its path through his hair, gently tugging a stubborn strand away from his forehead, and Peter let his face settle against you again.

Several quiet seconds passed before his voice came once more, considerably more bitter this time. “Pigeon got my sandwich, though.” That finally made you look down properly. “Again?” The question came out with enough disbelief that Peter’s eyes squeezed shut. His forehead pressed more firmly against your stomach like he was trying to hide from the humiliation entirely. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Eventually you convinced him to eat the leftovers you’d saved, although convincing might’ve been generous considering all you really had to do was remind him they existed.

Peter disappeared into the kitchen with the heavy, reluctant steps of somebody who’d only just become aware of how hungry he actually was, and when he returned carrying the container, he dropped onto the couch beside you with the quiet weight of someone whose body had finally realised it was allowed to stop moving.

He didn’t change out of the suit. He didn’t even remove his boots at first, stretching his legs out and settling them dangerously close to the edge of your rug until you turned your head and stared pointedly at them. Peter noticed after only a second.

His gaze moved from your face to his boots, then to the rug beneath them, before returning to you with a tired expression that made it clear he knew exactly what you were asking without you saying a word. “Really?” he asked, eyebrows lifting slightly as if tonight of all nights should’ve granted him immunity. You merely continued looking at him.

Peter held your gaze for another second, then sighed and leaned forward, tugging both boots off before dropping them neatly beside the couch. “Happy?” He looked over at you while straightening, the exhaustion around his eyes making the question sound more resigned than annoyed.

You smiled sweetly and adjusted the blanket over your legs. “Very.” Peter’s lips pressed together in a way that told you he had several responses and had decided none of them were worth the energy. Instead, he sank back into the cushions, shifted the food container into one hand and reached for your ankle with the other without seeming consciously aware that he was doing it.

His fingers closed loosely around you, drawing your legs across his lap before he adjusted the blanket over them with a small tug. It had become one of those quiet habits neither of you had discussed. Peter had grown quieter after patrol over the years, less inclined to fill every empty second with nervous chatter and half-finished thoughts, but the silence never meant he wanted distance from you.

If anything, he touched you more when he wasn’t speaking. A thumb moving over your ankle. Fingers finding yours underneath a blanket. His shoulder resting against yours until he practically leaned half his body into you. Tonight was no different. He ate with one hand while the other remained curled around your lower calf, his thumb moving absently over your skin whenever his attention wandered from the television.

Several minutes passed before your gaze caught the flash of red beneath the coffee table. One of his gloves had somehow ended up there, discarded carelessly enough that you had no idea when he’d even removed it. You nudged his thigh with your heel, making his hand tighten reflexively around your ankle before relaxing again.

“You’re leaving Spider-Man everywhere again.” Peter followed your gaze toward the glove. He stared at it for a second, chewing slowly, then looked back at you with an expression of complete seriousness. “Evidence.” You frowned, waiting for the explanation that clearly wasn’t coming on its own. “Evidence of what?”

Peter swallowed, lowered the container slightly and considered the glove like he was seeing it for the first time himself. “That Spider-Man has poor organisational skills.” The complete lack of expression on his face made you laugh before you could help it, and something around Peter’s eyes softened at the sound.

He glanced back toward the television, but you caught the tiny upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. “That’s not exactly breaking news,” you told him, settling more comfortably against the cushions. Peter nodded once, accepting the criticism with surprising dignity. “Fair.”

The movie had become mostly background noise by the time Peter finished eating, although he watched considerably more of it than you did. Every now and then you’d feel his thumb stop moving against your ankle whenever something particularly stupid happened onscreen,

and then you’d glance sideways only to discover him staring at the television with that increasingly troubled expression he got whenever inaccurate physics seemed to personally offend him.

He’d mostly stopped correcting everything out loud after you threatened to ban him from choosing movies following one particularly unbearable evening involving a collapsing suspension bridge, but his face still betrayed him completely. When one character somehow survived being launched through a concrete wall, Peter’s brow furrowed so deeply that you could almost hear the lecture happening inside his head.

A few seconds later, his eyes slid toward you. You didn’t even look at him fully. “No.” Peter’s eyebrows climbed. He shifted slightly beneath your legs, his mouth opening as though he was genuinely offended by the accusation. “I didn’t say anything.” You finally turned your head and pointed toward his face with one finger. “Your face did.”

Peter stared at you for a beat, clearly considering whether this counted as a fair argument, then pressed his lips together and looked back toward the screen. The movement didn’t hide the little smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. A few minutes later another character ended up dangling upside down from the edge of a rooftop, their body swinging dramatically above several floors of open air, and your attention lingered there longer than it had on anything else in the movie.

Slowly, almost without meaning to, your gaze drifted toward Peter. He was leaning deeper into the couch now, one arm stretched along the back cushions while his other hand continued resting loosely around your ankle. The bruise remained visible along his cheek. His hair was still a complete disaster. The upper half of the suit remained annoyingly tight across his chest and shoulders, every shift of his body making the fabric move with him.

A completely unnecessary thought entered your head. You recognised immediately that it was unnecessary. You also knew that Peter would never let you forget it if you actually said it aloud. Unfortunately, restraint had never been your greatest quality around him. “Can you actually stay like that?” you asked eventually, nodding toward the screen while keeping your tone as casual as you could manage.

Peter followed your gaze. His eyes moved from the dangling character back toward you, and he tilted his head slightly as though making sure he understood the question. “Upside down?” You nodded, pretending you hadn’t given the question much thought. Peter’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Yeah.”

You looked back toward the screen while his thumb began moving against your ankle again. “For how long?” This time he didn’t answer immediately. His brow furrowed slightly while he considered it, gaze drifting somewhere past the television as though he was mentally checking his own limits.

“A while,” he said finally. There was another pause. Peter’s lips pressed together, and then he corrected himself with the kind of reluctant honesty that always betrayed him. “Probably as long as I wanted.”

You hummed beneath your breath and kept looking toward the television, although you could feel Peter’s attention remain on you. He knew you too well. Worse, years of relying on tiny movements and split-second changes in body language to stay alive had made him obnoxiously difficult to fool, which meant your attempt at appearing casually interested had probably failed before you’d even opened your mouth.

Still, you pushed your luck. “Wouldn’t all the blood rush to your head?” you asked, keeping your eyes forward while you shifted one shoulder deeper beneath the blanket. Peter’s fingers slowed against your ankle. The scientific part of his brain visibly took over for a moment, his eyebrows drawing together as he considered the question properly despite the growing suspicion in his eyes.

“Not the way it would for you,” he explained, his thumb resuming its movement as his attention drifted briefly toward the ceiling. “Circulation’s different. Everything compensates pretty quickly.” You nodded slowly as though this information had been exactly what you were after.

For approximately two seconds, you almost got away with it. Then the corner of your mouth twitched. Peter’s hand stopped dead against your skin. You didn’t look at him immediately, which only made it worse, because you could practically feel his gaze move over the side of your face.

Several long seconds passed before he finally spoke. “What?” There wasn’t much amusement in his voice yet. Mostly suspicion. You shook your head, pressing your lips together harder in an attempt to flatten the smile. “Nothing.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly. His grip around your ankle loosened, but his hand remained exactly where it was. “That wasn’t nothing.” The certainty in his tone made you glance toward him at last, and you immediately regretted it.

Peter was watching you with the calm, patient expression of somebody who had already realised you were guilty and was simply waiting for you to confess. You shrugged and looked back at the television. “I was just thinking it could have practical applications.” Peter went completely still.

There wasn’t an immediate joke, and that was the first thing that made warmth curl unexpectedly through your stomach. The younger Peter would’ve stumbled over five different responses before eventually choosing one, but this Peter had learned how to let silence sit between words instead of panicking and trying to fill it. His thumb remained motionless against your ankle while he stared at you, face unreadable for several long seconds.

Then his gaze moved toward the television. After another beat it travelled upward toward the ceiling. You watched the tiny crease form between his eyebrows and immediately knew his brain had started working. “Don’t,” you warned, sitting a little straighter beneath the blanket.

Peter turned his head toward you again, blinking once as if genuinely confused by the accusation. “I didn’t say anything.” You gave him a pointed look, because silence had never stopped Peter Parker from being obvious. “You’re thinking.”

One eyebrow lifted. He looked almost offended by the concept. “Usually happens.” You pushed his thigh lightly with your foot, but his hand closed more securely around your ankle before you could actually land the kick, the movement effortless and almost automatic.

A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth when you narrowed your eyes at him. “Peter.” Hearing his name in that warning tone only seemed to encourage whatever was happening behind his eyes. He looked toward the ceiling once more, gaze tracking the exposed beam crossing part of the room before returning to you.

“What practical applications?” The question was delivered so calmly that for a second you simply stared at him. Your confidence began disappearing now that he was actually making you explain yourself. Peter waited. He didn’t rush you or start talking over the silence. He simply watched, fingers resting warm around your ankle while his expression remained deceptively neutral.

“You know what I mean,” you muttered eventually. Peter’s eyebrows rose another fraction. “I really don’t.” He absolutely did. The amusement had already started showing around his eyes even if the rest of his face remained composed. You stared him down for another few seconds before releasing a defeated breath through your nose.

“I was wondering if Spider-Man could eat pussy upside down.” The words came quickly once you finally forced them out, and the second they landed between you, your face heated enough that you immediately covered part of it with one hand.

The apartment fell painfully quiet except for the dramatic soundtrack still playing on television. Peter didn’t move. You could feel him staring at you through the spaces between your fingers, and embarrassment rushed in quickly enough that you groaned. “Forget I said anything.”

Peter didn’t laugh. Somehow that was considerably worse. Instead, his gaze slowly travelled upward toward the exposed support beam running across part of your ceiling, and his expression became genuinely thoughtful.

You lowered your hand enough to peek at him through your fingers, disbelief replacing some of your embarrassment when you realised he was actually considering it. “Oh my God.”

Peter glanced toward you. There was the faintest pull between his eyebrows, like he didn’t understand why his reaction was surprising. “What?”

You dropped your hand completely and sat straighter. “You’re actually thinking about it.” His mouth pressed into a line that was very obviously concealing something, although whether it was amusement or embarrassment you couldn’t immediately tell. Peter’s gaze drifted back toward the beam for another second before settling on you. “You asked.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh and shook your head. “As a joke.” Peter didn’t answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on yours, and something quieter shifted behind them. Eventually, he tilted his head slightly. “Was it?” The question was soft enough that your body betrayed you before your mouth could, heat climbing further into your cheeks while you shifted beneath his stare.

You crossed your arms defensively. “Yes.” Peter gave one small nod. “Okay.” That should’ve been the end of it. Instead, the ease with which he accepted your answer irritated you instantly. Your eyes narrowed. “Why did you say it like that?” His brow furrowed, but the movement was a little too innocent. “Like what?”

You stared at him in disbelief. Peter’s thumb had started rubbing against your ankle again, slow and absent, while he tried very hard to look like he genuinely had no idea what you were talking about. “Like you don’t believe me.”

For a second he looked down at where his hand rested against your skin. When his eyes returned to yours, his expression remained calm, but the smallest spark of amusement sat behind it. “Because you’re blushing.” Your mouth fell open. Peter gave you a tiny shrug. “Observation.”

You grabbed for the nearest cushion without thinking. Peter caught it before you got halfway through the swing, one hand closing around the edge with ridiculous ease. A quiet laugh escaped him as your expression sharpened, the sound warm and surprised, like he genuinely hadn’t expected you to resort to violence.

“You’re annoying,” you informed him, tugging once at the cushion before giving up when he didn’t budge. Peter pushed it gently back into your lap. “Yeah,” he said, settling back against the cushions with a tiny smile. “I’ve heard.”

The teasing should’ve ended there, but Peter’s attention travelled toward the ceiling again, and this time you watched him properly. His eyes tracked the exposed beam, then the distance between it and the couch, and something in his expression shifted so subtly that you almost missed it.

The Spider-Man part of Peter had always been different from the Peter everyone else met. Not a separate person exactly, but a version of him stripped of some of the hesitation that followed him through ordinary life. Lately, the line between the two had become thinner. He didn’t need to posture or brag about what he could do.

Confidence simply settled over him whenever he knew exactly what his body was capable of. “It would work,” he said eventually. The statement came so casually that it took you a second to realise what he meant. You blinked and shifted your legs slightly across his lap.

“What?” Peter looked back down at you, as though the answer should’ve been obvious from the entire conversation. “What you asked.” His fingers loosened from your ankle and travelled absently higher along your calf before coming to rest near your knee.

The movement wasn’t overtly sexual, but your attention dropped toward it anyway. “Physically, I mean.” Your stomach tightened slightly at the matter-of-fact tone. “You’ve put thought into this remarkably fast.” Peter’s shoulders lifted with a small shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

You stared at him until his expression finally cracked, the corner of his mouth pulling upward. “And you’re the one who asked.” Your eyes narrowed. “I’m starting to regret it.” The response came before Peter could stop himself.

“No, you’re not.” It was quieter than everything else he’d said, immediate enough that both of you paused. Peter seemed to hear himself a second late. Something shy flickered over his face and his gaze dipped toward your legs before returning to you. He cleared his throat softly.

“I mean,” he added, suddenly looking far less certain than he had two seconds earlier, “you don’t look like you regret it.” There he was underneath the maturity, still Peter enough to talk himself straight into embarrassment and get faintly pink around the ears once he realised it.

“You’re getting awfully confident for somebody who climbed through my window ten minutes ago complaining about a pigeon,” you murmured, and the comment made Peter breathe out a laugh as he gently shifted your legs away from his lap.

He pushed himself upright and stood, stretching one shoulder until something clicked quietly beneath the suit. His face tightened for half a second at the feeling before relaxing again, and then he looked down at you.

“The pigeon caught me off guard.” His delivery was so completely serious that your mouth twitched. You gave him a pointed look anyway. “Sure.”

Peter stepped closer until his knees nearly touched yours, and the humour remained in his expression even as something warmer started settling underneath it. He rested one hand against the back of the couch beside your shoulder, leaning forward only slightly, but enough that you had to tip your chin upward to keep looking at him.

Up close, you could see every sign of the night he’d had. The small cut near his temple. The bruise along his cheek. The shadows beneath his eyes that told you sleep had probably been optional far too often lately. Yet his attention had narrowed entirely onto you now.

“You know,” he murmured, his gaze flicking briefly over your face, “you’re making fun of me, but this was your question.” You tried to maintain the same unimpressed expression even as your pulse picked up. “A hypothetical question.”

Peter’s eyes dropped toward your mouth. They stayed there for one brief second before returning to yours. “Right.” You swallowed without meaning to. His gaze sharpened immediately, because of course he noticed that too.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Very hypothetical.” You placed one hand against the centre of his chest and pushed lightly, though he barely shifted beneath your palm.

“Don’t be smug.” Peter’s brows lifted, his expression instantly innocent. “I’m not.” You gave him a look. Peter lasted approximately another second before his mouth twitched. “Maybe a little.”

His hand moved from the back of the couch to your jaw slowly enough that you felt every second of it, fingertips settling lightly beneath your chin while his thumb brushed once across your cheek. There was nothing rushed about Peter anymore when he touched you like this.

Even when some lingering patrol adrenaline remained beneath his skin, even when you could feel the strength he constantly kept restrained whenever his body moved near yours, there was a deliberate patience to him that hadn’t existed when he was younger.

He leaned closer until his forehead nearly touched yours, but he stopped just short of actually kissing you. His eyes moved between yours, waiting. You were the one who closed the distance. The first kiss was soft, almost frustratingly so considering the conversation that had led to it, Peter’s mouth moving slowly against yours while his fingers remained warm beneath your jaw.

Your hands caught the front of his suit and pulled him closer, bunching the material beneath your fingers, and a quiet breath escaped through his nose as he let the kiss deepen. His other hand settled against your knee, palm warm through the thin fabric covering you, before sliding gradually higher along your thigh.

He stopped well before reaching anywhere intimate, but the weight of his hand there was enough to make your body shift beneath him. Peter noticed. You felt the tiny pause in his mouth against yours before he pulled away just far enough to look at you.

His lips remained close enough to brush yours whenever either of you breathed. “Still hypothetical?” he asked softly. Your eyes opened fully and found him watching you with restrained amusement, his thumb still moving slowly against your cheek.

You tightened your grip against his suit. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” Peter’s eyes dropped toward your mouth again while he considered that. “A little.” Then he leaned in and kissed the corner of your lips, followed the line of your jaw and stopped beneath your ear. His breath warmed your skin there, and when your shoulders shifted involuntarily, Peter’s hand flexed lightly against your thigh. “Mostly I’m curious.”

“You’re such a fucking nerd,” you whispered, although there wasn’t much conviction left behind the insult with his mouth still lingering against your neck. You felt him smile rather than saw it, the movement pressing faintly against your skin before he lifted his head. “You brought science into it.”

You laughed softly and let your hands slide higher along his chest. “I asked whether you could eat pussy upside down. I didn’t exactly submit a research proposal.” Peter looked at you for one long beat, his eyes darkening with amusement before he murmured, “Could’ve fooled me.” You pushed his shoulder again on instinct.

Peter caught your wrist automatically before your hand travelled more than a few inches, his fingers closing around it with almost insulting ease. He didn’t pin it anywhere or tighten his grip. Instead, he turned your hand over slowly and pressed his mouth briefly against the centre of your palm.

The affection of the gesture caught you so completely off guard that whatever retort you’d been preparing disappeared. Peter seemed to notice the way your expression softened, because his own did too before he released your wrist.

He stayed standing between your knees, close enough that the fronts of his legs brushed yours whenever either of you shifted. “There are variables,” he said after a moment. You stared up at him. “There absolutely are not.”

His brows rose, and some of the scientist returned to his face. “There absolutely are.” He wasn’t babbling through the thought process anymore the way he once might’ve. Instead, he considered each thing before saying it, gaze moving briefly around the room as though he were actually planning the logistics.

“Height,” he said first, looking toward the ceiling. His eyes moved downward again, briefly measuring the space between you and the beam. “Angle. Where you’re sitting.” Then his gaze returned to your face and lingered there. “How much you move.”

Heat rushed into your cheeks immediately. “How much I move?” Peter nodded once, maintaining complete seriousness for approximately half a second before the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“That seems relevant.” You stared at him. “You’re impossible.” His expression softened into something almost unbearably fond. “You like me.”

Before you could give him the satisfaction of answering, Peter stepped backward and tilted his head toward the ceiling again. His gaze locked onto the exposed beam, and in that instant there was another subtle change in him, the tired boyfriend who’d been sprawled across your lap quietly making room for the man who spent every night calculating distances in fractions of seconds.

He lifted one wrist. The movement was casual, practised enough that he barely needed to look before firing a strand of webbing upward with a sharp thwip, the line attaching cleanly around the beam overhead. Peter gave it one firm tug, testing the hold, then glanced toward you when you immediately sat straighter on the couch.

“Peter.” His hand stopped around the web. He looked at you over his shoulder, expression open but carrying that small spark of amusement he’d been trying and failing to hide for the last ten minutes. “What?”

Your eyes travelled from his face to the line stretching toward the ceiling and then back again. “You’re seriously doing this.” Peter didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped briefly toward your legs, then moved back to your face, and despite all the quiet confidence from seconds earlier, a faint flush began creeping along the tops of his ears.

That tiny betrayal made your mouth curve. He caught the smile immediately and narrowed his eyes just slightly. “You started it,” he reminded you, voice softer now. Then Peter caught the web firmly with one hand, planted the other palm against the wall and stepped onto the vertical surface as naturally as somebody else might climb a staircase.

There wasn’t any theatrical flourish to it. One second he was standing beside you, and the next his body moved smoothly upward, muscles shifting beneath the suit as his hands and feet stuck effortlessly to the wall. You watched him climb, your eyes travelling farther than you intended before Peter stopped halfway toward the ceiling.

He turned his head and looked down at you. His gaze immediately caught yours somewhere around his waist before you could drag it back toward his face, and the little smile that appeared told you he’d noticed exactly where you’d been looking.

Peter adjusted his grip around the web, briefly glanced toward the ceiling as though genuinely checking the logistics one final time, then looked back down. “For the experiment,” he started, trying for clinical and failing because his voice had gone noticeably lower,

“I’m probably gonna need your underwear out of the way.” The words hung there for a second. Peter’s expression shifted almost immediately afterward, confidence giving way to sudden self-awareness as he visibly replayed the sentence inside his head.

His lips pressed together. His cheeks warmed another shade. Then he looked off toward the wall and muttered, “That sounded better in my head.”

You should’ve laughed at him, because the faint colour spreading over Peter’s cheeks after his own terrible choice of words was painfully endearing, but the amusement caught somewhere in your throat when you realised how fast the atmosphere in the room had changed.

The oversized shirt you’d thrown on earlier suddenly felt considerably less innocent where it hung loose around your body, its hem barely covering the tops of your thighs and leaving nothing underneath except the soft cotton panties already clinging wetly to your cunt.

There wasn’t a bra beneath the shirt either, because there hadn’t been any reason for one when your original plans involved a couch, leftovers and probably falling asleep against Peter before the movie finished, but now you were painfully aware of your nipples tightening beneath the thin material

and the way the shirt shifted against them whenever you breathed. Peter noticed too, because of course he did, his eyes dropping for half a second before flicking guiltily back toward your face as though getting caught staring somehow mattered after the conversation you’d just had. That tiny flash of embarrassment only made the heat curling through your stomach worse.

You shifted against the cushions without meaning to, thighs pressing together beneath the hem of your shirt, and the movement made you feel exactly how wet you’d become. Your panties were warm and damp against your pussy, slick spreading through the cotton where it pressed between your folds and dragging against your clit every time you moved, making the ache beneath it noticeably sharper.

It had happened gradually enough that you hadn’t properly noticed at first, beginning as nothing more than a little warmth when Peter started taking your stupid question seriously, building every time his voice dropped or his hand lingered against your thigh or that quiet Spider-Man confidence replaced the awkward embarrassment in his face. Now there was no ignoring it.

Your cunt felt swollen beneath the thin fabric, your clit throbbing against the soaked cotton, and squeezing your thighs together only forced the material tighter against you in a way that made your breath catch. Peter’s eyes dipped toward the movement, and the way his jaw tightened told you he knew exactly what was happening.

He was still clinging halfway up the wall when his gaze settled on your thighs properly. You watched the exact second he noticed the damp centre of your panties beneath the loose hem of your shirt, because his expression changed so slightly anyone else might’ve missed it, the amusement fading into something heavier while his mouth parted around a silent breath.

You swallowed beneath the weight of his stare and slowly let your knees fall apart by a few inches, the oversized shirt sliding higher over your skin until more of your bare thighs were exposed to him. Peter’s eyes followed the movement helplessly before darting back to your face, almost like he was trying to pretend he hadn’t just stared straight between your legs.

You let him struggle for another second before tilting your head and asking, “You gonna keep analysing it from up there, Parker, or are you actually planning on proving something?”

The words came out more confidently than you felt, and Peter’s lips parted immediately like some smart response had occurred to him, only for his gaze to fall between your thighs again and apparently wipe the thought straight out of his head.

He forced himself to look toward the ceiling instead, taking one slow breath that expanded his chest beneath the tight suit while he visibly tried to collect himself.

The pink across his cheeks didn’t disappear, but something else settled over his expression, quieter and more focused, that familiar shift where Peter stopped looking like the tired man who’d climbed through your window and started looking like Spider-Man calculating exactly what his body needed to do.

He tightened one hand around the strand of webbing he’d attached to the exposed ceiling beam and planted his opposite palm firmly against the wall, fingers adhering instantly to the surface. Peter gave the web a hard downward tug to test the hold, then another, his forearm flexing beneath the suit while he checked the angle and distance above you.

Even though both of you knew his webbing could support far more than his weight, he still treated the setup seriously, eyes travelling along the line to the beam before returning to the open space in front of the couch. Watching him turn something so filthy into a genuine logistical problem made your pussy pulse again.

Once Peter was satisfied, he pushed himself upward. One foot stuck to the wall, then the other, his knees bending as he climbed higher with that unnerving ease that always reminded you his body didn’t obey the same rules as yours.

He moved slowly enough that you could watch every controlled shift of muscle beneath the suit, hands and feet alternating against the wall until his head was nearly level with the ceiling. Peter paused there, twisted enough to look over his shoulder at you and immediately caught your gaze somewhere lower than his face.

The suit had pulled tight across his stomach and hips from the position, leaving very little to the imagination, and the slight lift of his eyebrow told you he knew exactly what you’d been looking at. He didn’t tease you for it, though. He only swallowed, glanced down toward your spread thighs again, then deliberately turned his attention back to what he was doing before either of you embarrassed yourselves further.

Peter shifted both feet from the wall onto the ceiling itself, one after the other, until he was crouched completely above you like gravity had simply stopped mattering. Both palms pressed flat against the ceiling while his knees bent beneath him, and his messy brown hair had already started falling away from his forehead.

He repositioned one hand, then slowly rotated his hips, moving one foot and then the other until his back faced the wall and his body was aligned directly above the space between your knees. The movement was controlled and strangely graceful, every adjustment precise enough that you could tell he was already thinking about where his mouth needed to end up.

Then Peter caught the webbing again with both hands and released his feet from the ceiling. His legs unfolded above him as his body gradually lowered beneath the beam, gravity pulling him straight until he hung fully upside down in front of you.

His hair dropped toward the floor immediately, soft brown strands hanging messily away from his forehead and making him look unmistakably like Peter despite the Spider-Man suit covering everything else.

He gave the web another firm pull, tested his weight, then released one hand and twisted his shoulders slightly to make sure he wasn’t going to rotate once he started moving against you. His free palm briefly pressed against the wall beside him, steadying his body while he adjusted the webbing around his wrist and lowered himself another few inches.

Peter’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he measured the distance between his face and the edge of the couch, then looked at you, down toward the floor from his inverted perspective and back toward you again. “Too high,” he muttered quietly to himself, releasing a little more web until his upside-down face was almost level with your knees.

The seriousness of it should’ve been funny, but there was something obscene about watching Spider-Man carefully calibrate the exact height he needed so he could eat your pussy comfortably.

You couldn’t help smiling at him while he made one final adjustment, and Peter caught it from the corner of his eye. His brows pulled together as he stretched one arm toward the wall again, using his palm to stop the last slow swing of his body before becoming almost perfectly still.

“What?” he asked, a faintly defensive edge slipping into his voice as though he suspected you were about to make fun of him. You shook your head slowly, letting your gaze wander down his inverted body again because there was something unfairly attractive about how comfortable he looked hanging there.

“Nothing,” you murmured, and Peter’s mouth twitched because neither of you believed that for a second. Once he was satisfied with the position, he released the wall and let both hands drop toward you, flexing his fingers experimentally while checking whether maintaining the position took any actual effort.

Apparently it didn’t. He looked almost irritatingly relaxed hanging upside down in front of you, like this was simply another perfectly reasonable way for him to spend an evening.

“Okay,” Peter murmured eventually, and his voice had gone noticeably rougher than before. His eyes travelled from your face down toward the oversized shirt pooled around your thighs, then lower still until his gaze settled on the damp cotton between them. You watched his throat work when he swallowed.

The change in him made you scoot forward without being asked, the couch cushions compressing beneath your weight as you moved toward the edge, and Peter immediately adjusted in response. He released tiny lengths of webbing at a time, lowering himself inch by inch until his face lined up perfectly with the space between your thighs.

Every time you shifted forward, he compensated automatically, like some part of his brain was mapping the distance before you even stopped moving. You’d watched Spider-Man judge impossible gaps between buildings in fractions of seconds, twist through traffic and catch himself midair without hesitation, and now every bit of that ridiculous coordination was being devoted to putting his mouth exactly where you wanted it.

When you finally reached the edge of the couch, Peter’s upside-down face was directly between your knees. His hair almost brushed the floor beneath him, and his shoulders hovered close enough that your thighs could touch them if you spread a little wider. The humour disappeared from his expression the moment you did.

You let your knees fall apart slowly, deliberately, watching his reaction while the hem of your oversized shirt slid higher and exposed more bare skin until the soaked centre of your panties was completely visible to him. Peter’s eyes followed every inch of the movement.

His lips parted when he saw how dark the cotton had become between your legs, and his breathing changed before he said anything, one deeper inhale expanding his chest before he released it slowly through his nose.

You felt another warm pulse of slick leak from your cunt into the fabric under his stare, making the already damp cotton cling more tightly to your folds.

Peter looked back toward your face for a moment, then down again like he simply couldn’t stop himself. When your own gaze travelled down the inverted length of his body in return, tracing the suit over his chest and stomach before reaching his hips, you immediately noticed the shape beginning to push against the fabric between his thighs.

Peter was getting hard just from watching you spread your legs for him. His cock thickened beneath the suit until the material stretched visibly tighter around it, the outline becoming harder to ignore every time his eyes returned to the soaked cotton covering your pussy.

Seeing that reaction made your cunt clench. Peter noticed where you were looking and let out a tiny, embarrassed sound in the back of his throat, but the flush crawling over his upside-down face did absolutely nothing to stop his cock from straining harder against the suit.

He reached for you carefully once you were settled. Both hands slid around the backs of your thighs, palms warm against your skin as he gently pulled you a little closer toward the edge until your covered pussy hovered only inches above his mouth.

The strength in his grip was obvious despite how careful he was, fingers spreading against your thighs while he adjusted you into exactly the position he wanted and then immediately loosening again. His eyes returned to your panties.

Peter’s tongue dragged slowly over his bottom lip before he hooked two fingers beneath the waistband at one hip, his knuckles brushing your skin and making your stomach tighten. “Lift up for me,” he murmured,

and the slight roughness in his voice made the request sound considerably dirtier than it needed to. You planted your hands against the couch and raised your hips, watching Peter’s gaze darken as he started pulling the cotton slowly downward.

The panties peeled away from your pussy with a damp little drag that made heat rush straight into your face. Peter’s eyes snapped toward the movement, watching the fabric separate from the slick caught between your folds before he guided the waistband over your ass and down your thighs.

You lifted one leg, then the other, allowing him to slide them completely free, and cool air hitting your bare cunt made you inhale sharply. Your thighs twitched around his head while your pussy clenched around nothing.

Slick immediately gathering glossy between your swollen folds now that nothing covered them. Peter stared. For several seconds he didn’t seem capable of doing anything else, your panties held loosely in one hand while his eyes traced every wet inch of you.

You expected him to throw the panties somewhere. Instead, his attention dropped to the fabric in his hand. The centre was visibly soaked, dark with your arousal, and Peter’s fingers tightened around the cotton almost without him realising it.

His eyes flicked toward you briefly, something embarrassed already creeping across his expression, before he lifted the panties toward his nose and inhaled. His lashes fluttered shut.

The pathetic little whimper that escaped him sounded completely involuntary, soft and needy enough that his entire body went still the instant he heard it. Peter’s eyes opened again, cheeks burning while he stared at the underwear still held against his face like he couldn’t believe his own reaction.

You bit your lip to stop yourself laughing, but Peter caught it immediately. His eyes narrowed in warning, though whatever dignity he was trying to recover disappeared when he pressed the soaked cotton more firmly beneath his nose and took another slower breath. His mouth parted.

Another tiny, broken sound caught somewhere in his throat, and his cock visibly twitched beneath the suit at the same time. “Peter,” you breathed, his name coming out somewhere between disbelief and a moan, and the sound made his eyes snap back toward yours.

There was embarrassment in them, plenty of it, but there was something hotter underneath now, a kind of needy fascination he clearly couldn’t hide.

He lowered the panties from his face but didn’t let them go. Instead, Peter’s gaze travelled between your legs again, settling on your exposed pussy where your folds were already shiny with slick.

Your lips were swollen from arousal, parted enough that he could see the wet little opening lower down and the way your cunt clenched every time his eyes lingered there.

Peter stared openly. His tongue moved across his bottom lip while his breathing grew a little heavier, and you watched another visible throb travel through his cock beneath the suit. “Fuck,” he whispered almost absently,

the word slipping out before he seemed aware he’d actually spoken. When your pussy clenched again in response, a fresh bead of slick gathered at your entrance and began sliding downward through your folds, and Peter’s eyes locked onto it instantly.

He leaned closer, but instead of putting his mouth on you immediately, the hand still holding your panties moved between your thighs. Peter folded the soaked cotton loosely around two fingers, his eyes lifting toward yours as though checking your reaction before he touched you.

The first drag of fabric over your clit was almost unbearably light. Damp cotton brushed across the swollen little bud, carrying your own slick with it, and your hips jerked forward before you could stop yourself. Peter’s lips parted around a quiet breath. He did it again, slower this time, rubbing the wet fabric directly over your clit in a small circle while watching your face with intense concentration.

The texture made everything feel filthier. The panties were already soaked from being pressed against your cunt, and now Peter was using that same wet patch to stroke your clit, dragging the soft cotton over it until the fabric became even slicker.

Your thighs spread farther around his head, and Peter’s cock twitched visibly beneath the suit when he saw you deliberately open yourself wider for him. He rubbed the panties against your clit again, applying a little more pressure this time, and a shaky moan slipped out of you before you could swallow it.

Peter’s expression changed immediately. Something pleased and slightly wrecked moved across his face, his eyes dropping toward the way your pussy glistened beneath the fabric.

He shifted the panties lower for a second, dragging the soaked cotton through your folds and pressing it lightly against your entrance before pulling it back toward your clit.

The sensation made your cunt clench against the fabric, smearing more slick into it, and Peter’s eyes went almost painfully dark when he watched your body wet the panties even further.

He brought them back toward his face without thinking, took another breath against the newly soaked cotton and whimpered again, louder this time. The sound made your stomach tighten so hard it almost hurt.

Peter looked genuinely pathetic about it, hanging upside down with your panties clutched in one hand, cheeks flushed, cock straining against the suit and eyes half-lidded because apparently smelling and touching your wet cunt at the same time had overwhelmed whatever remaining dignity he possessed.

“You like that way too much,” you murmured breathlessly, watching Peter’s expression tighten in embarrassment before his gaze returned between your thighs. He didn’t deny it. Instead, he dragged the panties once more across your clit, slow enough to make your hips chase the pressure, then let the fabric fall away from you while keeping it clenched in his fingers.

Your pussy looked even messier now, slick spread over your swollen folds and clit from the rubbing, and Peter stared at the shine covering you. His mouth opened slightly. The tip of his tongue appeared against his bottom lip. You could practically see the moment restraint disappeared.

Peter leaned closer without touching at first. Warm breath rolled across your exposed cunt, making your thighs twitch around his shoulders, and his eyes lifted toward yours from between them. The look on his face made your pulse jump.

There was still a little awkward Peter beneath it, still that faint flush along his cheeks, but the confidence had settled back over him now that he knew exactly what he wanted to do.

He closed the remaining distance and pressed his mouth directly against your pussy. The first contact was open and wet, his lips settling over your slick folds before his tongue dragged slowly from your entrance upward.

He started at the wet little hole already leaking for him, catching the slick there with the tip of his tongue before flattening it against you and licking all the way through your folds. When his tongue passed firmly over your clit, your entire body jerked.

One hand flew into Peter’s hanging hair and closed around a fistful of it while your thighs threatened to clamp around his head. Peter groaned straight into your cunt when you pulled him closer, the vibration travelling through your clit

and making your hips buck hard enough that both of his hands immediately returned to your thighs. He steadied you with effortless strength, fingers digging carefully into the soft flesh while his mouth stayed exactly where you wanted it.

Being upside down didn’t hinder him in the slightest once he found the angle. If anything, Peter seemed fascinated by figuring out what worked from the position, lowering himself another fraction on the web and turning his head until he could bury his mouth comfortably against you without straining his neck.

His tongue pushed between your folds again, licking through the slick coating you before dipping lower toward your entrance. He collected everything your body gave him before dragging it back toward your clit, smearing your arousal over the swollen bud with broad, messy strokes.

You could hear how wet you were every time his mouth moved. Soft, filthy sounds filled the apartment beneath your breathing, and Peter seemed to fucking love every one of them.

His nose brushed against your clit when his tongue slid lower, nudging it accidentally before he realised the reaction it caused. Your hips jerked. Your fingers tightened painfully in his hair. Peter’s eyes opened wider and immediately did it again on purpose, pressing the bridge of his nose against your clit while his tongue worked lower through your folds.

The combination made a broken sound tear from your throat, and Peter groaned directly against your pussy like hearing you lose control was affecting him just as badly. His cock jerked visibly inside the suit. Even upside down, you could see the thick outline trapped against the fabric, painfully hard and twitching every time you moaned his name.

When Peter finally wrapped his lips around your clit, your back arched away from the couch. He sucked slowly at first, tongue pressing against the sensitive little bud inside his mouth while your thighs shook around him.

Your grip in his hair tightened until you were practically using it to hold him exactly where you wanted him. Peter let you. More than that, the pathetic moan that vibrated against your cunt when you pulled his hair told you he fucking liked it.

His hands spread your thighs wider, fingers firm but careful, and he buried his face deeper between them until his mouth and chin were shining with your slick.

Every time you forced yourself to look down, the sight made the pleasure worse. Peter looked obscene hanging upside down between your legs, messy hair falling toward the floor while his mouth worked relentlessly against your cunt.

Your pussy was visibly swollen around his face, wet folds spreading around his tongue every time he licked upward, slick coating his lips and gathering along his chin.

Whenever he pulled away just enough to breathe, you could see your arousal glistening across his skin. Then his mouth would immediately return, like even a few seconds away from tasting you was too long.

Peter’s eyes were half-lidded but intensely focused. Whenever you made a particularly desperate sound, they opened wider and fixed on your face, watching for the exact movement that had caused it before he repeated whatever he’d done.

His tongue slid back down to your entrance, circling it slowly before pushing inside just enough to make your cunt tighten around him. Peter whimpered when he felt you clench. The sound came muffled and needy against your pussy, followed by another little twitch of his hips in the air as if his body was searching automatically for something to grind his cock against.

Your gaze travelled down his inverted body again, following the tight suit over his stomach and hips until you found the thick outline straining between his thighs. Peter was fully hard now. Painfully hard from the look of it, the fabric stretched tight enough around his cock that every involuntary twitch was obvious.

He hadn’t touched himself once. He was getting that worked up purely from being between your legs, from licking your cunt and smelling your wet panties and feeling your pussy clench around his tongue. The knowledge made another rush of slick spill from you.

Peter caught you staring at his cock. His eyes followed your gaze as much as his inverted position allowed, and for a second embarrassment flashed visibly across his face. It didn’t last long.

Something filthier replaced it, something hot and needy and almost proud when he realised you were watching exactly how hard eating you out had made him. He held your gaze as he lowered his mouth back toward your pussy. Then he wrapped his lips around your clit again and sucked hard enough to make your whole body arch.

The cry that tore from you was loud enough that Peter’s eyes widened for half a second. Then something pleased flickered across his face. He sucked again, slower this time, tongue pressing insistently against your clit while his lips pulled around it.

Your thighs shook so badly against his hands that he tightened his grip enough to keep you comfortably spread. Your fingers twisted deeper into his hair, and you ground shamelessly against his mouth, using him while he hung there between your legs. Peter moaned like the idea of being used for your pleasure was doing something terrible to him.

His cock twitched again. Hard. The movement was obvious enough that you couldn’t stop staring, and when Peter noticed your eyes drop there, another pathetic little sound vibrated against your cunt. “Fuck, Peter,” you gasped, voice breaking around his name while your hips rolled harder against his tongue.

He answered by dragging one long stroke through your pussy, licking from your entrance all the way over your clit before immediately repeating it. Your own slick coated his tongue, lips and chin, and every time he licked you clean your body seemed determined to make another mess for him.

He looked completely gone on it now. Flushed, breathless, hanging upside down with your soaked panties still twisted around one hand and his cock straining desperately beneath the Spider-Man suit while his tongue worked over your cunt like he couldn’t make himself stop.

Every few seconds his fingers tightened around the panties, almost like he’d forgotten he was still holding them until the smell reached him again. Once, he brought them briefly back beneath his nose while his mouth hovered inches from your pussy and took another deep breath, eyes closing as a shaky whimper escaped him. The sight was so fucking filthy that your cunt clenched hard enough for Peter to see it.

His eyes snapped open. He watched your pussy contract around nothing, slick shining at your entrance, and immediately dropped the panties away so he could put his mouth back on you. His tongue pressed against your clit with quicker little strokes now, then slowed deliberately whenever your hips started moving too frantically.

Peter was learning you too easily, teasing without even seeming to mean to, changing rhythm every time he felt your thighs tremble or heard your breathing break. The pleasure tightened lower in your stomach, hot and heavy and increasingly difficult to ignore.

Your head fell back against the couch. The oversized shirt had ridden high over your stomach from all the movement, leaving most of your thighs and lower body completely exposed while Peter kept you spread open for him. Your mouth stayed open around helpless sounds that only seemed to encourage him.

Every time you whispered or moaned his name, Peter’s cock jerked beneath the suit and another needy sound escaped into your pussy. He was so hard from eating you that it looked genuinely uncomfortable, but he still never reached down to touch himself.

When your thighs began shaking harder around his head, Peter tightened his grip just enough to steady them. His eyes lifted toward your face from between your legs, his expression flushed and desperate despite the control in every movement of his mouth.

His lips were wet. His chin was slick. Your panties were still clutched in one hand. His cock was painfully hard beneath the suit. He looked utterly wrecked by your pussy and somehow still completely determined to keep going until you were worse.

Whatever stupid joke had started this had disappeared completely. There was nothing hypothetical about Peter hanging upside down between your legs anymore, mouth buried against your dripping cunt while your thighs trembled around his head and your fingers pulled at his hair.

The experiment had stopped being about whether Spider-Man could eat pussy upside down somewhere around the moment he’d whimpered into your soaked panties. Now it was just Peter licking, sucking and grinding his mouth against you with his cock painfully trapped inside his suit, apparently determined to find out exactly how badly he could make you fall apart before he finally had to come back down.

Peter was so completely lost between your thighs by that point that whatever embarrassment he’d carried into the whole thing had burned away, leaving him flushed, needy and devastatingly focused on your pussy. His tongue kept working over your swollen clit in slow, wet circles before flattening firmly against it, and every time your thighs trembled around his head his fingers flexed into the soft flesh to keep you spread exactly where he wanted you.

Your hips had stopped pretending to stay still, grinding shamelessly against his mouth whenever he found the right pressure, and Peter took every movement without complaint, letting you push yourself harder against his tongue while he moaned beneath you. The slick noises coming from between your legs were impossible to ignore now, wet and messy every time his mouth dragged through your folds, and Peter seemed to get more worked up with every sound.

Your gaze kept slipping down the inverted length of his body toward the cock straining inside his suit, and this time you noticed the fabric over the head had begun to darken. A tiny wet spot had appeared where his tip pressed against the material, followed moments later by another glossy bead of precum soaking through when his cock twitched violently at the sound of you moaning his name.

Peter noticed exactly where you were staring, his eyes following your gaze as much as the upside-down position allowed, but instead of becoming shy again, he let out a pathetic little whimper directly against your cunt.

The vibration rolled through your clit and made you jerk against him, your fingers tightening in his hair while another bead of precum seeped through the suit, leaving the fabric visibly damp around the head of his cock.

He hadn’t even touched himself, hadn’t reached down once despite how painfully hard he looked, and knowing that eating your pussy alone had him leaking into the Spider-Man suit made your stomach pull tighter with pleasure.

Peter felt you getting close before you managed to tell him. Your breathing had become uneven and broken, your thighs trembling constantly instead of occasionally, and every slow circle of his tongue made your cunt clench helplessly around nothing. Your fingers twisted harder into his hair when his lips closed around your clit, and Peter answered with a hungry moan, sucking the swollen little bud while the tip of his tongue rubbed firmly over it.

Your stomach tightened painfully. Heat gathered lower and lower until your entire body felt wound around the sensation of Peter’s mouth, and when he sucked again while his tongue flicked against you, the pressure finally broke. Your orgasm hit hard enough that your body went rigid before immediately falling apart beneath it, hips bucking into his face while your pussy clenched and pulsed through each wave. Peter didn’t stop.

He groaned against you as you came, keeping his lips and tongue pressed against your clit while fresh slick spilled across his mouth, coating his tongue, lips and chin as he licked you through every trembling aftershock.

Your thighs tried to close around his head, but his hands held them apart with gentle strength while you cried his name and ground against him, too overwhelmed to care how messy you were making his face.

The sight of you cumming seemed to hit Peter almost as hard as it hit you, because his cock jerked sharply beneath the suit and another wet bead of precum pushed through the fabric, joining the dark patch already spread around the tip.

By the time the orgasm began fading, your whole body had gone loose and shaky against the couch, your clit still twitching with sensitivity every time Peter’s tongue passed over it. You had to tug gently at his hair before he finally understood that you needed him to stop, because he’d become so absorbed in licking the last of your slick from your folds that he seemed genuinely reluctant to pull his mouth away.

Peter left one final kiss against your pussy before lifting his head, and the sight of him made something hot stir inside you all over again despite how sensitive you still were. Your slick was smeared all over the lower half of his face. His lips were wet and slightly swollen from eating you, his chin glistened beneath the light from the television, and there was even a faint shine along the edge of his cheek where your arousal had spread while you ground against him.

Peter looked up at you from his inverted position, breathing heavily, hair hanging messily toward the floor and expression completely satisfied with what he’d done to you. You reached toward him before you’d even fully decided what you wanted, fingers sliding beneath his jaw and turning his upside-down face slightly toward you.

His eyebrows lifted in question, but Peter stayed perfectly still when you leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly across his chin. The taste of your own slick hit your tongue immediately, warm and intimate from where it coated his skin, and Peter’s mouth fell open around a soft sound when you licked another stripe upward toward the corner of his mouth.

You cleaned your arousal from his face slowly, tongue passing across his jaw, chin and swollen lips, deliberately gathering every wet trace he’d left there until his skin was almost clean.

Peter watched you the entire time. His eyes were darker now, following the movement of your mouth with obvious hunger while his cock continued twitching helplessly inside the damp suit. You licked the final streak of slick from his bottom lip and sat back just enough to let the mixture of your arousal and saliva collect deliberately in your mouth instead of swallowing it.

Peter’s expression shifted as he realised what you were doing, his eyes widening slightly before dropping toward your lips. You kept one hand beneath his jaw and tipped his face toward yours. “Open your mouth,” you told him softly. Peter obeyed immediately, lips parting and tongue visible while he looked at you with the same needy openness he’d shown when he’d sniffed your panties earlier.

You leaned closer until your faces were only inches apart, held his gaze and spat the slick mixture straight onto his tongue. Peter made a quiet, breathless moan when it landed in his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he closed his lips, swallowed everything you’d given him and then ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip like he didn’t want to waste even the taste left behind.

You watched his throat move as he swallowed, and his cock jerked beneath the suit hard enough that another tiny bead of precum soaked through the already damp material. The reaction pulled a satisfied smile from you, and Peter looked almost dazed when you brushed your thumb across his wet lower lip before telling him, “Come back down.”

Peter reacted immediately, although he was noticeably less composed than he’d been when he originally positioned himself above you. He reached upward along the webbing and pulled himself toward the ceiling with one arm, the muscles across his stomach tightening beneath the suit as he brought both feet back against the surface above him.

His palms adhered beside them while he twisted his hips and shoulders, carefully turning himself from the inverted hanging position into a crouch against the ceiling. He released one hand, planted it firmly against the wall and transferred one foot onto the vertical surface before the other followed, movements still controlled despite the obvious erection trapped painfully between his thighs.

Peter climbed downward quickly, peeling one hand and foot from the wall at a time while the remaining limbs kept him anchored, until he was low enough to simply push away and land softly on the floor in front of you.

He had barely straightened before you stood. Your legs immediately betrayed you, knees wobbling from the orgasm strongly enough that Peter’s expression changed and one hand shot instinctively around your waist to catch you.

A quiet, breathy laugh escaped him, but it lasted barely a second because you grabbed the front of his suit, pulled him toward you and kissed him hard. Peter stumbled half a step before recovering, one arm tightening around your waist while the other hand slid behind your neck, and then his mouth opened against yours without hesitation. You could still taste yourself faintly on his tongue when it met yours, the knowledge of what he’d just swallowed making the kiss feel filthy in a completely different way.

There wasn’t any of Peter’s earlier shyness left once you were standing together. He kissed you with an open hunger that made it obvious how long he’d spent desperately hard while concentrating entirely on you, tongue pushing against yours while his hands moved restlessly over your waist and back.

Your body pressed flush against his, and the instant his cock was trapped between your stomach and his suit you could feel exactly how hard he’d become. You slid one hand down between your bodies and covered the thick bulge through the fabric, pressing your palm firmly against his cock. Peter immediately broke the kiss with a loud, helpless moan against your mouth, hips jerking forward into your hand before he could stop himself.

He’d never been particularly quiet when sex was involved, and now that the embarrassment was gone he didn’t bother holding back anything. Every slow stroke of your palm over his cock pulled another sound from him, sometimes a rough groan from deep in his chest, sometimes a higher broken moan when your fingers rubbed directly over the damp fabric covering his sensitive head.

You could feel the heat of him even through the suit, his cock solid beneath your hand and twitching hard whenever your thumb circled the tip. Peter rested his forehead against yours for a second, eyes squeezing shut while his mouth remained open around another needy sound, then immediately kissed you again like he couldn’t stand being separated from you for even that long.

You kept palming him while you kissed, fingers tracing the full outline of his cock through the suit from the base to the leaking tip. The wet patch of precum had spread enough that the material felt faintly damp beneath your fingertips, and when you rubbed over it Peter shuddered visibly.

His hips rolled forward on instinct, pushing his cock harder against your palm while his hand tightened against your waist. “Keep doing that,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough and broken, and you barely gave him time to finish before dragging your palm slowly down the length of him again.

Peter moaned openly into your mouth, completely unconcerned with hiding how good it felt. There was something incredibly sexual about how expressive he was, the way every touch pulled an immediate reaction from him, whether it was his breathing catching, his stomach tightening beneath the suit,

his cock jumping against your hand or another sound spilling straight into your kiss. The shy colour remained faintly across his cheeks, but it wasn’t embarrassment anymore. He wanted you to know what you were doing to him.

The oversized shirt still hanging around your body suddenly felt like far too much clothing. You pulled back just enough to catch the hem with both hands and dragged it slowly upward over your stomach, and Peter’s attention immediately dropped toward the movement.

The fabric rose past your ribs, exposing more bare skin, and his breathing changed when the lower curves of your boobs appeared. You pulled the shirt completely over your head and tossed it somewhere behind the couch, leaving yourself naked from the waist up in front of him. Peter went completely still for a second.

His cock was still pressed against your hip through the suit, his lips remained wet from kissing you, but his eyes dropped straight toward your boobs with such naked appreciation that your nipples hardened beneath the attention alone.

His hands lifted slowly, almost reverently, palms settling around the soft weight of your boobs before his thumbs brushed across both nipples. The contact made you inhale sharply, and Peter’s eyes immediately lifted toward your face to watch your reaction before returning to your chest.

He touched your boobs like he couldn’t get enough of them. His hands squeezed gently, thumbs rubbing across your hardened nipples before his fingers spread underneath and lifted them slightly in his palms. Peter leaned forward and kissed the upper curve of one boob, then another kiss lower, then another closer to your nipple until his tongue finally dragged slowly across it.

Your fingers slid into his hair as his lips closed around the sensitive bud and sucked, and Peter groaned softly into your skin when you pulled him closer. His free hand kept kneading your other boob, thumb circling the nipple before pinching it lightly enough to make your back arch toward him.

He switched sides after a moment, kissing his way across your chest and taking the opposite nipple into his mouth while his hand returned to the first. Peter looked almost drunk on touching you, mouth warm and wet over your boobs while his cock repeatedly twitched against your body.

Every little sound you made encouraged him, and between kisses he murmured how soft you felt, how pretty your boobs looked in his hands and how badly he’d wanted to get your shirt off since you’d spread your thighs for him earlier.

Eventually you had to pull him away by the hair because Peter seemed perfectly willing to spend the rest of the night with his face buried against your boobs. He lifted his head reluctantly, lips swollen and damp, eyes unfocused for a moment before landing on your face.

Your fingers travelled down the front of his suit, and the second Peter realised you were trying to get it off, his own hands immediately joined yours. He peeled the upper half away from his shoulders first, dragging the tight material down his arms and exposing his chest and stomach inch by inch.

You ran your palms over the warm skin as it appeared, feeling the lean muscle underneath while Peter breathed harder beneath your touch. The suit gathered around his hips, and he hooked both thumbs under the fabric before pushing it farther down.

You helped, dragging the material over his hips and thighs while Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other until the suit finally released what it had been compressing for the last several minutes.

Peter sucked in a sharp breath the second his cock sprang free. It was hard enough to stand heavy against his lower stomach, thick and visibly flushed from being trapped inside the suit while he ate you out. The head was darker than the rest, glossy with precum, the slit wet enough that another clear bead gathered while you stared before slowly rolling over the rounded tip.

A thick vein ran visibly along the underside of his shaft, disappearing near the base where dark curls spread above it, and every few seconds his cock gave another involuntary twitch toward his stomach. The skin looked stretched tight around how full he was, his balls drawn close beneath the shaft from how painfully aroused he’d become without touching himself.

Peter looked down at you watching him and let out a shaky breath, but there was no attempt to cover himself or hide anymore. His chest rose and fell quickly, his hair was still ruined from your hands, his lips remained swollen from your kisses and your slick, and another bead of precum had already formed at the tip of his cock by the time your eyes returned there.

You watched it swell slowly at the slit before dragging your gaze back up Peter’s body and meeting his eyes. His throat moved in a hard swallow when he saw the expression on your face, and without breaking eye contact, you slowly lowered yourself onto your knees in front of him.

Peter went completely still when your knees touched the floor, his entire body seeming to lock around the sight of you looking up at him from beneath your lashes. For all the confidence he’d carried once he had his mouth between your thighs, this was different, because now there was nowhere for him to hide from how badly he wanted it.

His cock stood hard and heavy in front of you, thick enough that your fingers barely looked like enough when you wrapped one hand around the base, and the heat of him against your palm made your stomach tighten all over again. Another bead of precum gathered at the slit while you watched, glossy and clear, swelling slowly before beginning to slide down over the flushed head.

Peter’s breath hitched when you leaned forward instead of touching it with your fingers, and the sound broke into a low moan the second your tongue caught the bead from his tip. He tasted salty and warm, the precum spreading across your tongue as you dragged it slowly around the head, taking your time with the sensitive ridge until Peter’s hand shot out and braced against the wall beside him.

His mouth had fallen open already, eyes fixed on you like he couldn’t look away even if it killed him, and when you licked over the slit again, his hips jerked forward so sharply he immediately choked out, “Sorry, sorry.” The apology only made you smile around him, because he looked ruined before you’d even properly started.

You kept one hand around the base of his cock while the other settled against his thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath your palm as you dragged your tongue down the underside of his shaft. He was so hard that every vein stood out beneath your mouth, the thick one underneath pressing against your tongue when you licked slowly from the base back to the tip.

Peter made a broken sound above you, not quiet or restrained, just openly needy, his fingers spreading against the wall as if he needed something solid to keep himself upright. You circled the head with your tongue again, then kissed the slick tip in a deliberately soft, filthy little gesture that made his cock twitch against your lips.

“Don’t tease,” he breathed, voice rough and already unsteady, and when you glanced up at him, his face was flushed so deeply that even his ears were red. You rewarded the plea by taking the head of his cock into your mouth, lips sealing around him while your tongue pressed firmly against the underside.

Peter’s reaction was immediate and loud, a full moan spilling out of him as his head tipped back, throat exposed, chest rising hard with every breath. The sound made your pussy clench even though he wasn’t touching you anymore, and you hummed around him just to feel the way his whole body shuddered.

The vibration nearly took his knees out. Peter’s other hand flew into your hair, not pushing, not forcing, just grabbing like he needed to hold onto something before his body forgot how to stand. You took him a little deeper, jaw stretching around the thickness of him while your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t fit yet, twisting slowly at the base.

His cock was hot and heavy on your tongue, precum smearing against the roof of your mouth as you worked him in shallow, wet pulls. Peter kept making sounds with every motion, soft gasps turning into rougher moans whenever your lips tightened or your tongue dragged over the sensitive head on the way back up.

He tried to watch you, but every few seconds his eyes squeezed shut like the sight was too much, only to open again almost immediately because he clearly couldn’t stand missing it. Your free hand slid higher up his thigh, nails lightly dragging against his skin, and his cock jumped in your mouth hard enough to make you pause.

Peter looked down quickly, breath catching when he saw the way your lips were stretched around him, and the hand in your hair tightened before loosening again in the same second.

You pulled off just enough to breathe, letting your lips drag slowly over the head before he slipped free with a wet sound. Peter’s hips twitched toward your mouth again, desperate for the warmth he’d just lost, and you looked up at him while stroking him with your hand instead.

His cock was slick now from your mouth and his own precum, your fingers gliding more easily as you pumped him from base to tip, thumb circling the flushed head each time you reached it. “Look at you,” you murmured, voice low as your gaze travelled over his flushed face, his open mouth, the way his chest kept lifting quickly. “You were so noisy eating my pussy, and now you’re even worse.”

Peter let out a strained laugh that broke halfway into another moan when your thumb pressed directly over the slit. “Can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice rough and breathless. The honesty in it made heat lick up your spine.

He wasn’t trying to be controlled now, wasn’t trying to make some awkward joke or act composed, and when you leaned forward to lick a slow line up his shaft again, he moaned your name so openly that you felt it between your legs. You took him back into your mouth before he could say anything else.

This time you pushed deeper. Your lips slid down over him inch by inch while your hand tightened at the base, and Peter’s entire body went rigid above you. His fingers threaded through your hair again, trembling slightly as he fought the instinct to buck into your mouth, and you could feel the restraint in every tense line of him.

You hollowed your cheeks and dragged upward slowly, then sank back down, wet heat closing around him while your tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock. Peter swore under his breath once, sharp and helpless, then immediately fell into a string of broken sounds that barely formed words at all.

His hips began moving in small involuntary rolls, not enough to take control, just enough to chase the rhythm of your mouth, and you let him because the desperation of it made your thighs press together. Saliva gathered at the corners of your lips, mixing with the precum leaking from him until every stroke sounded slick and obscene.

When he looked down again, his face went utterly wrecked, eyes dark and unfocused as he watched his cock disappear into your mouth. “You look so good like that,” he said, the words uneven and breathless, like they’d been dragged out of him against his will.

You moaned around him at the praise, and Peter nearly folded. His hand left the wall and landed on the back of the couch instead, gripping it hard while his other hand stayed buried in your hair. You pulled back, breathing through your nose, then took him deeper again, relaxing your jaw until the head of his cock pressed farther into your mouth and made your eyes water slightly.

Peter noticed instantly, his expression flashing with concern through the haze of pleasure, and his hand loosened in your hair as if he was ready to pull you off. Instead, you looked up at him and kept going, letting your tongue move against him while you held his gaze. That did something awful to him.

His mouth fell open, no sound coming out for half a second before a loud, broken moan finally escaped. His cock pulsed against your tongue, precum spilling thicker now, and you swallowed around him just enough to make his thighs tense beneath your hands. “Baby,” he gasped, the pet name sounding almost ruined, “you’re gonna make me cum if you keep doing that.”

You pulled back again, but only to lick across the head and smear the mess over your lips before taking him back in. Peter looked down at your mouth, then at your eyes, and the flush across his face deepened into something almost feverish.

You stroked the base with your hand while sucking the head, tongue flicking over the slit each time more precum gathered there, and his hips began to shake with the effort of keeping still.

Every sound he made was raw and immediate. A gasp when you tightened your lips. A moan when you dragged your tongue underneath.

A broken little whimper when your hand slid lower and cupped him gently while your mouth kept working over the tip. His cock throbbed heavily in your grip, the skin slick and hot, and you could feel how close he was by the way his body kept tensing, releasing, then tensing again.

Peter’s fingers curled through your hair without pulling, his eyes never leaving your face now, and the naked want in his expression made your own body ache. He looked like he wanted to apologise for how desperate he was, but every sound coming out of him said he didn’t want you to stop.

You didn’t. You sank down again, slower this time, taking him as far as you comfortably could while your hand worked the rest in a tight, wet rhythm. Peter’s head tipped back, throat working around a helpless moan as his stomach muscles tightened sharply.

His cock pulsed hard against your tongue, and you felt the exact moment he started losing control, the rhythm of his breathing breaking apart while his hips gave another restrained little thrust.

“I’m close,” he warned, voice strained and shaky. You answered by moaning around him and looking up, letting him see that you’d heard him and weren’t moving away. Peter’s eyes snapped back down to yours, stunned and overwhelmed, and the sight of you on your knees with your lips wrapped around him seemed to push him right to the edge.

His hand tightened in your hair, not guiding, just holding on, and he made the softest, most wrecked sound when your tongue pressed firmly along the underside of his cock. Then his whole body shuddered, his cock swelling against your tongue, and he came with a loud, broken moan, spilling hot into your mouth while his hips jerked forward once before he caught himself.

You kept your mouth on him through it, taking every pulse while Peter trembled above you. His cum coated your tongue in warm, salty bursts, and his sounds turned softer but no less desperate as you slowly worked him through the aftershocks.

His hand slid from your hair to the side of your face, fingers shaking slightly as he looked down at you with his mouth open and eyes blown wide. You didn’t pull away until his cock softened only a little against your tongue and his breathing had turned ragged enough that each exhale sounded almost pained.

When you finally let him slip from your mouth, a thin string of spit and cum connected your lower lip to the flushed head for a second before breaking. Peter stared at it like the sight might actually finish him all over again.

You swallowed slowly while looking up at him, and the tiny sound that left him afterward was almost pathetic. His thumb brushed over your cheek, tender despite the filth of the moment, and for a second neither of you moved.

Then you leaned forward and pressed one last slow kiss to the sensitive tip of his cock, just enough to make him twitch and suck in a sharp breath. Peter’s knees actually bent slightly that time, his hand dropping back to the wall for balance while he gave you a breathless, almost wounded look.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he said, voice hoarse and uneven. You smiled up at him, still on your knees, lips wet and swollen, your thighs sticky from your own earlier orgasm and your chest bare beneath the dim light of the room.

Peter looked at you like he didn’t know whether to pull you up and kiss you or collapse right there in front of you. His cock was still slick between you, sensitive and flushed, a little cum still glistening near the slit, and even though he’d just finished, the way his eyes moved over your face and boobs made it obvious he wasn’t done wanting you.

He reached down carefully and slid his hand beneath your chin, tilting your face up with a softness that somehow made the whole thing feel even dirtier. Then he bent, caught your mouth in a deep, messy kiss and moaned when he tasted himself on your tongue.

The kiss didn’t stay soft for even a second. Peter bent over you with one hand still beneath your chin, mouth opening immediately when yours did, and the taste of him on your tongue made his whole body tense like the filth of it had travelled straight through him. You rose from your knees slowly, legs still unsteady, but the second you were upright your hands went to his chest and pushed.

Peter let you move him without resistance, stumbling backward until the backs of his knees hit the couch and he dropped onto it with a breathless little sound. His cock was still flushed and slick from your mouth, softer than before but not fully down, lying heavy against his lower stomach with the head still wet and sensitive.

Peter looked up at you with messy hair, swollen lips and a dazed kind of hunger still all over his face, like he should’ve been spent but wasn’t even close to done wanting you. You climbed over him before he could say anything, one knee sinking into the cushion beside his hip and then the other until you were straddling his lap, your pussy hovering over his cock while he stared down between your bodies.

His hands immediately went to your waist, fingers spreading over your skin like he needed to feel you everywhere at once. You wrapped your hand around him, feeling him twitch weakly in your palm, still wet with spit and cum, and Peter’s breath caught when you dragged the softened head through your folds.

He made a broken sound when you pressed the tip against your entrance, his eyes snapping up to your face as if he hadn’t expected you to move so quickly. You didn’t give him much warning. You sank down slowly, pushing the slightly soft head inside your wet pussy and feeling your body stretch around the thickness of him even before he was fully hard again.

Peter’s mouth fell open. His fingers tightened on your waist, and the noise that came out of him was low and helpless, almost overwhelmed by the sensation of your slick cunt surrounding him while he was still sensitive from cumming in your mouth. “I wanna feel you get hard inside me,” you murmured, leaning down until your mouth brushed his ear, and Peter’s hips jolted upward beneath you at the words.

You took him deeper inch by inch, your pussy hot and soaked enough to pull him in despite the softness still lingering in his cock, and every little squeeze of your walls made him swell more against you. Peter’s head fell back against the couch, throat exposed, chest rising sharply as he tried to breathe through it.

You could feel the change happening in real time, his cock thickening inside you, filling you more completely with each pulse, going from pliant and sensitive to heavier, harder, more insistent as your body clenched around him. The feeling was filthy enough to make your own breath shake, because you could tell exactly when he tipped over from recovering into needing you all over again.

Once Peter was hard inside you, the stretch became almost too good. His cock filled you properly now, thick and hot, pressing deep every time you lowered your hips until your thighs trembled around his lap. You started riding him slowly at first, hands braced on his shoulders while you lifted yourself almost to the tip and sank back down with a wet, aching drag.

Peter groaned loudly, not bothering to hold back, his hands sliding from your waist to your ass so he could help guide the movement. His fingers kneaded into you, spreading you slightly each time you took him back in, and the pressure made his cock feel even deeper as your pussy swallowed him over and over.

“You feel so good,” he breathed, voice rough against your throat as he leaned forward, mouth dragging along your neck. You tipped your head to give him room, and Peter immediately took advantage, kissing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw before biting down just enough to make you gasp.

His cock jerked inside you at the sound, and you answered by rolling your hips harder, grinding down until your clit rubbed against his body and your cunt tightened around him. Peter’s mouth opened against your neck in another moan, loud and unrestrained, his teeth scraping your skin before he sucked a mark there like he wanted you to feel him even after this was over.

His hands couldn’t seem to settle in one place. They gripped your ass, slid up your back, then came around to your boobs with a kind of greedy tenderness that made your rhythm falter. Peter cupped them while you rode him, thumbs brushing over your nipples as your hips moved in slow, filthy rolls over his cock.

Every time you sank down, his palms squeezed the soft weight of your boobs, and when you lifted again his thumbs circled your nipples until they tightened beneath his touch. You moaned his name and leaned back slightly, giving him more room to look, and Peter’s eyes dropped immediately to the way your chest moved with every bounce of your hips.

He looked wrecked by it, flushed and open-mouthed, his cock twitching deep inside you as he watched his hands cover your boobs. You shifted your own hands down from his shoulders to his chest, dragging your thumbs over his nipples in return. Peter’s reaction was instant.

His stomach tensed, his hips jerked up into you and a sharp moan broke out of him before he could swallow it. You did it again, slower this time, brushing both thumbs over his nipples before pinching lightly, and Peter’s head tipped back with another loud, helpless sound as his cock pulsed inside your pussy.

You rode him harder after that, spurred on by every noise he made. The couch creaked beneath you both, the slick slide of his cock in and out of your pussy growing louder as your arousal mixed with what was left of his cum and your spit.

Peter’s hands returned to your ass, gripping you tighter now, fingers digging in while he helped pull you down onto him. You could feel him everywhere, deep in your stomach, dragging against every sensitive place inside you, and each time your clit rubbed against him another pulse of pleasure tightened low in your belly.

Peter kept kissing and biting your neck between moans, sometimes missing your skin entirely because his head would drop forward when your pussy clenched particularly hard around him.

“I can’t,” he gasped at one point, though he didn’t sound like he wanted you to stop. His hips kept rising into you, sloppy and eager, meeting every downward roll of your body like he couldn’t stand not being as deep as possible.

You threaded one hand through his hair and pulled his head back so you could kiss him, and Peter moaned into your mouth when your thumb brushed his nipple again. For a while it was just that, your bodies moving together on the couch, your pussy taking him again and again, his hands on your ass, his mouth on your neck, both of you getting close but not quite falling over the edge.

Then Peter seemed to decide he needed more. His grip on your ass shifted, fingers spreading wider, and before you could fully process the change, he planted his feet more firmly on the floor and stood with you still wrapped around him. The movement made you gasp, arms flying around his shoulders as his cock drove deeper inside you from the sudden lift.

Peter held you easily, one arm locked beneath your ass while the other hand gripped your hip, and the sheer strength of him made your pussy clench so hard that his eyes squeezed shut. “There,” he breathed, voice strained and wrecked, adjusting his hold until your back was slightly arched and your thighs were tight around his waist. Then he started fucking up into you.

The first thrust knocked the air from your lungs, his cock driving into you from below with a force the couch hadn’t allowed, and Peter’s moan broke apart against your neck as he did it again. His hands gripped your ass, spreading and lifting you so he could fuck upward into your pussy in deep, rough strokes that made your whole body bounce against him.

You clung to his shoulders, nails dragging over his skin, while his mouth found your neck again and bit down through another loud groan. Every thrust pushed him deeper, every upward snap of his hips dragged a helpless sound from you, and Peter’s control seemed to unravel completely when he realised this was what would make you both cum.

It happened fast once he was standing. Your body was already oversensitive from the first orgasm and from riding him, and now every upward thrust punched pleasure through you so sharply that your thighs started shaking around his waist. Peter felt it immediately. His grip on your ass tightened, holding you open and lifted while his hips worked up into you with desperate rhythm.

His mouth moved messily over your neck, biting, kissing, breathing your name against your skin in broken pieces. You could feel his cock swelling even harder inside you, the head dragging against that deep sensitive spot until your whole body started to go tight. “Peter,” you gasped, and the way his name broke out of you made him moan loudly against your throat.

His thrusts got rougher, less controlled, his stomach pressing against your clit every time he drove up, and that final pressure was what sent you over. Your orgasm hit while he was still holding you off the floor, your pussy clamping down around his cock so hard that Peter nearly stumbled back into the couch.

He caught himself, swore softly under his breath, then came with you, hips jerking upward as he buried himself as deep as he could and spilled inside you. His cum filled you in hot, heavy pulses while your own release soaked around him, the mixture making every tiny aftershock wetter and messier as he held you through it.

Peter collapsed back onto the couch with you still in his lap, both of you breathing hard, his cock still buried inside your trembling pussy. For a few seconds neither of you moved. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his hands spread over your ass and lower back, and every little twitch of your cunt around him made him exhale shakily against your skin.

You lifted your head first, dazed and sticky and aching in the best way, then shifted your hips carefully until just the tip of his cock remained inside you. Peter looked down between your bodies, still breathing hard, and you followed his gaze.

Cum immediately began to drip out of your pussy around him, thick and white, mixing with your slick as it slipped down over his cock and gathered messily between your thighs. The sight made Peter’s mouth part around a silent breath. You lifted yourself another fraction, letting more of it spill out of you in a slow, obscene drip, and his fingers tightened on your hips like he was trying not to lose his mind.

You slid two fingers through the mess, scooping up the mixture of his cum and your release before bringing it to your mouth. Peter watched, completely transfixed, as you licked your fingers clean slowly, tongue dragging between them until nothing remained.

You didn’t let him recover from the sight. You leaned in immediately and kissed him, pushing your tongue into his mouth so he could taste the mixture you’d just licked from your fingers. Peter moaned into the kiss, arms tightening around you as his tongue met yours, and the cum-slick taste moved between you in slow, filthy swirls.

You kissed him deeply, letting it coat both your tongues while you still hovered over his softening cock, your pussy dripping onto his lap. Peter didn’t pull away. If anything, he kissed you harder, one hand sliding up your back while the other cupped the back of your head to keep your mouth against his.

When you finally separated, his lips were wet and his eyes were unfocused, his chest rising quickly beneath yours. You stayed there in his lap, legs weak, body sticky, your boobs pressed against his chest and his cum still leaking slowly from your pussy.

Peter looked down between you one more time, then back up at your face, and the ruined little sound he made told you he was already thinking about putting his mouth back there to clean up the mess himself.

Peter didn’t just think about it. He did it.

One second he was staring down between your bodies with that ruined, hungry look still all over his face, eyes fixed on the slow mess of his cum and your release dripping from your pussy and slipping over his softened cock, and the next his hands were already moving. There wasn’t much teasing left in him now, not in the clever, shy, almost nervous way he’d had earlier.

He was too far gone for that, too warm and wrecked and needy, and the little sound he made when more cum slipped out of you was almost pained. His hands tightened around your hips, and before you could even ask what he was doing, Peter shifted beneath you and turned you carefully, one arm braced around your waist so he didn’t let you fall while he guided you down onto your back across the couch.

Your body was loose and heavy from both orgasms, legs still trembling, and Peter handled you like he knew exactly how sensitive you were, even as his expression made it painfully obvious he was barely holding onto his own restraint.

He moved between your thighs with a kind of eager clumsiness that felt so completely Peter, rushed because he wanted it so badly, gentle because it was you.

He pulled your legs up over his shoulders, one at a time, kissing your calf as he settled you open beneath him. The position folded you back just enough that your pussy was completely exposed to him, wet and swollen and messy with everything both of you had left there.

Peter stared for a second longer than he needed to, his mouth parting as his eyes followed the thick drip of cum slipping from your entrance and sliding down through your slick folds. His cock, already softening but still heavy and flushed, twitched weakly against his stomach as he leaned closer.

You saw it happen, saw the way his hips shifted against the couch cushions below him before he even reached your pussy, and the sight made your breath catch in a tired, breathy little laugh. Peter’s eyes flicked up toward your face, cheeks red, but this time he didn’t apologise.

He only turned his head and pressed a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, then another a little higher, mouth warm and messy against your skin while his hands held you open.

The first lick made both of you shudder. Peter dragged his tongue slowly through your folds, catching the mixture of his cum and your slick where it had gathered against your entrance before licking upward with a deep, open-mouthed hunger that made your stomach tighten even though you were already oversensitive.

You gasped, fingers grabbing at the couch beneath you, and Peter groaned directly into your pussy like the taste had hit him harder than expected. He did it again, slower, tongue pressing between your swollen lips and collecting everything messy and wet from you as though he couldn’t stand the idea of wasting any of it. His eyes fluttered for half a second, and then his hips rolled downward against the floor beneath him.

The motion was small at first, almost involuntary, his body chasing friction while his mouth stayed buried between your thighs. Your legs tightened over his shoulders when you realised what he was doing, and Peter made a needy sound into your cunt as his cock rubbed against the carpet with another desperate little grind.

He licked you clean like it mattered to him. Like it was something he needed. His tongue moved slowly over every slick inch of you, dragging through your folds, circling your entrance, then sweeping upward toward your clit with enough care that he didn’t overwhelm you but still made your whole body twitch beneath him.

Each time he tasted more of the mess, his hips pushed harder against the floor. You could hear the rough little breaths he dragged in between licks, hear the quiet, broken moans he tried and failed to smother against your pussy, and every one made the scene feel dirtier. Peter Parker, still half on his knees, still bare and flushed and sticky from you, was eating his own cum out of your cunt while rutting against the floor like he couldn’t help himself.

His hands stayed locked around your thighs, thumbs rubbing your skin in little soothing strokes that didn’t match the desperation of his mouth at all. You looked down at him through heavy lashes, exhausted and turned on all over again, and whispered his name so softly it barely made it past your lips. Peter answered by pressing his face closer, tongue pushing gently into your entrance while his hips gave another needy grind beneath him.

You were too sensitive to take much more, but Peter seemed to know that without being told. He didn’t try to make you cum again. He didn’t suck hard at your clit or push you past what your trembling body could handle. Instead he cleaned you with slow, filthy devotion, licking away the cum that slipped from you, kissing your folds when your thighs shook too much, murmuring soft, breathless little sounds against your skin whenever you squirmed.

His mouth was wet with both of you now, lips shining, chin slick again, and when he finally pulled back to look at your pussy, his expression had gone almost dazed with satisfaction. There was still a little mess at your entrance, and Peter’s eyes fixed on it instantly.

He leaned in one more time, tongue dragging carefully over the spot, and his hips rocked against the floor again with a low, helpless groan. The sound made your chest tighten, fondness mixing with the heavy satisfaction still buzzing through your body. He was completely shameless now, noisy and needy and wrecked, but still so careful with you that it made your heart ache in the middle of all the filth.

When Peter was finally satisfied, he didn’t move away from you immediately. He pressed a lingering kiss to your inner thigh, then another to the other one, mouth soft and warm where he’d just had you shaking. His hands slid down from your thighs to your hips, thumbs brushing lazily over your skin as he lowered your legs from his shoulders.

You were limp enough that he had to help guide them back down, and he did it with a tired tenderness that made you want to pull him up and keep him there. Peter kissed the inside of your knee, then the top of your thigh, then slowly made his way upward. His lips travelled over your hip, across the lower curve of your stomach, and then higher still, leaving warm little kisses over every inch he could reach.

He looked exhausted now, properly drained, his hair a complete disaster, his mouth still wet, his eyes half-lidded with that soft post-sex haze that made him look younger and sweeter again. By the time he reached your ribs, his body had already started to sag with the weight of everything you’d both done.

He collapsed beside you on the couch with a heavy, breathless exhale, half on his side and half against you because there wasn’t really enough room for both of you to lie comfortably. Neither of you cared. Peter’s arm immediately found your waist, dragging you closer until your bare skin pressed against his, warm and sticky and familiar.

His face tucked into the side of your neck, and for a moment all you could hear was both of you breathing, the movie still playing uselessly in the background, completely forgotten. You were sure the apartment was a disaster.

His suit was probably in a half-peeled heap somewhere near the couch, your shirt had been abandoned behind it, your panties were still somewhere in the wreckage, and the blanket had slid halfway onto the floor. Peter shifted like he might attempt to sit up, always so painfully ready to take care of things even when he looked like he could fall asleep mid-breath, but you caught his arm before he could go anywhere.

You reached down blindly until your fingers found the blanket and pulled it up over both of you, covering your bare bodies in a crooked, warm mess. Peter let out a soft sound when the fabric settled over his shoulders, his arm tightening around you as if the permission to stop moving had finally reached him.

You tucked yourself against his chest, your legs still weak, your body still sticky, your throat still a little dry from everything you’d said and moaned, and you felt Peter press one final lazy kiss to the top of your head. “We can clean up later,” you mumbled sleepily, barely managing to get the words out before your eyes started drifting shut.

Peter’s quiet laugh rumbled against you, tired and warm and completely spent. His fingers traced one absent line up your spine beneath the blanket before coming to rest against your back, holding you close. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough from all the sounds he’d made for you. “Later.”

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ for review.

pairing – garrett graham x briar media!reader summary – garrett takes filming duties very seriously, especially when the content involves his face between his girlfriend’s thighs. warnings – 18+, explicit sexual content, consensual filming and homemade pornography, oral sex, fingering, penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, praise kink, overstimulation, strong language notes from me – i mean..... y'all can read the warnings...... word count – 4.4k

navigation – masterlist | briar media!reader masterlist

The camera was hers. It was older and smaller, a black handheld thing she’d bought second-hand during freshman year because the screen flipped out sideways and made everything look faintly like a home video from 2007. 

The battery door had to be pressed shut until it clicked twice, the zoom toggle stuck if she pushed it too hard, and there was a tiny scratch across the corner of the lens that only became visible when light hit it directly.

She loved it with the irrational protectiveness normally reserved for pets and childhood blankets.

Garrett had once called it her emotional-support camcorder and then spent an entire Sunday afternoon carrying it around the hockey house, filming Tucker meal-prepping and Logan losing a fight with the vacuum cleaner.

She had footage of Garrett, too. Hours of it, probably, spread across memory cards and folders with names she kept deliberately vague in case her laptop was ever stolen. 

Garrett in the passenger seat of her car, squinting into the sun while he told a story that had no conclusion. Garrett falling asleep over a textbook with a highlighter still in his hand. Garrett emerging from the rink with wet curls, pink cheeks and the heavy, loose-limbed exhaustion that followed a good practice. Garrett at the grocery store holding two boxes of cereal and asking the camera to settle a dispute neither of them remembered starting.

There was significantly less footage of him with his face between her thighs. Until now.

“Don’t laugh,” she warned, although the warning had already lost most of its authority because laughter was pressing beneath every word, warm and bright and dangerously close to spilling out.

Garrett looked up from where he knelt between her open legs, one forearm braced across her lower stomach and his mouth shining in a way that made her grip tighten around the little camera. “I’m not laughing.”

“You’re doing your face,” she breathed.

“What face?”

“The one where you think you’re very funny.”

His eyebrows lifted, deeply innocent despite the fact that two of his fingers were still curled inside her, moving lazily enough to feel insulting. “I usually am.”

The picture trembled on the flipped-out screen when her wrist weakened. She was propped against the headboard with one pillow crushed behind her back and another somewhere beneath her right thigh, her shirt pushed up under her breasts and her underwear hanging from one ankle because Garrett had hooked it there instead of taking it off properly. 

His bedroom was dim except for the lamp on his desk and the soft rectangle of light spilling in from the hallway beneath the closed door. The camera compensated badly, turning the room grainy and warm, Garrett’s shoulders broad and shadowed between her knees.

It should have looked ridiculous. Instead, the screen showed his dark curls disordered from her hands, his eyes lifted directly toward the lens and the slow, satisfied curve of his mouth before he lowered it to her again.

Her breath snagged hard enough to shake the frame.

“There,” Garrett murmured against her, the word vibrating through skin already too sensitive for the drag of his voice. “That’s better.”

“Cocky fuck,” she managed.

His mouth closed around her clit, and the insult broke apart into a sound she would deny under oath. Garrett’s shoulders shifted when he settled closer, one hand gripping the inside of her thigh and holding it open while the other worked steadily beneath the camera’s narrow field of view. 

He knew exactly what he was doing without needing to watch himself do it, knew the small upward curl that made her legs pull tight around him and the pressure that turned her next breath into a thin, helpless whine.

He had learned her body with the competitive dedication he brought to anything he considered worth doing properly, which meant he remembered everything: what made her hips chase him, what made them jerk away, when to slow down and when slowing down would get him kicked.

Tonight, unfortunately, he had an audience. His gaze returned to the lens while his tongue moved through her, dark eyes amused and intent enough that heat climbed all the way into her face.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, half laughter and half something much less stable. “Stop looking at the camera like that.”

Garrett pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing the wet skin beneath them. “Thought you wanted content.”

“You’re performing.”

His thumb replaced his mouth, rubbing slowly while his fingers pressed deeper. “Baby, I perform every time.”

She made an incredulous noise that dissolved when he crooked his fingers again. The muscles low in her stomach pulled tight, then tighter, the feeling spreading outward in bright, pulsing waves that made it difficult to hold the camera level and even more difficult to remember why she had thought this was a good idea.

“You are so fucking annoying.”

“And you’re shaking.”

“I’m holding a camera,” she mumbled. 

“You need both hands for that?”

She looked at the screen and realised her other hand had left the bedsheet at some point and closed around the camera strap like it might save her life. “Shut up.”

Garrett laughed softly, warm air passing over her before he put his mouth back on her and stopped pretending he had any interest in helping her maintain composure.

He ate her out with the particular combination of patience and greed that always made her suspect he would happily stay there until one of them died. There was nothing hurried about it, even with his fingers moving inside her and her thighs beginning to tense around his head. 

He kept the pressure steady, holding her where he wanted her while her body softened and tightened beneath him in alternating waves, every muscle forgetting its own purpose.

The camera recorded all of it. The wet sound of his mouth. Her breath turning shallow. Garrett’s low, approving hum when her heel dug into the back of his shoulder. The small laugh that escaped her when he glanced up again and visibly adjusted his angle for the lens.

“You’re unbelievable,” she gasped.

He spread her with two fingers and looked directly into the camera before dragging his tongue slowly over her.

Her head knocked back against the wall. “Garrett.”

“What?” His voice was rougher now, amusement dragged low beneath it. “Can’t hear you, baby.”

“You’re–” She lost the rest when his fingers pushed back inside, two firm strokes that made her hips lift from the mattress. “Fuck. Fuck, okay.”

“Okay what?”

She aimed the camera down at him with what remained of her concentration. His face filled the little screen, cheeks flushed, curls falling over his forehead, mouth wet and smug and unfairly pretty. “Okay, you know what you’re doing.”

“That hurt to admit?”

“Yes.”

“Poor thing.” He kissed the inside of her thigh, soft enough to feel obscene after everything else. “Keep filming.”

Her grip tightened. Garrett lowered his mouth again and stopped talking, although silence from him didn’t make the room quieter. Her moans grew ragged, every one of them caught too clearly by the camcorder’s cheap microphone. She tried biting them down and Garrett responded by curling his fingers into the spot that made her knees jerk against his ears.

“Don’t,” he said, mouth barely leaving her. “Wanna hear it.”

The camera dipped. “You’re going to hear it later,” she whispered.

His eyes lifted. “Yeah?”

The way he said it – pleased, almost boyish beneath the filth of the moment–made a laugh bubble out of her even as pleasure wound tighter through her stomach.

“Maybe.”

“Baby,” he hummed.

“Depends on your performance review.”

Garrett’s mouth curved. “I’ll give you something to review.”

“Oh, Jesus Chr–”

He sucked her clit into his mouth and drove his fingers deeper, and whatever she had been about to say vanished beneath the sharp white rush that tore through her. Her hand jerked, the screen swung wildly toward the ceiling, and the camera slipped from her fingers as her entire body locked around him.

It landed beside her hip with a muffled thump, still recording a sideways view of the sheets. Garrett didn’t stop.

Her legs tightened hard around his shoulders as the orgasm moved through her in heavy, pulsing waves, his tongue keeping pace with every helpless jerk of her hips.

She grabbed blindly at his hair, fingers tangling near the crown, holding him there until holding him there became unbearable.

“Garrett– fuck, wait–”

He gave her one more slow stroke with his tongue. She smacked the side of his head.

Garrett pulled back laughing. “Ow.”

“You didn’t stop,” she breathed, still panting as she shoved weakly at the side of his head.

“You didn’t say stop,” Garrett said, lifting his face with a laugh caught beneath the words.

“I said wait,” she shot back, staring down at him in breathless disbelief.

“You hit me before I could process it,” he argued, catching her wrist loosely before she could swat him again.

“You were trying to kill me.”

His grin was bright and filthy, his chin shining while he pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee. “You’re welcome.”

She lay there panting, one forearm thrown over her eyes and every nerve beneath her skin still trembling. The room had gone strange around the edges, soft and far away except for Garrett’s hand sliding over her stomach and the cool air moving across wet skin.

“Get away from me,” she muttered without conviction.

“No.”

She pushed lightly at his face. “Your face is all… smug.”

“You came on it.”

“Garrett.”

He climbed over her before she could gather enough strength to kick him, kissing the soft place beneath her belly button and then her ribs, dragging his mouth upward until his weight settled over her. 

His boxers were still on, the hard length of him pressed against her thigh, and the contrast between that and the pleased softness in his eyes made something low inside her pull tight all over again.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he murmured.

She opened her eyes, but Garrett wasn’t looking at her. He had reached beside her and picked up the camera.

The screen was flipped toward him now, the lens aimed directly at her face while he thumbed the zoom toggle with far more care than he had ever shown the device before. The tiny motor whirred as the frame tightened around her flushed cheeks, swollen mouth and the damp hair clinging to her temple.

Her laugh came out breathless. “Don’t you dare.”

“Too late.” He adjusted the angle, studying the screen with exaggerated professionalism. “Wow.”

“Give it back.” She reached for it and he leaned away, holding the camera safely beyond her grasp while keeping himself planted between her legs. “Garrett.”

“Postgame interview,” he said, voice dropping into the composed tone he used when athletics shoved a microphone toward him after a win. “Talk us through that final sequence.”

She stared at him for one long second and then started laughing so hard her stomach cramped. “I hate you.”

“Interesting. Didn’t sound like hate,” Garrett said, his mouth still curved with smug satisfaction.

“Delete that,” she breathed, reaching toward the camera.

“Which part?” 

“All of it,” she said, although there wasn’t much conviction left beneath the laughter still catching in her voice.

His grin softened around the edges, and he lowered the camera slightly. “You actually want me to?”

She looked at him, at the ease with which he had shifted, one hand still warm against her hip while the other held the camera loosely rather than possessively. Garrett could turn anything into a joke until the exact second it mattered; then the humour moved aside and left something steady in its place.

“No,” she said, reaching up to push one damp curl away from his forehead. “Keep it.”

“Still no cloud?” he checked.

“Airplane mode. No backups. Memory card stays with me.”

“Yes, boss,” Garrett murmured.

“And if we break up, I’m setting it on fire,” she added.

Garrett’s expression flattened. “We’re not breaking up.”

“It’s a hypothetical,” she argued.

“It’s a stupid hypothetical,” he said immediately.

She hooked two fingers into the waistband of his boxers. “Do you want to argue or do you want to take these off?”

His gaze dropped. The camera zoomed abruptly toward her hand.

“You’re such a creep,” she said through another breathless laugh.

“I’m documenting,” Garrett defended.

“Document faster,” she told him, tugging impatiently at the elastic.

Garrett set the camera down long enough to strip his boxers off, kicking them somewhere near the foot of the bed before reaching into the bedside drawer. She watched his shoulders move as he tore open the condom wrapper, the lines of his body familiar enough to settle something warm beneath her ribs even while desire began rebuilding through the pleasant soreness between her thighs.

He rolled it on, then caught her watching. “What?” he asked.

She curled one leg around the back of his thigh and pulled him closer. “Maybe I just like you.”

His mouth curved. “Maybe?”

“Don’t ruin it.”

Garrett reached for the camera again. “Say it for the video.”

She grabbed his wrist before he could aim it. “I will throw that thing out the window.”

“You love this thing more than you love most people.”

He was right, which was irritating enough that she took the camera from him and turned it toward his face instead. Garrett was kneeling over her, flushed from exertion and pleased with himself, his curls completely ruined now and his mouth still wet from her. 

The screen made him look grainy and warm, less like the star forward whose face appeared across Briar athletics and more like the boy who stole her blankets and drank orange juice directly from the carton when Tucker wasn’t looking.

“Say something useful,” she told him.

Garrett leaned closer to the lens. “I love my girlfriend.”

Her mouth betrayed her immediately. He saw the smile and smiled back, softer, the cockiness fading for one second beneath something that pressed sweet and heavy against the inside of her chest. Then his eyes dropped toward her body and the softness sharpened again.

“And I’m about to fuck her,” he added.

“There he is.”

“You love me.” He took the camera from her, turned it back toward her face and lowered himself between her thighs.

The head of his cock dragged through her once, the contact enough to pull a shaky breath from her.

Garrett looked away from the screen. “Still good?”

“Yes.”

His mouth twitched. “Words you’d like entered into the official record.”

“Garrett.”

“Okay, okay.”

He pushed into her slowly, watching her rather than the camera as her body stretched around him. The first inch made her breath catch; the next drew a low sound from deep in her throat. Garrett stopped halfway, one hand gripping her hip, his expression tightening with the effort of holding still.

“Good?” he asked.

She nodded, then remembered who she was in love with. “Yes. Keep going.”

His eyes darkened at the answer. He pressed the rest of the way inside until his hips met hers, both of them going quiet for a moment beneath the dense, full pressure of it. Her legs shifted instinctively around him, heels sliding along his back, and Garrett exhaled through his nose like the sound had been forced out of him.

“Fuck,” he murmured, camera forgotten near her shoulder. “You feel–”

“Careful,” she said, already smiling. “You’re on tape.”

He glanced at the lens and something wicked returned to his face. “Good.”

Garrett pulled almost all the way out and drove back into her. The camera shook. Her laugh broke into a moan as he found his rhythm, deep and steady, each thrust moving through her with enough force to press her farther into the pillows. He held the camera angled down now, catching her body beneath him and the place they joined before moving back to her face whenever her expression changed.

“You like watching yourself?” she asked, breathless.

“I like watching you.”

He flipped it sideways enough that she could see. The image showed her spread beneath him, shirt still bunched beneath her breasts, mouth open and cheeks pink, Garrett’s forearm flexed beside her head while his hips moved between her legs.

The sight sent a fresh pulse of heat through her. Garrett noticed. “Oh,” he said softly. “You like that.”

“Shut up,” she mumbled.

“You do.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Nothing weird about it, baby.” He pushed deeper, watching the exact moment her eyes fluttered shut. “Pretty girl likes seeing how good she looks taking me.”

The laugh that left her was thin and wrecked. “Your dirty talk gets worse when there’s a camera.”

“Better.”

“Debatable.”

He hooked one arm beneath her legs and lifted them higher, guiding both ankles over his shoulders. The new angle folded her open beneath him, his next thrust landing so deep that the camera caught nothing but ceiling when his hand jolted.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasped.

Garrett steadied the frame and looked into it. “That one?”

She clenched around him deliberately. His face changed. The smugness broke for half a second, mouth parting and brows drawing together as a rough curse left him. The camera dipped toward her again.

“That,” she said, breathing hard. “Get that face.”

“You’re funny.”

“You’re pretty.”

“Yeah?”

“So pretty.”

His hips snapped forward harder. The impact dragged a sharp cry from her, then another when he repeated it. Garrett caught one of her thighs against his chest, his mouth pressing to her ankle before his eyes returned to the screen.

“There she is,” he murmured, voice thick and low. “Look at you.”

Her body tightened around him in response, every word feeding the pressure gathering again through her stomach. She could feel the edge returning more slowly this time, built beneath the relentless drag of him and the sight of his focus split between her body and her face.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Garrett said, the camera close enough to catch the strain in his voice. “Jesus Christ, baby. You always this greedy?”

“You’re inside me.”

“Mm.”

“You wanted this.”

“Yeah.” His next thrust was slower, deeper, his pelvis grinding against her at the end of it. “Always want this.”

The camera drifted nearer to her face. She stared into the lens while Garrett fucked her, the strange intimacy of it making her chest ache beneath the heat – his hand holding the thing she loved, his body moving through hers, his voice roughened by wanting her and his eyes refusing to leave her for long.

“Tell them,” he said.

She tried to laugh. “Tell who?”

“The camera. Tell it how good I’m fucking you.”

“You’re such a–” Her words collapsed when he shifted one hand between them, thumb finding her clit. “Oh, fuck you.”

“Working on it.”

“Garrett.”

“C’mon, baby.” His thumb moved in slow circles, completely at odds with the force of his hips. “Use your words.”

She stared at the camera, face burning and body trembling beneath him. “He’s doing okay.”

Garrett stopped, not completely, but enough to make her whine. “Okay?”

“Garrett, don’t,” she breathed, the warning thinning into a needy little sound when he slowed almost to a stop.

“Say it right,” he told her, far too calm for someone holding her exactly on the edge.

“You’re holding my orgasm hostage for a review?” she demanded, staring up at him in breathless disbelief.

“I take feedback seriously.”

She tightened her legs around his shoulders. “You’re doing so good. Feels fucking amazing, baby.”

His grin returned immediately. “Yeah?”

“So fucking good,” she assured him, voice cracking as she pulled him closer. “Now move before I kill you.”

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, and finally gave her what she wanted.

He started again with enough force that the camera finally became impossible. The frame jerked with every thrust, Garrett’s control fraying as her body pulled tighter around him. She watched his grip loosen, watched the lens dip toward the mattress, and reached up to push it aside.

“Put it down,” she breathed.

His eyes moved to hers. “Yeah?”

“Come here.”

That was all it took. Garrett dropped the camera onto the pillow beside her, still recording nothing useful except the edge of her hair and a sliver of his shoulder. He lowered her legs from his shoulders and came down over her, the full heat and weight of him pressing her into the mattress as she wrapped both legs around his waist.

His mouth found hers immediately. The kiss was wet and clumsy, tasting faintly of her and mint gum and the laugh she couldn’t quite stop making when their noses knocked together. Garrett smiled against her mouth, one arm slipping beneath her shoulders while the other braced beside her head.

“What?” he murmured, his mouth still brushing the corner of hers while his hips moved in slow, heavy strokes between her thighs.

“Nothing,” she breathed, although the smile pulling helplessly at her mouth made the lie useless. Her arms were looped around his shoulders now, fingertips damp against the back of his neck, and every shift of his body pressed her deeper into the mattress.

“You’re laughing at me,” Garrett said, lifting his head just enough to look at her. His curls hung messily over his forehead, his breathing uneven against her lips, and there was something almost offended in his expression beneath the satisfaction still sitting there.

“I’m not,” she insisted, biting down on another laugh as his chest dragged warm against hers.

“You are,” he said, narrowing his eyes while one hand tightened beneath her ass, keeping her lifted into the lazy roll of his hips.

“You dropped the camera,” she reminded him, her voice breaking slightly when he pushed deeper. The stupid little red recording light was still blinking from the pillow beside them, capturing little more than the edge of his shoulder and the wet, breathless sound she made into his jaw.

“You told me to,” Garrett said, like that settled everything, pressing a kiss beneath her ear. “I’m distracted.”

“By what?” she asked, even though the answer was already written through every hard line of him pressed against her.

Garrett drove into her hard enough to steal the question from her mouth. Her breath caught somewhere behind her teeth, legs locking tighter around his waist as pleasure struck hot and deep through her stomach. Garrett stayed buried there for a beat, forehead falling against hers while he watched the understanding move across her face.

“That,” he said.

She grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down, kissing him again while her hips lifted to meet his. Without the camera between them, everything went loose and familiar, the performance dissolving into the private mess they knew best: her fingernails pressing crescents into his shoulders, Garrett losing his rhythm when she clenched around him, their mouths finding and missing each other between laughter and broken breaths.

He kissed along her jaw, then down the side of her neck, every word pressed warm into her skin. “So perfect,” he murmured, hips rolling deep. “My perfect girl. Fuck, you feel good.”

Her arms tightened around him.

Garrett kissed beneath her ear, then the corner of her mouth when she turned toward him. “Love you.”

The words came out without ceremony, tangled in his breath and the sound of the mattress shifting beneath them. She felt them everywhere anyway.

“I love you too,” she whispered, and Garrett made a rough, almost wounded sound against her jaw.

His hand slid beneath her ass and lifted her into the next thrust, keeping her close while the pleasure inside her sharpened toward something unbearable. Her legs locked around his waist, heel digging into the back of his thigh, every muscle turning tight and hot.

“Gonna come again?” he asked.

She nodded against his cheek. “Yes.” Her voice broke. “Yeah, baby, I’m close.”

“Good girl.” He kissed her once, slow despite the way his body was beginning to shake. “Give it to me.”

Her orgasm hit with less warning than the first, pulling through her in deep, rolling pulses that made her gasp his name into his mouth. Garrett held her through it, thrusting twice more before his own control snapped, his forehead dropping against hers as he came with a low, wrecked groan.

For several seconds there was nothing but breath. Garrett stayed over her, chest rising hard against hers, his weight held carefully through his forearms even while his muscles trembled. She ran one hand through the damp hair at the back of his head, smoothing it without purpose. His nose nudged hers once, then again, and she smiled before opening her eyes.

He was already looking at her. His face had gone soft in the aftermath, all the cockiness washed out of it beneath exhaustion and affection and the kind of satisfaction he would become unbearable about in approximately thirty seconds.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Mhm.”

“Good?”

“Very.”

He kissed her. Once, lazily, then again when she followed his mouth. The camera’s little red recording light blinked from the pillow beside them. Garrett noticed it over her shoulder, and his mouth started curving.

She saw it happen. “No.”

He shifted his weight, still inside her, and reached one arm toward the camera.

She caught his wrist. “Leave it.”

“We should make sure it recorded.” He managed to grab the camera anyway, lifting it over her shoulder and turning the lens toward their flushed faces. The framing was terrible. Half his head was cut off and her hair filled one corner, both of them sweaty and dazed and pressed too close together to resemble anything remotely produced.

Garrett looked into the lens.

“So,” he said, his voice hoarse but bright with incoming stupidity, “we reviewing that footage?”

She stared at him, then she shoved her palm over the camera. “Garrett!”

His laughter filled the room, loud and helpless, the picture shaking violently behind her hand while he kissed the heel of her palm and tried to pull it away. “For quality control,” he insisted.

“You are never touching my camera again.”

He grinned at her. “That seems extreme.”

“You filmed my face from three inches away after eating me out!”

“You looked pretty.”

“I looked concussed.”

“You looked happy.”

She lowered her hand just enough to glare at him through the screen. Garrett’s grin softened.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he said again, quieter this time.

Her irritation lasted exactly as long as it took him to kiss her. The camera slipped sideways between them, recording the edge of his shoulder, her muffled laugh and Garrett murmuring something filthy into her mouth before the battery finally died.

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[kooksandpearls]

Man's Best Friend ☾ My Man on Willpower

pairing – garrett graham x kitty!reader summary – black lace, pink lace and one failed shower seduction leave kitty demanding an explanation for garrett graham’s deeply offensive new self-control. warnings – 18+, strong language, sexual rejection fears, jealousy references, lingerie, explicit sexual discussion, nudity and suggestive touching notes from me – oh i love this song and oh i love them!! word count – 4.4k

navigation – masterlist | MBF masterlist

For the first few days, she assumes Garrett is tired. It isn’t an unreasonable theory. He has practice before most of the campus has accepted that morning exists, classes arranged around hockey with the precision of a military campaign, captain meetings, film sessions, lifting, assignments he remembers approximately six hours before they’re due, and now a second unpaid occupation involving the construction of every object in her apartment.

The dresser is finally standing. One drawer sticks if pulled too quickly and another sits slightly higher than the rest, but Garrett has declared both defects structural and forbidden her from criticising them until she has successfully assembled something containing more than four screws. 

The coffee table is upright. Two of the prints have made it onto the wall. Her bed frame no longer creaks with the haunted complaint of furniture aware it was built incorrectly, because Tucker came over, looked at Garrett’s work for seventeen silent seconds and rebuilt one corner without saying a word.

Garrett has been busy. So when he kisses her forehead instead of her mouth on Monday night, she lets it go.

When she changes beside him on Tuesday and catches him looking very seriously at the television while she pulls her shirt over her head, she assumes he’s trying not to distract her because she has an assignment due.

By Wednesday, he has started doing things that feel almost insulting in their tenderness. He brings dinner without turning it into an excuse to bend her over the kitchen island. He sits beside her on the couch with one arm around her shoulders, thumb moving slowly against her upper arm. 

When she climbs into his lap halfway through a movie, Garrett kisses her temple, adjusts the blanket around her bare legs and continues watching a documentary about an unsolved bank robbery as though she hasn’t deliberately placed her ass over his dick.

Thursday is suspicious.

Friday is a declaration of war. She wears the black set because it has always worked before.

Calling it pyjamas is generous. It contains less fabric than one of Garrett’s socks and provides roughly the same protection against a Massachusetts winter. The tiny lace shorts sit low against her hips, scalloped edges skimming the tops of her thighs, while the matching camisole has thin straps, a deep neckline and enough transparency to make the continued existence of Garrett’s self-control feel less like maturity and more like a personal attack.

Normally, she cannot cross his room wearing it without being grabbed. Once, she had made it as far as the foot of his bed before Garrett caught the back of the shorts with one finger and dragged her toward him, grinning when she stumbled into his lap. 

Another time, he had walked directly into his desk because he claimed he was checking where he had left his phone while watching her adjust one of the straps in the mirror.

Tonight, he looks up from the cardboard box beside her wardrobe, says, “That’s cute,” and returns to sorting a collection of tangled charging cables.

Cute. Her eye twitches. 

She stands there for several seconds, waiting for the rest of the sentence. Something about taking it off. Something filthy enough to restore natural order. At minimum, an indication that he’s noticed the lace and that her nipples are visible beneath it.

Garrett picks up an old phone charger. “Is this yours?”

She stares at him. “No.”

“You sure?”

“I don’t own anything that ugly.”

Garrett studies it, considering whether electrical equipment can have aesthetic failings. “Think it’s Dean’s.”

She blinks at him. “Throw it away.”

“He’ll complain.”

She huffs. “Throw him away too.”

His mouth twitches. He places the charger in a small pile near his knee, then reaches into the box again. She remains in the middle of the bedroom in her sluttiest pyjamas, arms hanging loosely at her sides, experiencing what she can only describe as rejection.

Eventually, Garrett looks up. His eyes move over her face rather than anywhere useful. “What?”

She narrows hers. “Nothing.”

“Okay,” he murmurs. 

Everything is gentle now. His voice. His hands. The brief kisses he leaves on her hairline before going to practice. He touches the small of her back when passing behind her but never lets his palm wander lower. He’s slept in her bed four nights this week and treated it like a protected wildlife sanctuary.

Before the scare, Garrett had been physically incapable of behaving himself around her. She could wear an old t-shirt and complain about the weather and still end up pinned beneath him because, apparently, the way she said humidity had been provocative. He used to look at her like he had been given access to something rare, dangerous and specifically designed to ruin his schedule.

Now he has willpower. It’s disgusting.

By the following evening, the black lace has been replaced by a pale pink set with a bow between her breasts and shorts so small they ride up when she walks. Garrett arrives after practice with damp curls, grey sweats, a duffel over one shoulder and two takeaway bags balanced in one hand. He kisses her cheek. He asks whether she’s eaten. He takes the rubbish downstairs without being reminded.

He doesn’t fuck her.

Sunday morning, she showers while he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth and spends several deeply humiliating minutes positioning herself beneath the water like an expensive shampoo advertisement. Garrett hands her the conditioner when she asks for it, presses one kiss to her wet shoulder and leaves to make coffee.

She considers drowning him.

By Sunday night, exactly one week after the pregnancy test declared her uterus free from immediate responsibility, she’s stopped believing any of this is accidental.

Garrett’s lying beside her on the bed with his back against the headboard, one knee bent beneath his phone and the other stretched over the comforter. He showered at her apartment after practice, which means his hair is still damp at the ends and he smells like the body wash she bought because he liked it, though he continues referring to it as hers whenever someone points out that a bottle has also appeared in the upstairs bathroom at the hockey house.

The television is playing something neither of them has followed for twenty minutes. Garrett is scrolling with one thumb, expression relaxed and mildly interested, while she sits beside him in dark red lace that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination except how quickly it might tear.

She’s been waiting for him to notice for eleven minutes. He noticed. She knows he noticed because his eyes had dropped when she came out of the bathroom, then immediately lifted to her face with the kind of deliberate control usually required when speaking to somebody’s mother at a funeral.

He’d said, “You cold?”

She’d nearly thrown herself through the window.

Now his phone glows over his face while one hand rests innocently against his stomach. Not on her thigh. Not beneath her shirt. Not even close enough to suggest he might accidentally brush her. The restraint is offensive. Worse, it’s beginning to hurt.

The first few days had made her irritable. The rest have done something quieter. Something that sits beneath her sternum and tightens each time Garrett kisses her forehead like she’s precious and sexless.

She’s checked herself in mirrors more than she would ever admit. Turned sideways. Looked for changes that do not exist. Wondered whether the pregnancy scare had taken whatever filthy, hungry thing used to spark between them and made it feel dangerous to him.

Maybe the thought of her pregnant had rearranged the way he saw her. Maybe he had pictured a child inside her and could no longer separate that body from the one he used to drag toward him by the hips. Maybe all his talk about not leaving had come with some new, terrible version of respect where she became something to look after rather than want.

Garrett’s thumb moves over the screen. Her jaw tightens. He smiles faintly at whatever he’s reading. Something inside her snaps with remarkable cleanliness, so she smacks the phone out of his hand.

It flies sideways, bounces once against the comforter and lands facedown near his thigh.

Garrett blinks. His empty hand remains suspended in front of him. “Hey–”

She climbs into his lap before he can finish. His back hits the headboard with a quiet thud as her knees settle on either side of his hips, lace shorts dragging over the soft cotton of his sweats. Garrett’s hands come up automatically, catching her around the waist while she takes his face between both palms and kisses him.

There’s no gentle beginning, she catches his bottom lip between hers, sucking hard enough to steal the small surprised sound from his throat before pushing her tongue into his mouth.

Garrett kisses her back on instinct, head tipping beneath her hands, lips parting, breath warming as she tangles one hand into his damp curls and holds him exactly where she wants him.

For one bright second, everything rights itself. His mouth gets rougher. His fingers flex at her waist. His body tightens beneath her, familiar and responsive enough that relief moves through her with almost painful speed.

She rolls her hips down, letting him feel the thin lace between them, and Garrett groans softly into her mouth. Her fingers tighten in his hair. His hands slide from her waist toward her hips, palms following the curve until they stop.

Garrett exhales against her lips and moves both hands back up. She kisses him again, harder, convinced he’s simply miscalculated. Then she releases his hair, catches his wrists and deliberately places his hands on her ass.

Garrett leaves them there for perhaps half a second. Then, with the careful patience of a man returning a misplaced object to its correct shelf, he lifts them to her waist again.

She pulls back.

Garrett’s lips are swollen. His breathing is a little rough. His curls stand up where she gripped them, and his eyes move over her face with open confusion. “What?”

She looks down at his hands, then at him. “What the fuck?”

His brows draw together. “What?”

“Why are your hands there?”

Garrett glances down. “On your waist?”

“Yes.”

His expression doesn’t become more enlightened. “That’s generally where I put them.”

Her eyes sharpen. “No, it isn’t.”

“Baby–”

“You haven’t fucked me in a week, Garrett.”

The words land between them with significantly more volume than she planned. Garrett’s mouth closes. His hands remain at her waist, warm and broad and infuriatingly respectful.

He lets out a breath. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Her voice climbs. “That’s not an okay statement.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

Her eyes widen while her brow furrows. “You said okay.”

“Because you said I haven’t fucked you in a week.” A crease appears between his brows, like he’s trying to approach the conversation logically despite the half-naked woman currently straddling him and looking prepared to commit a felony. “Which is true.”

She stares. “Great. I’m glad we’ve established the timeline.”

Garrett’s mouth twitches at the wrong moment.

“Oh, don’t.” She climbs off him so quickly her knee catches the edge of the comforter. Garrett reaches out, but she slaps his hand away and stands beside the bed, furious enough that her bare feet feel too hot against the timber floor. “Do not smile at me.”

“I’m not smiling.” Garrett sits straighter. “I’m just looking at you.”

“No, you don’t. Not properly.” She gestures down at herself, the movement making the bow between her breasts bounce with humiliating cheerfulness. “I am standing in front of you in this, Garrett.”

His eyes drop because she has forced them to. They travel over the red lace, the deep line of her chest, the narrow strip of skin between the camisole and shorts. His throat moves.

She points at him. “Do not start pretending now. I’ve conducted an experiment.”

Garrett’s eyes lift slowly. “An experiment?”

“Yes. Multiple. Black lace, pink lace, shower, no bra, sitting on your dick during an entire documentary about bank fraud– nothing.”

His brow furrows. “That wasn’t about bank fraud.”

“I don’t give a fuck what it was about!”

“Okay.”

“Stop saying okay!”

He presses his lips together. She starts pacing because standing still requires a level of control she no longer possesses. Three steps take her toward the dresser Garrett built, then four return her to the bed because the room isn’t large enough for the scale of her outrage.

“You used to be obsessed with me,” she says. “Literally obsessed. I couldn’t bend over in your general vicinity. I wore your old shirt once and you acted like I’d personally invented tits.”

Garrett rubs one hand over his mouth. His shoulders move suspiciously.

“This is not funny!”

“It’s a little–”

“Do you know how lucky you are to get to fuck me?”

His hand drops. “What?”

“No, seriously. Do you understand?” She gestures at herself again, more broadly now. “Look at me. I’m hot. I’m flexible. I let you do things that would make a priest leave the church. I bought us a vibrator and let you name him Douglas even though that’s a name for a divorced dad.”

His bottom lip pouts slightly. “You liked the name.”

“That’s completely irrelevant.”

“Okay.”

Her eyes narrow.

“Sorry,” he says immediately.

She resumes pacing. The lace shorts have started riding up on one side, but stopping to adjust them would undermine the argument, so she continues with one cheek marginally more exposed than the other.

“And now what? You’re in touch with your emotions?” she demands. “You’ve developed restraint? You’re behaving like I’m some fucking nun you’re helping cross the road.”

“I don’t think nuns–”

“Garrett.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“You’re being so fucking gentle with me. You keep kissing my head.” She points accusingly at her forehead. “This part. Constantly. Do you know how insulting that becomes after the sixth time?”

His brows lift. “I didn’t.”

“Well, now you do.”

“I was trying to be nice.”

“Since when?”

The question leaves her sharper than the rest, slicing cleanly through the room. Garrett goes quiet.

She feels the difference immediately. The rant loses some of its momentum, but not enough to stop. Her chest is moving too quickly beneath the lace, each breath catching faintly against her ribs. “Seriously. Since when do you care this much about being respectful? You’ve fucked me against this kitchen counter before there was a chair in the apartment. You tried to negotiate access to my ass while I was giving you a house tour.”

“I accepted the ruling.”

“Not the point!”

His hands settle against his thighs. He watches her pace once more toward the dresser, then back, his expression no longer amused. There’s something careful in it now, but not the awful tenderness she’s spent the week resenting. This is attention. Full and steady and fixed entirely on her.

She hates that it makes her eyes sting. “You made me feel like shit,” she says, quieter than everything before it. “I’m right here, and you won’t touch me with a twenty-foot pole.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. “That’s not true.”

“You literally removed your hands from my ass.”

“I was trying not to–” He stops.

“To what?”

His gaze shifts briefly toward the floor. He drags one palm over the back of his neck, fingers catching in the damp curls there. “You done?”

Her mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”

“Are you finished yelling at me?”

She considers the question with genuine seriousness, cataloguing the remaining insults at her disposal. There are several. Most lack the emotional precision of the earlier material. “Yes,” she says eventually. “For now.”

“Sorry.” A faint, exhausted breath leaves him. “I’m sorry I made you feel like that.”

The immediate sincerity is irritating. She folds her arms over her chest, which pushes everything upward enough that Garrett’s eyes flick down before returning to her face.

“I wasn’t trying to avoid you,” he says. “Or make you think I don’t want you.”

“You have a very confusing way of communicating desire,” she mutters.

“I know.”

“You brought me garlic bread and organised my cables.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “You needed both.”

“I needed your dick.”

Garrett’s eyes close for half a second. When they open again, something warmer has entered them, though the tension around his mouth remains. “Yeah. I’m getting that now.”

She gives him a flat look.

He leans forward, forearms braced against his thighs. “It’s been weird since…”

“The scare,” she finishes.

Garrett nods. Outside the bedroom, the apartment hums with all its small new noises: the refrigerator motor, a car passing below, one of the pipes ticking faintly inside the wall. The same apartment where they sat with a cushion between them and waited three minutes to find out whether the rest of their lives had already changed.

Garrett looks down at his hands. “I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

“So you decided to become celibate?”

“I didn’t decide anything.” His thumb moves over the faint scrape near his knuckle. “I just kept thinking about what I said to you. About how I made you feel. And then every time I touched you, it felt like…” He exhales, frustrated by the sentence before it exists. “Like maybe that’s all I know how to do with you.”

Her arms loosen by a fraction. “What?”

“You were scared, and I was a fucking asshole. Then the test was negative, and we hugged, and the next thing I wanted to do was kiss you.” His mouth twists. “Which felt shitty.”

“Why?”

“Because you were standing there crying after I accused you of sleeping with someone else.”

“And you think kissing me would’ve been… the offensive part of that evening?”

“No.” He rubs both hands over his face. “I don’t know. Maybe. I just didn’t want to act like sex fixed it.”

She looks at him.

Garrett’s hands drop. His face is open in that reluctant, uncomfortable way it becomes when he’s run out of places to hide without physically leaving the room. “I didn’t want you thinking I was only being nice because I wanted something. Or that I was just waiting for enough time to pass before I started grabbing you again.”

“You could’ve asked.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve said, hey, I’ve become weirdly complicated and may need written permission to touch your ass.”

He gives her a look. “That would’ve gone well.”

“It would’ve gone better than treating me like somebody’s grandmother.”

His mouth twitches. “You don’t dress like anybody’s grandmother.”

“Then why weren’t you looking?”

“I was looking.”

“No, you weren’t.”

His eyebrows raise lazily. “I was trying not to get caught.”

The answer arrives so simply that she stops.

Garrett lifts one shoulder, almost embarrassed. “You kept changing in front of me and walking around in these little…” His gaze drops again, slower now, taking in the lace where it clings to her waist and disappears high over her thighs. His jaw shifts. “Things.”

“Pyjamas.”

“Those aren’t pyjamas.”

Her mouth threatens to move. She fights it. “You said the black ones were cute.”

“I was fighting for my life.”

“You sorted cables.”

He huffs. “I needed something to do with my hands.”

The laugh escapes before she can stop it, quick and unwilling. Garrett watches her face soften, his shoulders loosening by a degree. She uncrosses her arms. “So you still want me.”

His eyes settle on her, dark and steady, the humour leaving his mouth while something heavier takes its place. “Baby,” he says, “I’ve wanted you every second of this week.”

The words move beneath her skin slowly, warmth spreading into all the places that had gone tight and cold. She picks at the edge of one lace strap. “You have an extremely stupid way of showing it.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought the pregnancy thing made you see me differently.”

Garrett’s brows draw together. “It did.”

Her stomach drops.

He sees it. “Not like that.”

“Choose your next words very carefully.”

“I mean…” He looks briefly toward the ceiling, searching for whatever language has avoided him all week. “I don’t know. It made everything feel more… real.”

The back of her neck warms. “Everything?”

“Us.” He says it quickly, then continues before either of them can examine the word too closely. “This apartment. You. How much I’m here. How much of my shit is here. The fact that you weren’t sleeping with anybody else.”

“You weren’t either.”

Garrett’s eyes flick to hers.

She lifts her chin. “Were you?”

“No.”

The answer is immediate enough that the last small knot inside her loosens.

He rubs his palms once over his thighs. “I realised I’ve been walking around saying this isn’t anything while treating it like it’s…” His jaw works. “Not nothing.”

She waits, but Garrett doesn’t give her more. He looks like the sentence has already cost him a functioning organ.

The realisation arrives quietly anyway. He’s frightened because the pregnancy scare made them real in a way jealousy and toothbrushes and furniture never quite had. Frightened enough to try becoming a better man through the deeply flawed strategy of refusing to put his hands on her ass.

Her chest tightens, but this time the pressure is warm. “You’re such an idiot,” she says.

Garrett nods. “Yeah.”

“And I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“And you should’ve spoken to me.”

He nods again. “I know.”

“I didn’t ask you to respect me into celibacy.”

That finally breaks him. Garrett drops his head, laughing into both hands while she stands between his knees trying not to smile. His shoulders shake once beneath the thin grey shirt.

When he looks up, his face is softer. “I’m sorry.” Garrett’s eyes move over her face. “Can you come here?”

She nods. The distance between them is only a few steps. Garrett watches each one, his gaze dropping openly now to the lace shorts, then climbing back to her face when she stops in front of him.

His hands settle against the backs of her thighs, and for one second, neither of them moves.

Then Garrett slides his palms upward, slowly enough that she feels every inch of the path, warmth dragging over bare skin until his thumbs reach the lace hem. He looks up at her while his fingers curl around her thighs, drawing her closer until she stands between his knees and the soft cotton of his shirt brushes her stomach.

“There,” she murmurs. “Was that so difficult?”

“Extremely.” His mouth touches her just above the waistband of the shorts.

The kiss is gentle, but this time it doesn’t feel cautious. It feels intentional. His lips press to the soft lower curve of her stomach, then move slightly to one side, warm breath spilling over her skin as his hands continue their slow journey upward.

Her fingers find his curls. She doesn’t pull yet. She only lets them settle there, combing lightly through the damp strands while Garrett kisses her again.

“You look so fucking sexy,” he murmurs against her stomach.

She bites her bottom lip. “I know.”

His laugh brushes over her skin. “Yeah. I know you know.”

“You could’ve mentioned it earlier.”

He presses another slow kiss to her stomach. “I was worried encouragement would make the outfits smaller.”

“They can get smaller.”

Garrett’s hands tighten beneath the curve of her ass before he catches himself.

She looks down. “Don’t you dare.”

His eyes lift.

“Leave them there.”

Something shifts in his face. The last trace of restraint gives way , his hands spread properly over her, palms filling with lace and warm skin as he pulls her forward until her stomach presses against his mouth.

“Better?” he asks.

“Marginally.”

Garrett kisses the centre of her stomach again, then lower, mouth dragging along the lace waistband. “Marginally?”

“You’ve caused significant emotional damages.”

His teeth catch lightly near her hip. Her breath stutters. “I’ll fix it.”

“You’d better.”

He turns his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss over the point of her hip, just above the lace. Then another lower, where the shorts curve high over her thigh. Each one is slow enough to feel like an apology and hot enough to make the meaning significantly less respectable. Her fingers tighten in his hair.

Garrett looks up at her through his lashes, mouth resting against the exposed skin beside the tiny bow. “I really am sorry, baby.”

She swallows. The humour thins around the ache beneath her ribs. “I know.”

His thumb moves once over her ass, no longer pretending not to. “I don’t want you thinking I don’t want you.”

“Then don’t make me conduct another week-long lingerie study.”

He pouts against her skin. “Think I need to review the data.”

“You had your chance.”

He smiles against her skin. “Take these off.”

A warm pulse moves low through her stomach. “Is that a request?”

“Mm.” His fingers hook carefully beneath the lace at her hips but do not pull. “Can I?”

She watches his face. The dark focus in his eyes. The humour still sitting at the edges without hiding the sincerity beneath it.

“Yes.”

Garrett drags the shorts down slowly, his knuckles skimming the outside of her thighs. She steps out of them when they reach her ankles, one hand braced against his shoulder, and he presses a kiss to her waist before lifting his gaze again.

“The top too?”

She catches the hem herself and pulls it over her head. Garrett exhales. The sound is quiet, almost disbelieving, and significantly more satisfying than any prepared compliment. His eyes move over her without restraint now, taking in every part of what she has spent a week placing directly in front of him.

Garrett turns his face and kisses her lower stomach again. “Been thinking about this all week.”

The confession sends a fine shiver over her skin. “You’re going to make it up to me?” she asks.

His mouth moves over her hip. “You know I will.”

“Mhm.” She curls her fingers into his hair and tips his head back just enough to meet his eyes. “And Garrett?”

“Yeah?”

“Next time you have an emotional breakthrough, you still have to touch my ass.”

His grin spreads beneath her hand, warm and boyish and finally familiar again. “That a rule?”

“It’s a condition of continued access.”

He drags his bottom lip through his teeth. “Very restrictive.”

She tugs his hair harder. “You’re lucky to be here.”

“I know.”

This time, when she climbs into his lap, Garrett’s hands go exactly where they belong.

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

[junezsq]

replaced

nfl!beau maxwell x fem!wag!reader

summary: as the girlfriend of a famous nfl player, not much about your life is kept secret. especially not when you are found at every single concert of your favourite artist

established relationship

warnings: mini social media au! usage of y/n, nothing else really just a bit of fluff :)

a/n: based on this request! lmk if you like it<3 first smau and this was SO FUN to make!!!! i love djo so much so thank you so so much for this request, it was literally made for me ily

beau maxwell masterlist off campus masterlist

── ᵎᵎ ✦

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

“so, beau, we all know and love your girlfriend. but, it’s come to our attention that she loves someone else just as much as you … maybe even more?”

“oh no, not maybe, she definitely loves him more than me”

“really?!”

“for sure, she’s always got either a djo song playing over our speakers or a performance on the tv. i’ve never seen her rewatch one of my games”

“that must hurt”

“nah, not really, i love joe, he’s a great dude”

“i feel like you must, because you’ve been going to a lot of shows, right?

“yeah, we’ve basically been following him on his tour during the off season. i believe we missed only, like, two or three shows? it’s been great, honestly. he’s an amazing musician and his shows are really good”

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

“were you already a djo fan?”

“no, she converted me” laughs “i only knew him through stranger things, which he was great in, but his music’s amazing too” pause “she talks about him a lot, so because of her, i now know everything about the dude”

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

“i’m convinced she’d leave me for him if he’d ask”

“no way”

“yeah, i mean come on, i’d leave me for him too, have you seen him?” laughs “she also tells me about 100 times a day”

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

“so, any other djo shows on the planning for you two?”

“probably, though i’m not telling you which ones”

“you’re a smart man”

laughs “i try”

“thank you, maxwell. goodluck on the season”

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

@notafairyteen @wolfiee10 @katttt9 @flusteredmoonn @tinyceasarsalad @melodypvnk @maxcalore3 @zoereyna @chrismattnick @idunnowhattonamethis @lhotse8801 @outpostsworld @andabuttonnose @kmc1989 @kennedy-brooke @maddieflwr @parker-barnes-af @acewithaxe @arkofblake

[kirbydreamssss]

Too Many Cooks (Off Campus) || John Tucker x CulinaryStudent!reader (Part 8)

Series Masterlist Part 1 Here! Pt. 2! Pt. 3! Pt. 4! Pt.5! Pt.6! Part 7!

WC: 6.6k (hold on to your horses, folks)

Series Summary: On top of his spot on the hockey team, Tucker declared a double major in business and hospitality pretty soon after arriving to Briar U. Not five minutes into his first culinary class, he gained his campus rival. Now it’s Junior year, nearly three years later, and you're still the only person that's ever made "Sweet Tuck" genuinely contemplate murder.

Pt.8 Summary: Tucker tortures you the rest of Thanksgiving as something simmers low under your skin—AKA Guess everyone had a rather eventful Thanksgiving

Relationship(s): John Tucker x reader (slowburn)

IMPORTANT NOTICE!!: Going forward, I will no longer be tagging blank blogs or blogs without ages in their bio/stated clearly on their blog. The content going forward will be 18+, and obviously people may still find it online because that's out of my control, but I will not be adding anyone that does not specify their age or age range in their bio/blog. A great example of someone I would add/keep on the taglist is if their bio said "20s," "18+," "Over 18," or it said their specific age like "23." I WILL BE reviewing the current taglist and removing any blank blogs or anyone without any written notice stating they're over 18/not a minor. Thanks guys!! :p

Tags/Warnings: BIG SPOILERS IN THESE TAGS FOR PT.8 FYI!!, Slowwwwburn (well ofc), BANTER & BICKERING (my bread and butter at this point), Off Campus season 1 spoilers, f!reader, No "Y/N" use, No physical description of reader, reader's an in-state student for plot (...so pretend you're from Massachusetts), stupid people dodging their feelings, completely inaccurate classes for hospitality majors (I'm so sorry to my culinary baddies), Rivals to Lovers!, barely edited tbh, suggestive content/discussions about sex (it's Off Campus, y'all), SMUT (fingering and some crazy dirty talk that's half smack talk technically; maybe degradation k!nk if you squint; idk guys I think he talks you through it, he's a gentleman like that), ANGST! FLUFF!

Notes: Oh these two. Will they ever learn. Also, I mf LOVE this song.

Soon as you ran upstairs like a mad woman, you’d booked it to the bathroom. Dabbed cold water over your neck to soothe the fever, and tried casually entering the kitchen like you weren’t burning alive.

Like John Tucker hadn’t just groaned into your mouth and pawed at your ass like he wanted to devour you whole.

You needed to forget about that. For everyone’s sake.

Tucker, however, was quite decided on doing the opposite. 

And it was just about driving you insane. Because John Tucker was a cruel, cruel man. You were convinced of it.

For the next two hours, as you scurried around the kitchen trying to micromanage each little dish, he took every single opportunity to make your brain short circuit. You’d be bustling in the kitchen around Logan and Birdie, darting between Dexter and Nat anytime they needed expert hands on something—and Tucker would subtly snatch your hips. Palm curling around the gap between your sweater and jeans, then lightly move to your spine to guide your movements.

“Slow down,” he’d murmur, “you’re gonna get hurt.”

Yeah, you were gonna brain yourself against the kitchen island, that’s how.

Even if you couldn’t meet his eyes or he was only hovering behind you, the effect was immediate. Melting under his grasp. Unconsciously listening to the cue—because your body was a damn traitor to feminism.

Then the touch would disappear just as quickly. Everyone else none the wiser while you tried scrounging up your remaining brain cells.

The worst one yet was when Tucker said he needed someone to try the béchamel sauce for the mac and cheese. You heard his request—and you definitely also heard Birdie pipe up and say he could try it—but then you’d felt a tap to your shoulder. As you turned away from the cutting board, his other arm extended to the counter, basically locking you in with his chest to your back. Made sense to everyone else. Busy, cramped kitchen. He needed to leave some space for people to walk behind him.

But you knew exactly what he was doing.

You finally gave in, gaze trailing over his egregiously rolled up sleeve before catching his eye contact, and gulped at that slight smirk. 

“Try this,” he said, pushing his chest closer to your spine when Dexter needed to shuffle behind him. “Think it needs more garlic or something.”

With your minimal brain functioning, you lifted a brow. “Pretty sure you can determine that yourself, cowboy.”

His smirk ticked. Tone lower. “Stop being difficult.”

It should not have worked that well.

Without another word, you let him hand you the spoon with enough restraint to not let him feed you in front of your friends, but not enough that you could will yourself to look away. Eyes dead locked on his as the spoon slipped past your lips. 

“Little more garlic.” You cleared your throat. “Maybe a dash more paprika and way more salt.”

His brown eyes lit up, almost turning amber under the kitchen lights.

“See?” He teased, uncurling the spoon from your grasp. “Was that so hard?”

Oh my god—you were going insane.

Actually, maybe the worst was when you were whipping up the salted honey butter for the biscuits and he just had to try. As he snuck up on you, Tucker ran a finger on the outside of bowl, around the edges streaked with butter. All of your natural instincts to cuss him out for the lack of cleanliness fading to a hum as he popped that finger in his mouth, licked it clean, all while holding deliberate eye contact with you.

And then the fucker smiled. “Perfectly sweet.” 

You swallowed on nothing. “I know.”

His smirk grew to a toothy grin. “Guess you know everything then?”

With a bratty eyeroll, you shifted away from him. Still feeling his heavy presence at your shoulder until Birdie called him from the living room.

“Yo, T!” His voice echoed around the house. “Bird drop is upon us!”

Hoots and hollers filled the room as people started filing out the patio door, cups still in hand. You stayed at the counter, shifting towards the mountain of dishes in the sink.

“You coming?” 

Even as the last straggler shuffled out, Tucker was still in the kitchen. A respectable distance away, yet it still maybe your heart thrum. The way he was softly smiling, casually leaning an elbow on the counter so the rolled up sleeve pushed into his bicep.

Yep. He was a cruel, cruel man.

You tried keeping your features and tone flat. Unaffected. “Rather keep my eyebrows, thank you very much.”

He laughed at that, deep and from his diaphragm. Smile glinting—because of course it fucking was. 

“You will be a safe distance away, no way in hell I’m letting you drop the bird.”

One brow quirked. Mouth pinching with an ever-present fierceness. “And why’s that? I could certainly do it far cleaner than you could, bud.”

And the fucker only grinned more. “You gonna fight me on everything?”

You shrugged. Mouth still flat. “Probably.”

Mercifully, he stayed there. Eyes roaming you. “Good, I like when you’re mouthy.”

Now you actually needed to leave this empty kitchen before you did something stupid. Again.

With a choked cough, you shoved your hands across your chest and rounded the island on the opposite side of him, knowing that if you so much as grazed him he might do something terrible. Something you couldn’t neatly pack away as the heat of the moment. Something that would boil you alive. 

But even with the gap put between you two, your friends at other plans. As soon Tucker gave his commands to the rest of the culinary cadets, Birdie decided to shove you into Tucker’s side to make room for the rest of them. Both of you were now squished in the half moon beside your friends, huddled a little ways away from the propane fryer.

Tucker couldn’t breathe, let alone focus on anything other than your arm grazing against his side. Manicured nails slipping under his letterman jacket accidentally as you stumbled into him.

The same hand that had tugged him forward, clawing across his chest, digging into his muscles like you were trying to grip him impossibly closer. Trying to meld him into your skin.

And by God, he would’ve let you.

At the start of the countdown, he slightly tuned back into reality. Still feeling that warm presence of your hand near his abdomen, he glanced back at the turkey—and his stomach dropped.

“Wait!” Tucker shouted. “I didn’t pat down the bird—”

It was too late, the thing had already lit ablaze. Flame twirling high in the air.

Instinctively, Tucker threw an arm to the side, pushing you back from the roaring heat. You gasped, almost stumbling on your heel before gripping onto his arm like the safety bar on a roller coaster.

“You okay?” Tucker was barely watching the flame now. His eyes frantically scanning over your face as if you’d been the one to drop the thing in, instead of being a safe car’s distance away.

You gulped. “Still got my eyebrows.”

His worry quieted a little with a breathy laughed. Smirking as he murmured low, dangerous words hidden under the drunken hoots of your friends. “That’s good, but you’d probably still pull that off somehow.”

Oh Jesus fucking Christ.

John Tucker was a cruel man, and for your sanity, you needed to stay far away from him for the remainder of the day. 

Or the year. 

Or the rest of your life.

“Oh come on, Honey!” Birdie cried out, cupping his gloved mitts so the sound echoed around the rink. “Don’t be a wuss!”

Still safely behind the barrier, you shook your head with an unamused smirk. “I don’t do thing’s with blades and people.”

“That is quite literally in your job description,” Dexter sassed.

You shrugged. “And I control those knives—you guys, however.” You scanned over your group of friends with a finger. “I don’t trust with a butter knife, let alone a blade attached to your foot.”

In a cold rush, Tucker smoothly skated over and stopped just in front of you, his skates spraying a soft, snow-like ice across your cheeks.

Your mouth gaped, a shocked, breathy squeal leaving you. “Tucker!”

He leaned his head back in a deep laugh, everyone joining in giggling back on the ice. 

But your breath ceased as soon as he leaned on the barrier rail, still panting and sweaty. 

“Come on,” he drawled through a smirk, “don’t be a baby.”

“Nope.” You shook your head, flattening your mouth with conviction. “Ain’t gonna work, cowboy.”

“We’re back to cowboy, huh?”

You scoffed. “Soon as you drop the cowboy act, then I'll drop the name. So—never.”

That grin ticked a little higher, turning toothy and downright sinful. 

Then one of his mitts reached forward, swiping away a tiny snowflake that had settled on your cheek. You thought you’d lost your breath already, lungs completely giving out, and then he had to open his goddamn mouth again.

“So you like it more when I'm a little mean?”

Soon as your eyes widened, mouth parting with a stupid gasp, he grinned further.

Your lips curled before you lifted a hand and swiftly knocked the top of his helmet over his eyes, finishing with a shove to his chest for good measure.

Even as he stumbled back, arms flailing as he managed to regain balance, Tucker couldn’t help grinning wide at your cackle. So boisterous and from your belly that it echoed around the rink. Right as he struggled to fix the helmet back on his head, he was able to see your smile. Beaming and broad.

Just from that, Tucker should’ve known he was already so far gone.

In an ambush, Birdie gave a brotherly shove to his shoulder, kicking him back into the game.

As the scrimmage dragged on, Tucker kept catching himself glancing over at you. Whenever you’d whoop, clapping boisterously from behind the barrier, even he could admit he was trying to catch your eye. Grinning over at you each time he’d score, taking the long way and diverting across the ice just to skate by your laughter. If he could bottle up that sound, he was sure he could sustain off pure giddy adrenaline for an entire game. Probably an entire season.

Mid holler, someone clutched your arm and snatched you back towards the player tunnel. 

“Wha—”

“Shhh!” Jules giggled before stuffing a pvc pipe pistol and a fluffy pack of marshmallows in your hand.

“Load up here.” Logan tapped the top. “Aim here.” Another tap to the pipe barrel. “And blow.”

Your eyes widened. “ ‘scuse me?”

The siblings chuckled before Jules winked at you. 

“Watch and learn, Honeybun.”

Soon as a confectionary bullet slapped Tucker in the face, you cackled once more.

“It’s a Logan Thanksgiving, motherfuckers!”

The rink erupted in another chaotic, childish game. Everyone raced over to snatch the marshmallows that had scattered across the rink, chucking them back at you three with poorly placed aim in their gloves. Soon as Tucker and Logan were enthralled in a standoff, you found your opening. 

Still behind the barrier, your smirk tilted. Eyes honing in on their target like a sniper dot. 

*Poof

Right between the eyes.

Another bubbling cackle ripped out of you, the laughter pinching your stomach and hurting your cheeks.

Tucker whipped his head towards the sound of your giggles. Gaze narrowing and smirk lopsided, like a warning.

“Oh, you’re gonna get it!” He barked between a laugh, throwing off his gloves like he was getting ready for a fight before darting over to the barrier.

With wide eyes, you barely had time to reel back before he’d kicked open the rink gate and snatched your arm.

“Tucker—No!” You squealed, batting off his hands as he moved to snatch your waist.

Then you were weightless for a mere, breathless second, before he’d quite literally thrown you over his shoulder and slid back on the ice.

“Put me down, asshole!” Fists pounding on his back but he only cackled.

“You ask nicely and I’ll think about it.”

Across the ice, four of your friends were set up like a line of judges watching the show. Dexter’s jaw swung in the wind as they all watched Tucker swiftly catch a marshmallow flying towards him—with one hand—and chucked it back, all while keeping you securely over his shoulder. Your feet kept thrashing and fists slapping his back as you squealed, but he barely even stumbled.

“That’s hot,” Dexter purred. 

With that impish grin, Jules plucked out their phone and snapped a pic. 

“Hey,” Logan chastised with a pinched brow, “don’t post that.”

“Oh no, this ain’t for the people. This is my own personal archive.”

Logan’s nose scrunched, “That’s mad creepy, dude.”

Jules shoved their brother. “Ew, John. I mean my ‘I told you so’ folder.”

“Your what?”

Jules flicked their brows once. “For proof I'm always right.”

“Pretty recent album then, huh?” Earning him another punch to the shoulder.

Still keeping his eyes glued to you two like a juicy chick flick, Dexter leaned down towards Jules. “Send that to me, I’m saving it for the wedding.”

Logan held his hands up as he skated away. “Whoahhhh—I’m not stepping anywhere near that.” Then he nudged Birdie’s shoulder farther down the ice, cupping his hands to holler. “Yo, Tuck! Last one has to clean up the rink!”

Still gripping you legs with on hand, Tucker’s eyes bugged out before he swiftly hoisted you off his shoulder and planted you on the ice. 

“Just stay put,” he said, before he was frantically racing after his teammates around the rink’s edge.

“I don’t have skates, idiot!” You shouted, arms outstretched to maintain balance in your slippery trainers. 

In the corner of your vision, an arm peeked out. Carl, who’d been reading his book until then, grinned awkward and broad at you. 

You couldn't help the little amused giggle. “Thank you, Carl.” Cheeks still lifted in a grin as he escorted you safely off the ice.

After those idiots finally finished their race, Tucker pouted as he rearranged the nets. Dead last after Birdie tripped him one too many times. 

“Snooze you lose, T!” Logan bellowed as he skated towards the barrier, deftly hopping over the rail and landing on flat ground.

You chuckled. “Better be careful, bud. He’s gonna poison your coffee or something.”

Logan swatted it off with a grin. “Nah, he was gonna do it anyways. That guy can’t leave anything a mess, eats away at him like he’s committed murder.”

You snorted before walking further down the tunnel with both siblings.

“Alright,” he sang, outstretching a hand for you to dab him up. “Thanks for answering the call of duty, hon. We’ll see you later.”

“Uh, Logan,” you awkwardly chuckled as he tried walking away. When he lifted a brow, you gestured around yourself. “You’re, uh, sorta my ride.”

“Oh shit, yeah. Lemme—,” Then he paused, glancing over at his sibling with a matching impish grin.

“Actually,” Jules hummed, “change of plans, Honeybun.” 

Your brows furrowed. “But—”

“Hey, Tuck!” Logan called over the ice, his voice traveling far with an echo. “I’ve gotta drive Jules back across town. Mind giving Honey a ride home?”

Your eyes bugged out. “Oh no it’s fine I can just—“

“Sure thing!” Tucker’s response was instant. Only watching you as he skated over. Brown eyes low and hooded. Smirking egregiously as he leaned on the barrier. “Gonna shower real quick once I'm done with the rink. Give me ten, alright?”

You pinched you lips together tight. “Kay.”

“Fantastic!” Logan beamed like a fool, slapping you both on the shoulder. “See you kids later!” Sending a roguish wink Tucker’s way.

Apparently, Tucker was in no rush—unlike you. You’d been standing in the freezing hallway as the man took his sweet time behind those locker room doors.

Quick shower, my ass.

Always the stronger of the two, your impatience got the better of any reason left. Boots echoing in the long hallway as you stomped towards the locker room.

With a bitchy flourish, you shoved open the heavy door. “John Tucker, I swear to God you need to hurry your ass up or I'm walking ho—ohmygod!”

Basically slapping yourself in the process, your hands flailed to cover your eyes. Blood was rushing through your ears, an embarrassing heat scorching your cheeks. But you were still frozen in place with terror, like you’d seen a dead animal and not John Tucker’s naked ass.

“Jesus, Honey!” He yelped, the sound of him stumbling echoing in the empty locker room. “You’ve gotta knock or something first, almost gave me a damn heart attack.”

Voice muffled behind your arms. “And I’m scarred for life.”

After slipping on his clean pair of sweats and turning back to you, Tucker released an amused, breathy chuckle. Almost giggling at your still frozen form. “It’s safe now.”

Your hands were still gripping around your brow bone for dear life. “I think I'm blind.”

Tucker snorted with an eye roll. “Oh relax, you’re the one who peeped on me.”

Your hands flew away, jaw snapping as you went to shout. “I didn’t peep on you, dipshit! If anything, you accosted me.”

Tucker smirked, placing his hands on his still bare hips. “I accosted you?”

With a pinched pout and narrowed eyes, you nodded. “Yeah—exactly, with your blatant nudity. And it’s your fault cause if you weren’t taking your sweet time having a frickin’ spa day, I wouldn't have had to barge in on your ass!”

Your eyes widened to saucers as soon as he grinned.

“Do not!” Finger pointed straight at his face as you sneered. “Don’t say a fuckin’ word!”

Still grinning, he held his hands up in surrender. That fog of anger and embarrassment clouding your vision so much that you barely registered him gradually pacing forward.

“I didn't say anything—”

“But you were going to. I could see it on your stupid fuckin’ face,” You whined, still sneering. “God you are beyond annoying today—which is remarkable given your baseline level.” With a groan, you chucked off your wool coat as sweat began pooling up your spine. “Jesus it’s fuckin’ hot in here—but I had my damn jacket on cause I thought we were leaving. But no! Apparently we’re camping at the rink tonight” You scoffed, increasingly frustrated as the heavy wool coat kept slipping from your hands. “Ten minutes, my ass—you’ve got a lot of nerve….” Your voice faded off as Tucker slid his palm up your arm, delicately taking the weighted coat draped over it. With a harsh gulp, you watched as he folded it carefully and put it down on the long bench nearby. Muscles flexing as he moved.

Because he was shirtless.

And still kinda wet.

And—

Oh my God.

Soon as he looked back at you, it was like you zapped back into consciousness. Finally aware of your body—everythingabout your body. How you’d increasingly stomped closer to him just as he’d been inching further. How you were now tucked into the corner of the locker alcove. How his hand was resting on the locker’s shelf right by your head.

Like the fridge.

Like in the basement.

Like the downright brain dead thing you’d done only hours ago, and yet it felt so far away, like you were different people in that cold, drafty basement. Like you were someone far too reckless but also far braver than you’d ever been. Leaning in instead of running out.

Well, until you did run.

But right now, your feet were glued to the foamy locker room floor. A precaution no doubt done for the skate blades, but also would come in handy when you passed out from being pressed up against a vertical surface for the second time that day. 

By John Tucker.

Sweet, southern charm himself, cruelly grinning at you with all his teeth and all that warmth. 

You thought your skin was gonna melt off.

“Do you ever run out of energy to argue?” He said, his warm breath ghosting over your cheeks.

You gulped. “That a rhetorical question?”

Still smirking, he shrugged. “Just curious. After all, I said I like you mouthy.”

Your lips parted, breathy and disbelieving as you hissed, “You can’t just say shit like that.”

He chuckled, brows lifting humorously. “Tell me why, Honey. I’m real curious.”

“You want just one reason or the whole list?” But you continued before he could answer. “For starters, you said that shit around our fucking friends—“

“They were outside.”

“A patio door isn’t soundproofed, idiot!” You seethed. “And don’t get me started on the other stunts you pulled not five feet from the rest of them.”

He grinned wider from just the memory of your flustered reaction, easy to picture when you perfectly mirrored it here now.

“Don’t you dare smile! It’s not funny, fuckface—“

“That’s a new one.”

“I’m literally about to strangle you.”

“Feeling’s mutual.”

Your jaw snapped shut, now wide eyed with exasperated shock. Because why the hell was he so quippy and cute today? Why couldn't he just puff out his cheeks like that steam was bursting out of him and walk away, or sputter over his words, or not say shit at all? Why the hell was he entertaining this—entertaining you—and acting so smug about it? Downright pleased.

Above your head, your gaze caught the way his muscles flexed when he clenched and unclenched his fist. Smirk twisting to something bordering serious for a moment, before he said, “We’re gonna have to talk about it as some point.”

MAYDAY. MAYDAY. ABORT MISSION.

Mouth pinched thin. “No we really don’t.”

He quirked a brow and sighed. “Honey—”

“Stop calling me that!” You whined. “I thought we both agreed that it’s fucking stupid and only feeding into—”

“Changed my mind.”

Your eye must be twitching now. “You changed your mind?!”

Quite literally nothing could’ve prepared you for the sound of his drawl. As if you’d been slowly dipped in warm, liquid sugar.

“I like seeing you flustered.”

With a firm poke to his bare chest, you shook your head. “Uh-uh—no more.”

He laughed in amused disbelief. “I’m not allowed to say anything now, am I?”

“Glad that got through your thick skull.”

“What am I allowed to do, then?” He grinned, that arm up by the shelf sliding lower to rest beside your ear, fingers tapping a beat into the lockers.

You were mute. Lashes fluttering as you tried catching all of him with your gaze. His sharp jaw framed by dark curls. His toned, damp chest. His arm flexing by your head and the other still stationed on his hip—his bare hip, specifically, because his grey sweatpants were hanging dangerously low.

Oh.

Oh God.

“Hey,” he murmured, eyes dipping to catch your shaking vision. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” 

You swallowed, hoping to swallow your own tongue if you tried hard enough. “Not much.”

His laugh was gravelly and far too close to your ear. “Highly doubt that. You’ve always got something brewing up there.”

You couldn’t decide if you wanted to push him away, far across the room, or pull him impossibly closer. But right now, you were still motionless. The only movements your body allowed were your teeth nibbling on your lower lip and the anxious fidgeting you did with the sleeve of your sweater.

Tucker reached forward slowly, careful not to spook you, and caught the movement. 

Brown eyes were locked on yours, flicking down fleetingly to watch the way your mouth parted as he ran his hand higher up your forearm. Thumb drawing lazy circles on the fabric of your sleeve when he reached your elbow.

“What’s up?” He echoed, still trailing his gaze over your features. 

He may have seemed far too smooth on the outside, but internally he was tensing, watching for any sign of true hesitation. Anything, just one hint of fear, and he’d cut this off in an instant.

But as you matched his gaze, chewing your lip, he smirked. “Thinkin’ up ways to kill me?”

Your mouth lifted in a small smile. “Already done that, quite often.”

“Yeah?” He mused, allowing that hand to leave a burning trail down your arm, now fiddling with the hem of your sweater by your hips. “Something with knives, I bet.”

“Why? Cause you know I've got better technique?”

As a laugh bubbled out, he leaned his grin even closer. “You’re impossible.”

“It’s always best to admit defeat, cowboy.” The warmth of his hand near your hip was loosening your tongue, making you scramble to regain the higher ground again. “You might as well do it now, s’not good to keep all that resentment bottled up.”

He quirked a brow. “You think I resent you?”

You shrugged. “It’s rather common with men when they face competition from women. If you attempted reading a book, maybe you’d know that.” Tone even and unaffected like you were reading off an article and not burning under his warmth.

However, your smirk dropped as soon as his finger detached their grip from your sweater and dipped under the material. A barely there touch, just ghosting over the skin of your hip.

It felt like being set ablaze.

“This ain’t resentment, darling.”

A crazed cackled left your lips at the nickname, almost like an overheating computer needing to let off steam. “Do notstart calling me darling.”

“Why? You get to call me cowboy, s’only fair.” His grip gently tightened on your hip. “Besides, if I can’t call you Honey, what the hell can I call you?” He hummed, leaning closer so his nose just barely brushed your cheek. “Gotta pick one, hon, or I'm picking my favorite.”

For the first time in your life, you needed to do something reckless. Blow off the steam that had been boiling under your skin for weeks. Quick pop of the lid and then slam it shut. 

Like Dean said, a one time hate fuck. Simple stress relief, really. 

“Cat got your tongue, Honey?” Tucker chuckled, breath fanning down your exposed neck—and something snapped.

You groaned, “Shut up—,” and roughly gripped the sides of his face, once again pulling him towards you.

Soon as his lips met yours again, Tucker was a man possessed. That hand on your waist gripping and tugging at the soft skin its hold as the other slid down from the locker to cup your cheek. Both moving like this was all he’d thought about, all he’d been consumed with, for the past painful few hours since he’d last tasted you. 

And it wasn’t enough. Tucker knew—even this, even if he got all of you now—it still wouldn’t be enough. 

One of your hands slid higher and tugged on those soft curls, tugging out a groan from Tucker’s lips settled by your ear. 

Using the hold to press you closer, hips against his, Tucker tilted your body back. Seeking a new angle so your chest was curved into his, spine arched off the cold locker—anything to get you under him without pinning you to the locker room floor.

Still in his soft grey sweats, Tucker nudged a knee in between your thighs. The sudden pressure pulled a breathy fuckfrom your lips, and he grinned into the kiss. 

“Sensitive?” He murmured, just slightly pulling back to pepper kisses across your cheeks. Lips settling in the curve of your neck, right under your jaw, with bruising pressure.

“Oh shut up—mhm.” He’d lifted his knee slightly to emphasize his point.

That smug fucker.

In retaliation or to hear him groan again your claws tightened in his curls with a sharp tug. Just as you expected prayed for, he groaned against your neck, the sound melding into his amused chuckle in between kisses. 

“God you drive me crazy.” Voice so gravelly and wrecked before he slid that lower hand farther, settling with a satisfying tug on the back pocket of your jeans.

Something wickedly thrilling raced up your spine and lulled a dizzy giggle out of you. “Kinda my goal.”

Head still dipped under your neck, Tucker glanced up. “Yeah?”

Oh boy.

Your chest rose with a heavy inhale. “Yep.”

Like the cruel, cruel man he was, Tucker used his grip on your ass to slide you higher up his knee. At the sudden sensation, your head jerked back, banging against the metal locker.

Through a wince, you giggled, “Ow.”

“You alright?” He chuckled with you, the calloused hand under your cheek sliding up to cup the back of your head with care. 

You nodded, blinking slow as you tried to get your bearings through the steamy haze dizzying your vision. 

He sucked another bruising kiss to your pulse point. “Sure you don’t need a concussion test?”

Tucker laughed boyishly as you slapped his shoulder. Once he pulled back, using his hold under your neck to steady your head, his dark eyes flicked across your features. A silent check in, equally for you and him, frankly. Just needing that second to breathe deep and purposefully as he watched you.

Absentmindedly, you twiddled with the curls at the base of his neck. “Said I’m fine, Tuck.” Then you lightly tugged on his scalp, a smirk on your lips. “Quit fussing over everything. You’re gonna raise your blood pressure.”

That bratty smirk melted off your lips with a moan as he slid you against his knee once again.

“Oh I’m the fussy one,” he murmured, leaning closer to capture your lips in another kiss. “Think you make it your mission to raise your blood pressure, Honey—and mine.”

Like clockwork, your motions became messy. Sounds of panting and sighing growing with fervor as you both struggled for air against each other. Tucker moved both hands to paw at your ass again, squeezing and gripping you so he could keep you pinned against his knee. Each time he pressed you more, the seam of your jeans put dangerous, dizzying pressure on your clit.

“Tucker,” you panted in between another sloppy, open mouthed kisses. “Stop fuckin’ teasing me.” Attempting a gravelly sneer but winding up closer to a guttural whine.

Even crueler than before, Tucker chuckled against your lips. Big hands smoothing over the fabric as he gave the squeezing a break.

“Not teasing, Honey,” he said in between traveling kisses over your jaw. “Just tell me what you want.”

Too dizzy to speak coherently and still hold composure, you just tugged on his hair again. The other slipping down over his bare, damp chest. Nails scraping against his smooth skin. 

While he snickered, Tucker gave one squeeze to your ass. Then one light, feathery, deceptively innocent kiss to your cheek before he pulled the trigger. 

“Thought you like telling me what to do, huh? So tell me, Honey.” 

Oh if this was how he was moving, you were so fucked. Literally.

Your eyes fluttered closed, unable to meet his roguish, knowing grin as you sputtered out, “Just—fuck—just touch me.” Almost biting clear through your lip as you felt one hand slide across your waist. Your abdomen reflexively clenching as he settled his palm over the front of your jeans.

“Here?”

You almost slapped him with that cheeky fucking tone, but still you nodded frantically.

“Words, Honey.” Fingers fiddling with the button of your jeans. “Gonna need words.”

Maybe you’d kill him before this was over—or more likely at this point, he was gonna kill you with all this waiting and teasing and tugging. 

“Jesus Tucker,” you gritted out, blinking rapidly to try and glare at him. When you met his eyes, only a breath away, he quirked one brow. 

“Yes,” you sighed, unable to break the contact, “yes, there.”

His grin ticked higher as he popped open the button. The egregiously slow tug of your zipper making your breath catch. Still determinedly holding your eye contact, Tucker dipped a finger past the zipper’s teeth. One testing, teasing rub over the fabric of your underwear. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tucker watched as your mouth parted, head lolling back as he slightly tugged your jeans lower with the other hand for better access. Just enough—barely enough—and still, your cheeks flushed just picturing the image, the contrast between you two. Tucker, only in loose, low fitting sweats. Bare chest hovering over and pinning you to the locker. And you, almost completely dressed. Almost decent—expect for the rough, calloused hand dipped beyond the seam of your underwear.

Unable to break his gaze away, Tucker clenched his jaw as he studied your reaction with barely managed restraint. The way your chest arched into him as soon as his fingers grazed your skin. How you bit your lip and forced your eyes up to the ceiling just to keep yourself quiet.

Tucker slipped his hand back out and grinned as you instantly pouted. 

Then your arm jerked forward and clutched his arm as you felt him force the fabric to the side. A burning heat flooding all the way up to your ears from how exposed you were, and you were still mostly dressed.

He snickered. “Jumpscare?”

You rolled your eyes. “God you’re annoying—Fuck.” Your claws dug into his bicep as you jerked forward again at the sensation of Tucker’s thumb drawing lazy circles over your clit.

“Oh yeah? Really feels like you hate me right about now.”

Through a shiver, you muttered, “Shut up.”

His other hand tightened its grip your hip, massaging the skin. “Think I can shut you up quicker.”

Before you could spit a retort, another whiney hum was pulled from you. Tucker had slid his middle finger down to your entrance, only teasing around it, as his thumb still pressed and circled tortuously over your clit.

“Unh—Tucker,” you unconsciously whined, torso arching into his touch as your head slumped back.

Annoyingly, Tucker grinned. Thumb pressing side to side. “Say it again.”

Even in your state you could still sneer, though your head was swimming. “Thought you were gonna shut me up?”

His grin sharpened and you gulped. “Yes, ma’am.”

Your mouth dropped open slightly at the feeling of his finger pushing in, thumb rolling harder over that sensitive bud.

“I’ll be gentle, baby,” he crooned, middle finger bottoming out to the knuckle as you exhaled, completely out of air. “Let me be good to you. Please.”

The sickly sweet tone to his words contrasted so crudely to the way his finger pumped, your nails reflexively clawing down his arm.

“Tucker,” you whisper, hips lifting closer to him.

“Yeah?” He murmured, dipping his head to smirk at you. “You like that?”

Tucker caught how you clenched your mouth closed like a brat. But you whined as soon as his movements stopped, glaring at him as he smirked.

“I asked you something, Honey,” He murmured, leaning back in to suck an agonizing spot on your neck. “We ain’t going till I get an answer.”

Tucker couldn’t help grinning at your pout. Watching your reaction carefully as he ever so slightly pumped his finger back in. With a gasp, you jolted forward again to grip his arm, already sensitive from the teasing and his lingering heat.

Liking your reaction, he pumped it repeatedly and curled the finger up. 

“Oh fuck,” you gasped, nails digging into his bicep as he slowly progressed the movement.

“You like that?” 

As he slid his thumb back around you bud, you couldn't control anything babbling out of your mouth.

“Yes,” you breathed, voice hitching as he added more pressure to the spot. “Please.”

He chuckled in you ear. “Never heard you say please, Honey. Was this all it took for you to be a nice girl?”

Collecting your crumbling restraint. You hissed, “Fuck you.”

“Guess I gotta try a little harder then.”

Tucker slowly removed his middle finger, already slick, and slid it up to your clit. Ring and middle picking up pace now that his efforts weren’t divided. 

This time your head lolled against the locker again, eyelids fluttering at the rapid pace he’d picked up. Your nails were still digging in his biceps, clinging to him like you might melt to the floor—and you honestly might. As Tucker pushed more mind-numbing pressure to your clit, he used the other hand to maneuver the collar of your sweater. Dipping it to the side and down to continue sucking and pebbling kisses across your neck and décolletage. Once he was satisfied with his work, he slid back up, capturing your parted lips in a messy, open mouthed kiss.

Something snapped in him once you moaned straight into his mouth, and his fingers picked up pace. That warm, tight coiling tugged on your insides and you could barely breathe. 

“Fuck,” you whined against his lips, “Tucker, I-I’m—shit—“

“Yeah?” He chuckled. That southern devil nipped your bottom lip as he continued to pick up speed. “You gonna cum?”

You nodded frantically with a whined, “Mhm,” mashing your lips to his again.

With a deep, guttural groan, Tucker sped his movements for the final time, almost rutting against your hip from the sounds of your moans.

“Fuck—ohmygod,” you babbled against his mouth.

“Come, on,” he groaned, sliding his other hand back down to your ass. Using the leverage to press your impossibly closer to him and his hand, making the pressure agonizing. He was almost as far gone as you, unable to control the words grunting out from deep in his chest. “Cum for me, Honey. Cum on my hand—God you probably taste amazing.”

Your stomach snapped with his filthy groans. Lips parting with a lewd, guttural whine of his name. 

Even as your vision swam, chest rising heavily with your panted exhales, Tucker still slowly worked you through it. Kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheeks, as his ministrations slowed.

Feeling like you were still gulping for air, you sighed, “Fuck.”

He chuckled against your cheek, pecking your temple as he gradually slid his hand from you. Making sure to catch you fluttering eye contact as he gripping the flesh of your hip with one hand, and licked the fingers of the other clean.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

You were way too sensitive and overstimulated for him to pulling shit like that—and he knew. The cruel, smug fucker smiled at you as he pulled his fingers out with a pop, and gave your hip another possessive squeeze.

In the brief second that Tucker stepped away to tug on his shirt, you stupidly whined. The sound pulling out of you unconsciously like a betrayal to your ego.

Tucker grinned so deceptively sweet at you as he slipped the shirt over his head. “Oh relax, we’re not done yet.”

Mind still swimming in steam, you pouted. “You’re putting on your shirt, we’re kinda going in the opposite direction, cowboy.”

Then he cornered you against the locker again, hand grazing under your shirt. Fingers teasing over your ribs.

“I’m not gonna fuck you against a bumpy locker, Honey.”

Even as your cheeks heated from just the image of that, you rolled your eyes like an absolute brat. 

In reaction, he squeezed your ass teasingly. “Keep that act up and I will.”

You snorted. Putting on a gimmicky accent to mimic his southern drawl. “Wowww, real threatening, Tucker. Got me shakin’ in my boots.”

He leaned in and kissed the corner of your jaw, nipping at it as he said, “Not a threat, that’s a promise, baby.”

Your nose scrunched. “Think I hated that even more than darling.”

Tucker slid his hold on your ribs to squeeze your hand, pecking the corner of your mouth with a small, easy smile. “Guess we’ll stick with Honey, then.”

Endnotes: did y'all notice how they actually never talked about it at all?? Yeahhh...gonna be a reoccurring theme in the future. ALSO pls tell me if that was ass, that was my first time writing smut and I was sweating the whole time lol. REMINDER: I'm going on my brief hiatus till the end of August, so I won't be posting a full chapter update until August 27! If you want more info on why and whether I'll post sneak peeks and stuff, check out this full length info post, pls :p

❥In the meantime, feel free to check out my Jack Abbot series— "I'm on Fire"

❥OR take a look at my Dean Winchester series—"Don't Fear the Reaper"

Taglist: @flashyourgreeneyesatme @juniper-flour @tayvxi @cardcaptorrin @jissellegw @ficklepicklefandoms @foolishseven @fiction-obsessedd @heartsandheadcanons @strangegirl26sff @bookishbabe07 @florie1 @bananatovil @sweetvanillafawn555 @cutiesinthecosmos @reader0f-fics

*dividers and moodboard are mine, made on Canva

[kirbydreamssss]

Too Many Cooks (Off Campus) || John Tucker x CulinaryStudent!reader (Part 7)

Series Masterlist Part 1 Here! Pt. 2! Pt. 3! Pt. 4! Pt.5! Pt.6! Part 8!

WC: 6.6k (AYOOOO)

Series Summary: On top of his spot on the hockey team, Tucker declared a double major in business and hospitality pretty soon after arriving to Briar U. Not five minutes into his first culinary class, he gained his campus rival. Now it’s Junior year, nearly three years later, and you're still the only person that's ever made "Sweet Tuck" genuinely contemplate murder.

Pt.7 Summary: Thanksgiving rolls around and you doing absolute fine ignoring Tucker, that is until just a couple of speed bumps get in the way—AKA things get heated at Friendsgiving

Relationship(s): John Tucker x reader (slowburn)

IMPORTANT NOTICE!!: Going forward, I will no longer be tagging blank blogs or blogs without ages in their bio/stated clearly on their blog. The content going forward will be 18+, and obviously people may still find it online because that's out of my control, but I will not be adding anyone that does not specify their age or age range in their bio/blog. A great example of someone I would add/keep on the taglist is if their bio said "20s," "18+," "Over 18," or it said their specific age like "23." I WILL BE reviewing the current taglist and removing any blank blogs or anyone without any written notice stating they're over 18 and not a minor. Thanks guys!! :p

Tags/Warnings: BIG SPOILERS IN THESE TAGS FOR PT.7 FYI!!, Slowwwwburn (well ofc), BANTER & BICKERING (my bread and butter at this point), Off Campus season 1 spoilers, f!reader, No "Y/N" use, No physical description of reader, reader's an in-state student for plot (...so pretend you're from Massachusetts), Honey's in a bit of a depression spiral tbh, stupid people dodging their feelings, completely inaccurate classes for hospitality majors (I'm so sorry to my culinary baddies), Rivals to Lovers!, barely edited tbh, suggestive content/discussions about sex (it's Off Campus, y'all), heated makeout and heavy petting, ANGST! FLUFF!

Notes: I wanted to kick Honey in the ribs writing this (honestly you might be able to tell). I also deeply apologize for the typos, bad transitions, and plot holes. I had food poisoning writing this and you can tell.

Three weeks. Almost a whole damn month. And you had successfully avoided being in the same room as John Tucker. Even when you were across the counter from him in culinary lab, feeling his eyes on you like a physical hand trying to grasp your chin—you resisted. Restraint was your middle name. And you were fine.

At least you convinced yourself you were, right up until Bernard called your name at the end of lab. Normally you race out of there so Tucker couldn’t catch your arm on the way out, even taking odd short cuts to avoid the parking lot where his truck always was. 

Not today though.

You heard the professor call out your name as people descended into post class chatter. His lingering French accent lilting at the end. “Stay a couple minutes past. We’re going to chat.”

Tucker watched, backpack slightly slung over his shoulder, as your jaw slacked. Eyes wide, skin lifeless. 

Then you gulped, trying to affix a porcelain smile. “Of course.”

Still glancing back, Tucker followed the herd out the door. His feet stalled as soon as he passed the threshold. 

God—he was so stupid for this, but he ducked into the alcove at the end of the hall, just a few paces away from the classroom. 

If you caught him, you were gonna tear him a new one. After everything, Tucker thought that’s the least he deserved. But with these past few weeks of stonewalling, he’d take anything you’d give him. Any scrap.

“So,” he heard Bernard sigh. “What’s up?”

You chuckled. “Think I should be asking you that.”

“No,” He quipped simply. “I’m asking you.”

Even Tucker gulped.

“Um—well I’m cool. Pretty good. Definitely had some bumps in the road, but I’m working on it. That flan was an absolute fluke,” you tried laughing.

“That flan was an absolute disaster.” 

Your throat tightened as he sighed your name again, pulling out the paper reviews he’d collected of the past four dishes he’d evaluated.

“Underbaked.” Flipping to the next page. “Crust practically crumbling before I even took a bite.” 

Something sharp twisted around your rib cage, squeezing your lungs.

“Positively flavorless. Presentation subpar since you forgot the garnish—you never forget the garnish.” 

Then he slapped the stack of papers on the table. It echoed so loudly in the empty room that you flinched. 

“Now, I’ll repeat myself. What, is, up?”

Still in the hall, Tucker’s core clenched as he heard your exhale, shaky and deliberate as you tried collecting yourself. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want sorry, I want you to fix whatever is going on.”

“Nothing, I-I just—I’m dealing with some family stuff. My parents’ place is really picking up business but they’re insanely understaffed so I’ve been driving back and forth to pick up shifts when I can.”

What you didn’t say was you also hadn’t stopped taking shifts at Malone’s. So, if you took a breakfast shift at The Mayflower, you would end up driving the thirty minutes back to Hastings and head right into Malone’s for the dinner shift. Barely eating. Barely sleeping. 

Your mom had noticed, course she had. But she simply thought you were a bit ticked off with feeling like your best friends suddenly had no time for you any more. 

Now that Hannah and Garrett made things official, you felt like you never saw her. When she wasn’t working on her showcase song, she’d either send a quick “sleeping at Garrett’s tonight!” text, or they’d be hanging out in her room as soon as she got out of class. Meanwhile, Allie swore she didn’t mean to be so busy. But, now that she was on e-board for the thespian society, she had a lot more responsibility preparing for the Spring Musical. 

The only part you might have been an asshole for were the times when they actually did go out. You’d get a knock on your bedroom door or a text about how they’d all be getting drinks at Malone’s—with everyone. And you couldn’t will yourself to see Tucker. Knowing all your meddling friends were absolutely trying to link you two together, you couldn’t handle the schemes. Not anymore. So you’d either stay in the kitchen of Malone’s all night until they left. Or you’d make up something about your dad needing you to pick up a dinner shift and drive to The Mayflower, even sleeping there to make it more believable. Sniffling into your childhood bed after your mom pestered you all night about it. 

“Something’s up, honeybee,” she’d say, “I know my daughter, so don’t even trying lying.” 

You gave her the half truth, about Hannah’s new boyfriend and Allie’s new position, and prayed she wouldn't press. But by the look on her face, you knew she knew there was more. To her credit, she didn’t meddle.

That’s why you were kind of glad about the whole Thanksgiving situation. Apparently, some Boston travel influencer posted about The Mayflower on TikTok as “the perfect east coast autumn stop,” and the site got flooded. Almost every bed was booked up for the entire season, and even some starting in the winter. That included the week of Thanksgiving. So, your parents decided not to close the restaurant early on that Thursday and would have full service all of Thanksgiving. From the amount of reservations, you knew it was smart. It meant you’d be going home and working a full day to help ease the load hunching your father’s poor shoulders. A perfect distraction—and a perfect excuse for if they asked why you were so tired. Then you could go to bed early once you scrubbed the kitchen. Eating a piece of cold pie in your room as you watched Pride & Prejudice for the billionth time. Rotting away your youth as your friends grew apart from you, like you should’ve expected. 

But—still a week out from Thanksgiving—now you were mortified that Bernard noticed. You never let things affect your work. Ever.

He sighed. “I understand. You know I understand. But one more evaluation like this and you’re dropping down to a B.”

Ice froze your veins. “No—Bernard I can’t have another B on my transcript. Please.”

“It happens. It’s junior year, people get overwhelmed with the work load and higher expectations.”

“Not me.”

“It wouldn’t be the end of the world. You only have one and that was freshman intro—“

“I know.” You cut him off. “But I won’t let that happen again.”

Tucker gulped, guilt clawing at his insides. 

Everyone knew you wouldn’t have gotten that final B if it weren’t for him. You were killer even in your first month at Briar. But that fateful first partner lab absolutely tanked you, with no way of bringing your final grade back up past it.

Tucker felt sick listening in now. The shame eating away at him so much that he finally moved from his spot in the hall. Shoving himself into his truck, and driving in silence back to the house.

Nearly a week later, Logan was trying to talk him off a ledge.

“Tuck, I promise I’m reading through the list.”

The infamous Friendsgiving Operation To-do List.

Tucker leaned over the counter, wide eyed and almost shaking. “Seriously, man. I’m not kidding around here. Military operation.” Enunciating with a finger pointed in his teammate’s face.

Logan snickered before his phone started ringing. Soon as he looked at the screen, though, he instinctively grinned at Tucker.

“What now?” He whined, still shaking from adrenaline.

Instead of answering him, Logan tapped the green button and held the phone to his ear. “Well if it isn’t Miss Honey.”

Tucker almost bit through his cheek. Brown eyes wide. Mouth bobbing stupidly, unable to even speak. 

However, his mind was racing. Specifically, with questions about why you called Logan, why Logan had your number in the first place, and whether he could wipe that stupid grin off of Logan’s face with one quick smack.

Simple questions, really.

You huffed, “Hey, Logan. Sorry to call out of the blue, but I’m kinda fucked.”

His brows knitted, mouth pinching in concern. “You good? Everything okay?”

Standing there, gripping the counter top till the marble almost cracked, Tucker was close to an aneurysm.

Another heavy sigh. “My car started smoking on the way home for break. I’m only like five miles from your place so I just wanted to call and see—but seriously don’t bother if you’re—“

“I’ll be there in ten.” He snatched his keys off the island.

You breathed harshly again, the only way to control your heart rate at the moment. “Thank you.”

“Just stay put, okay?” Even Logan was concerned by how small your voice sounded. “I’ll see you soon.”

When he hung up, Tucker rounded the island and grabbed him by the hood to keep him from moving towards the front door.

“What’s wrong with Honey?” Tucker’s hand was shaking around the fabric.

With an amused chuckled, Logan patted his shoulder to make him release the hand borderline choking him out. “Her car broke down on the way to her parent’s place.”

His stomach plummeted. 

Tucker was seconds away from sprinting there on foot. “Is she—“

“She’s fine.” Logan insisted, hands steadying his friend’s shaking shoulders. “Just asked me to come and take a look.”

He finally exhaled, heart still thrumming through his ears. “Okay. I should go—“

“I got it, dude.” Giving him one final squeeze to shoulder. “Don’t stress, i’lll send you updates. Just get started on your prep and hopefully I’ll be back in like two hours.”

But all he could picture was you alone on the side of the road. The image did something terrible to his stomach, bile almost rising at the thought.

Now that it was November, the wind had a brutal chill to it that Tucker prayed you weren’t suffering through. You could hate him all you wanted to, but he wouldn’t pretend not to be worried. He couldn’t help that part of him, not with anyone, not even with you. Especially after that class, he knew one more plate spinning in your hands would send them all clattering down.

It took everything in him not to follow after Logan. Barely focused as he began prepping for the chaos ahead. 

“Yep,” Logan sighed, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “Ole girl has kicked the bucket.”

Sitting on the curb, your head dropped into your hands with whine. “Noooooo—I’m gonna have to take a bajillion dollar uber to the commuter rail station now.” 

Logan, being the only other Bostonian amongst your friends, cringed instantly. “Yeesh, dude. I’d say I could drive you but I promised Tucker I’d help with Friendsgiving—especially now that everyone’s bailing.”

You whipped your head up. “What? Just Hannah and Garrett aren’t going anymore.”

“Nope, Dean and Beau are dodging too. They’re driving up to New York today for Blackout Wednesday.”

You snickered, “Course they are.”

“Well, in the mean time I’ll head back to the shop for the tow truck, but it’ll be a bit. You okay here by yourself?”

Through the fatigue, you managed a tight smile. “Yeah, don’t worry. Gonna call up my parents and give them a new ETA.”

“You sure?” Logan still looked wary, stretching the greasy rag between his hands. “Cause Tucker’s stretched thin, but he’d drop by in a second—“

“No.” You instantly cut him off. “Do not call him, he’ll gloat about it in class all next week.”

Logan tilted his head with slightly narrowed eyes. “Not sure about that, Hon....” Then he sighed like he didn’t have the energy to address that colossal car wreck of a situation. “Anyways—give me thirty, ‘kay? Any issues, any smoking, any creepy dudes lingering—you call me.” Then he grinned. “Or Tucker.”

You rolled your eyes but still gave an appreciative smile from your pathetic crouch on the curb. “Thanks, Logan.”

“Anytime, Hon!” He called over his shoulder, hiking his way to the car.

Soon as Logan drove off, you gave yourself two whole beats to wallow in the abyss.

Then you dialed up your mom. Spine aching from the odd hunch you attempted on the bumpy street curb. 

When she picked up, the chatter of the restaurant instantly flowed through the receiver.

“Hey, Honeybee!” Her voice warmed the cold ache in your chest. “You on your way?”

“Not quite,” you groaned. “My car’s busted.”

“What?!” The chaos of the dining area immediately dimmed like she ran to the walk in freezer for quiet. “Are you okay? Did you get in an accident?”

“Ma, I’m fine, I swear. Thankfully it only happened like five blocks from my dorm. I called a friend whose family owns the local auto shop and he checked it out. He’s giving me a tow soon.”

“Is it that John Logan boy? He’s on the hockey team, right?”

Your eyes narrowed like you could see her through the screen. “Yeah…how’d you know that?”

She hummed for a second too long. “Just remember you mentioned him a time or two.”

You specifically had never mentioned any of the hockey boys but Garrett. Ever. Still, you let it slide, too exhausted to parse through what that entailed.

“Anyways, he says he can get me back to my dorm within the next hour, but I’ll have to take an uber to the train and unpack my laundry bags so I’ll take a while and I’ll have to get a paper ticket for the train and—“

“Sweetheart.” She cut off your crazed rambling. “Breathe.”

You exhaled, shaky and more tense than you’d realized. 

“Oxygen flowing?” She teased, making you chuckle.

“Barely.” Wiping a shivering, shaky hand down your face.

“Honeybee, you know your dad and I would love if we could have you for the weekend, but….”

Your eyebrow raised. “But?”

“You’ve practically been a commuter these past few weeks,” she sighed. “And you know I’d just relish having you here all the time, but it’s not what you need. After everything that’s been going on...you need a break.”

You nodded frantically like she might see. “Yeah and to come home.”

“To do what?” She pressed. “Work a twelve hour shift on a holiday? And don’t say you won’t, cause I’d probably catch you sneaking downstairs to restock the fridge or something.”

Somehow, you couldn’t manage a laugh, dreading the next words out of her mouth.

“Sweetheart…stay at school. Your father and I have a solid staff for the whole weekend, we won’t need your help one bit.”

You knew she was trying to be reassuring, but all it did was twist the knife. We don’t need your help, is all you could hear. 

Not one bit.

“You still there, Honeybee?”

“Yup,” you cleared your throat, dabbing the hot tears that had started to collect at your water line. “Still here.”

“So it’s decided, you’ll stay at school this weekend. Okay?”

You heaved, “Okay.”

“Good,” she hummed. “Oh! You should see about going to that Friendsgiving thing at Hannah’s boyfriend’s house!”

“Mom,” you gritted out, teeth bared. “Have you been talking to Hannah?”

The silence was enough of an answer.

“Mommmm,” you whined.

“Oh, enough! You are a grown woman, you’re not about to take that tone with me,” she huffed. “God forbid a mother is worried about her child.”

“So you call her friends that she’s actively having issues with?” You lifted a brow. “And don’t even try to pretend like you didn’t call Allie, I bet she was the first one you rang.”

She harrumphed, “Actually, it was Dexter.”

You released a fatigued, tired laugh. “Jesus.”

“Go to that Friendsgiving thing!” She echoed. Then her voice dropped a tone like you were gossiping on shift together about the patrons. “Is that boy gonna be there, the one who caught you at karaoke night?”

Thankfully, you hadn’t told her that “karaoke night boy” was the same as “stupid athlete kid in your culinary classes.” But, knowing your friends, Hannah and Allie probably spilled the beans only five minutes into their phone calls with your mother, and you couldn’t even imagine what Dexter said.

Jesus Christ.

“It’s his house, Mom, so maybe.” Roughly rubbing your eyes till you saw a kaledeiscope of stars. “But Hannah’s not going anymore, Garrett’s bringing her to his dad’s place in Boston.”

“Oh! That Phil Graham?”

“Yup.”

“Wow, they’re getting serious aren’t they?”

You rolled your eyes, immediately knowing where this was going. “I guess.”

“Hm, and does Garrett have any friends who are single?”

And there it was.

“Hanging up now, Ma.”

“Alright, relax!” She sighed in defeat. “I should go help the new girl, poor thing’s getting burned by the milk steamer anytime she makes a cappuccino.”

You snorted. “Who the hell’s ordering a cappuccino?”

“We’ve got fancy people coming in nowadays. We’re a classy establishment.”

Finally, you smiled. “Okay, I’ll let you go.”

“Love you, Honeybee”

“Love you, Ma.”

Well, guess you’d be spending tomorrow in your dorm. Alone. Watching Pride and Prejudice in the living room with not just a slice—but the entire pie. To yourself.

Plus wine. So much wine. 

Tucker was gonna kill them—all of them.

As soon as another hoard of rowdy college kids filed through the house and handed Tucker yet another bottle of cheap booze, he snapped.

“Logan,” Tucker hissed, snatching the collar of his flannel as he tried rounding the corner. His sneer a bare inch away from his friend’s face. “I’m freakin’ out, man! We’re t-minus two hours to bird drop and I haven’t even put the damn biscuits in the oven!”

“Whoaaaa!” Logan chuckled, brown eyes wide in amusement. “Let’s take it down to a light simmer, okay?”

Tucker’s mouth squeezed shut, cheeks growing hotter by the second.

“We’re DEFCON 1,” he gritted out. 

“Nah, it’s DECON 3 at the worst,” Jules sang, swooping in with pat to his back. “I’m ballparking 2 maybe—especially with John working those pies.”

Their brother gave mocking laugh and shoved their shoulder.

“Jules,” Tucker hissed, wide eyed and about to bite through his own lip. “Unless you have something constructive to say.” He mimed shutting a mouth with his hand. “Zip it.”

Jules just grinned even broader. “And what if I said I’ve got a friend willing to pick up some slack around here?”

Tucker gaped. “Really?”

They nodded. “You want the cavalry?”

In an instant, Tucker had wrapped his arms around Jules in a bone crushing hug, easily lifting them clear of their feet.

Soon as they were back on solid ground, Jules cringed. “Never do that again.” 

“Yo, Tuck!” Birdie called from the kitchen. “Is the corn pudding supposed to look like that?”

Life drained from his face, grin dropping to sheer terror. “Please I need anyone, Jules. Anyone.” Then he was damn near sprinting towards the kitchen.

Logan shifted towards his sibling, eyes narrowing. “Who else do you know that’s still on campus? Your friends are few and far between.”

“Hilarious.” They flicked his forehead before rifling through their pockets. “He did say anyone, right?”

Soon as Jules lifted their brows, Logan groaned, “She’s at her parent’s house, idiot.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure of that, dickwad.” Flipping the phone around so the screen shown bright with a post from The Mayflower’s instagram. “Staff photo from this morning. No Honey.”

“Maybe she’s behind the camera?”

“Did my research, John.” Swiping towards the restaurant’s Instagram stories. “Her mom posted a cheesy Happy Thanksgiving story about ‘missing our Honeybee a little extra today.’”

Logan choked on his spit. Brown eyes wide in disbelief. “Honeybee?”

Jule’s grin lifted impossibly higher. “It’s all over their Instagram. Apparently that’s her little nickname. Even the staff calls her that in the comments, going back for years.”

He barked a laugh. “No fucking way.”

“Uh-huh.” Jules began swiping out of the app, absentmindedly narrating as they looked down at the screen. “I’ll just give her a ring.”

“Slow your roll, her car’s busted and there’s no campus buses running for break.”

Jules looked over their phone, brows lifted. “Are you physically capable of driving, John?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Jesus Christ,” they sighed, shaking their head. “Thank God you’re good at hockey.” As they held the phone up to their ear, dial tone ringing, Jules stated more plainly now, “You can pick her up, dipshit.”

Then the receiver clicked.

“Um…hello?” You sounded like the phone was holding you hostage.

“Hey hey, Honey!” Jules was way too chipper for your current state. “You free right now?”

“Uh.” You looked around your depression den: laundry strewn about, empty gatorade bottles piling up on your desk, bed unkept, and the curtains still drenching it in a moody darkness. “I guess.”

“Hell yeah—we’ve got a DEFCON 1 situation at the house. Tucker invited everyone and anyone over for Friendsgiving without capping off the numbers, and now he’s got a house full of orphans and international students with a quarter of the food.”

You rolled your eyes. “Rookie mistake.”

Jules put on their sickly sweet charm. “Please, Hon. We need you to save this shit show. It’s like the trauma dump Olympics in here, and unless you want Birdie making the pumpkin pie—“

“Oh y’all are fucked,” you snorted, trying to rub the sleep from your eyes even if it was already approaching 10. “Might take me a bit, don’t have my car.”

“Got that covered, John’s gonna pick you up.”

You heaved a sigh. No way out now. “Alright, give me thirty to shower off quick and get ready.”

“Take your time, Honeybun.”

Your rolled your eyes but slightly snickered at Jules’ obvious kiss-assery. “Thanks. See you soon.”

Right when they hung up, you flopped back against the bed.

Fuck it—you had to face him. You just had to do it. Grin and bear the whole shit show you’d be walking in to. Tough it out. 

You just had to remind yourself—you were saving the day, not him. Thinking about that actually kicked your ass into high gear, itching to see that stupid look on his face when he realized you were picking up the pieces this time.

Then you’d be even. And you could go back to normal.

Back to hating his guts, chewing his head off every chance you got. Maybe today was perfect to get a head start on that. 

You could knock the bitchyness up to eleven and he’d have no wiggle room to even try looking at you like a you were some kicked little puppy he was rescuing off the side of the road.

Perfect plan. Super smart. Insanely foolproof.

“Your savior has arrived!” Jules sang, pulling you full force through the bustling house and into the kitchen. 

While Tucker was still hunched over the stove, carefully measuring his flour and stock ratio, everyone else had turned to face you with broad grins.

They were beyond happy to see you—and it felt like a punch to the stomach because you knew exactly why.

“She’s back from the dead!” Dexter squealed, dropping the chef’s knife on the cutting board with a clatter so he could wrap you up in a hug. His voice was lower now as he hummed into your shoulder. “I’ll be mad at you later—but right now, I’m holding on and never letting go.”

You snorted, squeezing his back in kind. “You’re gonna suffocate me.”

“You deserve it.” He pulled back with a teasing smile. 

“Dex, why the hell aren’t the carrots peeled, man?” Tucker groaned, still facing the stovetop and away from the group. “Gotta keep on schedule, people!”

You kissed your teeth before piping up. “Better get those biscuits in the oven, cowboy, or they’re gonna be as flat as your ass.”

Tucker looked like he’d frozen in time for a second—then he whipped around. Wooden spoon still in his grasp, so tight he might’ve gotten splinters from the thing.

“You’re here,” he breathed. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

“Unfortunately for you.” Matching his stare will solid steel. “I’m here to save your ass.”

All around the kitchen, your friends glanced at each other with barely controlled snickers. 

Dexter was the first to chime in, “Okay let’s tone down the Heated Rivalry just a smidge.” Then he gripped your shoulder and maneuvered you around the kitchen island so you were facing the makeshift menu schedule. 

“That.” He pointed. “Is bible.”

Your eyes narrowed at the scribbles. “No, that’s a mess.”

Tucker cursed under his breath, now a foot behind you. “Holy Father give me strength.”

“He’s forsaken this hell hole, bud,” you quipped, snatching an apron off a hook. 

“Well,” Birdie chuckled, exchanging a look with both Logans. “This is gonna be great.”

Would it qualify as murder or manslaughter if you accidentally stabbed someone, but had all the intention to gut him so the fucker would finally shut up?

That answer might be applicable to your current state. Would it affect your next move? Probably not. You were just curious how long you’d end up spending in Boston Women’s Correctional Facility.

For someone so unaffected by aesthetics and presentation, Tucker was so damn anal about how every little thing had to be done.

Every few minutes, you felt him lurking over your shoulder. The hovering, suffocating force nearly making you whip around. Chef knife in hand.

“Need something?” You gritted out, forcing yourself to continue chopping almonds instead of his fingers.

Tucker huffed, turning slightly away from the pot he was still whisking. “Those need to be slivers.”

Jesus fucking—

“I know what a sliver is, dipshit.” Sending him a nasty glare. 

Your friends no doubt thought they were comedians when they lined you both up next to one another. Shoulder to shoulder. The wooden cutting board only an arms reach from the stovetop. One perk of that was, if needed, you would barely have to move your torso to jab at him—not verbally. 

That would be convenient.

He had the nerve to huff like you were crazy. “I didn’t say you—nevermind. Do whatever you want.”

Instantly, you slammed the knife down. Skin buzzing from rage fueled adrenaline. You shifted towards him, his body still angled towards the pot he was whisking.

“Hey, Tuck?” Tone deceptively saccharine as you smiled like a mad woman. 

With a preparatory huff, he finally looked up from the pot.

Huge mistake.

Tucker was suddenly stilled by the proximity, your smile now dangerously closer than before. If you leaned in just an inch more, your chin would be resting on his shoulder.

It lasted for maybe thirty seconds, his breath faltering and all thoughts of whisking long gone. 

Then, you tipped your chin down, glancing into his pot. “Your roux’s burnt.”

Tucker whipped his head to where you were looking. Eyes wide in panic. “Wha—stop distracting me.”

You were completely unfazed, if not impishly amused. “Just saying, maybe you wanna start over.”

His nose scrunched, eyes narrowed and scrutinizing. “I don’t have time to start over. It’s fine. Mind your own station.”

“Okay, cowboy,” you chuckled bitterly, going back to the cutting board with a grin. “Your kitchen, your rules.”

Ten second passed, if that.

“At least it’s better than our Mother Sauces day, that béchamel tasted like straight raw flour—”

“That’s it—Logan, whisk duty. Now.” The metal whisk clanked against the pot as Tucker stormed off, high tailing it for the basement fridge for supplies he absolutely did not need.

As much as he’d gotten the urge to throw you out of that kitchen—or better yet, the entire house—he knew he needed your help. With half of the group gone last minute, completely throttling the plan, all hands were on deck. Worse yet, Birdie and Logan were somehow his sous chefs. 

Birdie and Logan. The same two who dry scooped pre-workout and sustained off bottled protein shakes when Tuck was gone. 

To say he needed your help was an understatement...and it just about drove him mad—but that wasn’t new with you. You driving him crazy was a constant, probably from the second you’d met in class.

Well, not that first lecture. 

That first day, far before that fateful first partner lab, Tucker stumbled over himself when he saw you. The pretty girl who’d offered him a pencil—and looked at him like he was dumber than rocks for not bringing a singular piece of stationary to class.

After that, Tucker tried to recover. Painfully. So when he found out you two would be partnered up for your first group evaluation, he was buzzing. Maybe too much. And then he did that during the lab.

And it was all downhill from there.

But one thing he still hadn’t wrapped his mind around, was how you were able to wind him so tight that it whipped back at him like a yo-yo to the head.

He was sweet, southern boy Tucker. Everyone liked him, and he liked everyone. But being nice was not easy around you—unlike every other human being on the entire goddamn planet. Just something about you really rubbed him wrong. Maybe it was the way you purposefully set him off every time, or maybe it was how you visibly relished in his eye-twitching reactions of barely muzzled restraint. Either way, it certainly did its job.

Thank God Dean wasn’t here to narrate the interactions between the two of you. If that'd been the case, Tucker would've just stuck his head in the oven along with the biscuits.

But the guy had to breathe. He couldn’t let you get the better of him today. Tucker knew you well enough to know that’s exactly what you wanted, just so you could both go back to bickering like a homicidal married couple. 

After Karaoke Night and Drunk Shakespeare, he knew there was something underneath it. Whether it was something between you two or only sitting in his chest—it was there. 

You both had laid down your weapons for all of twenty minutes before the showcase. Moving in sync. Working together like a team. Smiling and laughing at him with no bitterness behind it.

Like you didn’t hate him as much as he thought.

And then he’d brought up the karaoke thing, and the thing after that, and you locked up. Feeding into this feud would only make you lock up more, a perfect excuse to avoid him at all costs, making it impossible for him to breaks down those walls again. 

So Tucker wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t let you rile him up or curl in on himself or genuinely consider smashing a frying pan over your head. Nope. He’d be civil, channel that sweet southern boy that left Texas years ago, and brace the cold front you’d send his way. 

However, like most things that came to you, Tucker never really had much control.

Your voice interrupted his spiraling, peering over the railing of the basement stairs. “You crying down here or something?”

Oh my god—he might commit murder.

Chill. Be nice. Be open. Be the sweetest fucking tea.

He might as well have been, still sweating buckets like condensation on his mama’s tea pitcher on a scorching on day.

Tucker breathed through his nose as you shuffled around him. Fists clenching when you almost slamming the freezer door in his face. 

“Just needed a breather.”

Although you very obviously rolled your eyes at him, Tucker could see the way you were avoiding his gaze. A tension lifting your shoulders to your ears and making your jaw tight. 

A year ago, he would’ve thought you were just ticked the fuck off by his mere presence.

Now, after everything, he saw it in a new light. It was like you were physically building those walls back up in front of him. Keeping your arms close to your body and carefully maneuvering around him so you wouldn’t so much as graze his shoulder.

Tucker worried over his lip as you still rifled through the stacked freezer. “Why didn't you go home for Thanksgiving?”

“Just cause.”

Tucker clenched and unclenched his fists, watching your back and waiting till you turned around. He’d wait all day, the whole dinner be damned. But you had to face him eventually, so he wasn’t moving, and he wasn’t letting you run this time.

“Why’d you come over to help me?”

Your movements faltered in the freezer, keeping your head stuffed there with the cold breeze could maybe calm your rising heart rate. Maybe make you forget how close he was to your spine.

“I’m not helping you, I’m saving this disaster of a day,” you huffed, hot breath turning to fog in the icebox. “Now we’re even.”

Tucker’s fist was clenched again. He didn’t want even, he wanted to stop keeping score altogether. Stop one upping one another for who could be the bigger asshole. Stop acting like he was helping you out of mere obligation or some weird ego thing.

He wanted to squash this shit. Right now. And if you weren’t listening to reason, if you didn’t like sweet southern charm—he’d be exactly what you wanted.

“That’s a bullshit answer.”

You whipped out of the freezer, slamming it closed with a bang. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he pressed, taking another step closer to the fridge. “You’re full of shit.” 

Your eyes flared, frozen hands now running hot with rage. Unconsciously, your gaze flicked down to his lips. Following the way they parted as he heavily panted.

You had to get out of there before you did something real stupid.

So you scoffed and tried avoiding his gaze, “Like you care.”

He growled when you tried to weasel past him. “You know I’m real sick of your attitude.”

“Oh boo frickin’ hoo.”

He slapped a hand on the freezer door, right behind your head. “No—I’ve had enough of this. What the hell’s been up with you?”

Your molars ground together, feeling his breath heating up your cold cheeks. “You’re annoying me, that’s what.”

“That’s not it.” He pushed, dropping his head down to glare at you through his brows, forcing you to look at him. “You’ve always hated me. Past few weeks though—you’re off. I asked Hannah about it, but all she said was you’re stressed about taking on work at The Mayflower.”

You scoffed. “Great. You and my best friends are talking about me behind my back, really brightening my mood.”

“I didn’t believe that for a second.” He unconsciously stepped forward, cornering you against the fridge. “Even Bernard noticed something’s up.”

That pit of rage lit a flame, his words like a Molotov cocktail on the fire. 

“You weird fuck—you were listening? Like some creepo?!” Teeth bared. “You wanna sabotage my grade that bad—“

“I’m worried!” He shouted, panting in tune with you. “You can be a bitch to me all you want—cause borderline murder is somehow the norm for us. But you’re dodging Allie’s calls, Hannah says you’re like a ghost in that apartment, Dexter has to fucking track you down at the dining hall—and don’t think I haven’t noticed you conveniently skipping out on drinks. You’re bigger than that, that’s a coward move.”

You sneered. “Will you just shut the fuck up!”

Something dangerous was boiling under your skin. Burning your blood and sending a fever across your body. All thoughts of deserting had left you, your ego making you stand there and chew him out real good. Because normally by now he’d give up, unable to take your bitchiness any longer.

But he was pushing, pressing on sore spots just to get a reaction. To get you to talk. To get you to finally answer him honestly. 

And you couldn’t take it for one more second.

His own sneer was a bare inch away from your own. “Why don’t you make me? Know you’ve been dying to.” 

As he pressed his arm harder into the freezer door, the muscle flexed under the rolled up sleeves of his button up—and you noticed. You noticed everything about him and it drove you mad. 

How he smelled like sweat and good laundry detergent. How his jaw ticked egregiously, sharpening his jawline. How the scruff on his cheeks had grown to a stubble, like he personally decided to torture you by not shaving that morning. How you could almost feel his broad chest against yours from the way he was panting like he’d just run suicides.

Or how he licked his drying lips after arguing with you for so long—and you wanted them on you. 

You wanted him on you.

In a messy, crazed moment, your claws reached up and gripped the soft material on his chest, making him slam into you and close the gap.

His body stilled for a mere moment, and you could feel how his mouth was frozen on yours. You panicked, already beginning to pull back with dread in your gut.

But before you could get even an inch away, he grabbed the back of your neck and harshly tugged you two together again. Almost growling against your skin as his stupidly big hands cupped the entirety of your neck. The sudden force making you dizzy.

Time passed in a hot, intoxicating frenzy. Neither of you coming up for air as you clawed at each other rabidly—so long, that you didn’t know if you were light headed from the lack of air or just him. Your hands released their grip but settled on his chest, feeling his racing heartbeat under the broad muscle. 

One of Tucker’s warm palms had apparently moved in your messy, crazed fever dream. Now it grazed under your shirt, gripping the back your spine as possessively as the other hand still cupped the back of your head. 

It gradually moved down, leaving goosebumps in its wake as his fingertips traced a pattern over the back pocket of your jeans. He pulled tighter, slightly pawing at it. One more inch, just a touch lower, and he’d be fully gripping your ass. You had just enough brain function to acknowledge that. The thought made you airily moan, which he swallowed greedily. Chest rumbling as he groaned into your mouth. That hand shifting to finally move lower and—

Then the basement door flew open.

“Yo, T!” Birdie called down the stairs. “Logan’s asking if he should put the biscuits in for longer if they’re not brown on top.”

Although you both were well hidden around the corner of the stairs, you still jumped apart.

Even as Birdie called down again, you stared at each other for a stupidly long moment. Chests heaving. Eyes like saucers. Tucker’s gaze lingering on your lips like he wanted to take another bite, the party be damned.

Until you finally skirted around Tucker’s body and basically ran up the basement stairs. Accidentally shoving Birdie as you tried putting as much space between you and that goddamn basement.

Holy shit. You were so stupid—somehow, you got even more stupid.

You didn’t learn. After all of these weeks, you still didn’t learn.

Something in the back of your mind squeaked, saying, “but he pulled me back in.”

Then the actually sane part of your brain reasoned with ferocity against that.

He pulled you back in because he’s a man who doesn’t care who he’s smacking lips with. Doesn’t matter that he hates your guts, he could still kiss you like that—your body on fire and craving more of his touch—and it still won’t change how he feels about you. How he hates you. How he thinks your attitude’s too much to handle. How you’re too much to handle

It didn’t mean anything to him. It was just hormones running on high. He can get his rocks off and still think you’re the most annoying bitch to walk the earth.

Then something sinister whispered under it all, wondering if he can separate the two...why can’t you?

Endnotes: Oh y'all are gonna LOVE part 8 *evil cackle*

❥In the meantime, feel free to check out my Jack Abbot series— "I'm on Fire"

❥OR take a look at my Dean Winchester series—"Don't Fear the Reaper"

Taglist: @flashyourgreeneyesatme @juniper-flour @tayvxi @cardcaptorrin @jissellegw @ficklepicklefandoms @foolishseven @fiction-obsessedd @heartsandheadcanons @strangegirl26sff @bookishbabe07 @florie1 @bananatovil @sweetvanillafawn555 @cutiesinthecosmos @reader0f-fics

*dividers and moodboard are mine, made on Canva

[kirbydreamssss]

Too Many Cooks (Off Campus) || John Tucker x CulinaryStudent!reader (Part 1)

Series Masterlist Part 2 here!

WC: 1.9k (short little thing, veryyyy unlike me, I know)

Series Summary: On top of his spot on the hockey team, Tucker declared a double major in business and hospitality pretty soon after arriving to Briar U. Not five minutes into his first culinary class, he gained his campus rival. Now it’s Junior year, nearly two years later, and you're still the only person that's ever made "Sweet Tuck" genuinely contemplate murder.

Pt.1 Summary: Dean gets one more thing to tease Tucker about

Relationship(s): John Tucker x reader (slowburn)

Tags/Warnings: Slowwwwburn (well ofc), BANTER & BICKERING (my bread and butter at this point), Off Campus season 1 spoilers, f!reader, No "Y/N" use, No physical description of reader, reader's an in-state student for plot (...so pretend you're from Massachusetts), completely inaccurate courses for hospitality majors, Rivals to Lovers!, barely edited tbh, suggestive content (it's Off Campus, y'all), light Angst! FLUFF!

-> Part 1 starts right around Episode 1

Notes: REALLY been in an Off Campus kick lately and my boy Tuck was not getting the love he deserved online, so I had to fix that. This won't be nearly as long as my Jack Abbot series, but I seriously love this side quest.

Your hand dashed forward to tap the bell, setting the plate on the pass-through counter with the other. “Order up!”

Allie was at the window in a second, a too wide smile on her freckled cheeks. “Hiiiii. Your makeup looks so good today, super glowy.”

You chuckled at her antics, “It’s sweat—order up, booth five.” Wiping your far too greasy hands on the dish towel tied to your navy blue apron.

She worried over her lip first before finally getting to the point. “Sweets, can you pretty please run this for me?”

“Allie, angel, love of my life—I believe that’s your job.”

She pouted, big brown eyes glimmering as they widened like a kicked puppy. An actress, she certainly was. “I know I know, but I really need to pee.”

“So, you’re not gonna be scrolling on TikTok or texting Sean, or scrolling on TikTok while texting Sean?” Lifting a completely unconvinced brow.

Allie only stuck her bottom lip out more, dramatically collapsing her torso onto the stainless steel counter. “God forbid a girl misses her boyfriend and—hey!”

You’d poked her temple with the handle end of a metal spatula. “Off my counter, you know the rules.” Then sighing as you looked back down at her. “You guys need to be peeled off each other, it’s unhealthy at this point.”

“And you would know because...?” Narrowing her eyes playfully.

Your own eyes squinted back, poking her forehead with your finger this time. “You want me to run this or not?”

Allie just about bounced to the ceiling, doing a little spin and clap. “Oh thank you thank you thank youuuuuu! Have I told you how much I love you? Not enough! You’re the best roommate—Hannah can’t carry a candle to you, babe!”

“Hey!” Hannah sputtered, appearing on the other side of the bar top. “Why the hell am I catching strays?”

“Han, I’m a desperate woman,” Allie sighed. The serious conviction to her tone making you cackle as you strolled through the swinging door towards the bar. 

She continued grinning wildly as you sidled up to her, expertly maneuvering the four plates to rest on your palms and forearms. After a beat of her still standing there, bouncing on the balls of her feet, you gritted out, “Allie. Bathroom. Now.”

“Oh yeah—sorry!” Instantly sprinting away and almost knocking into a hoard of people crowding the stage.

By now, Hanna and you had swapped places as she took her spot behind the bar top and register, handing out a takeout order. Across from you, Hannah giggled, “You indulge her too much, y’know.”

“Hey—I don’t play favorites with my children. Remember when I cleaned the bathroom for three straight weeks?”

“I had the flu!”

You shook your head, lips pressed together in faux-disappointment. “Nobody wants to work these days.” Swiveling around again as you hastened towards the tables.

Getting to the other side of Malone’s was basically like navigating a battlefield, hoards of drunk college kids stationed between you and the your target. By the time you reached the booths, you’d just barely missed an elbow to the face and some clumsy asshole almost knocking the hot plates off one arm. Little reminders like that made you eternally grateful to be stuck in the kitchen. Sure, you came off shift smelling like grease and had sweat stains in places you didn’t think possible, but at least you weren't front facing. That was probably intentional on Della’s part, you weren’t exactly known for your charm. However, being the only line cook that wasn’t a gruff man pushing fifty certainly didn’t help.

“Okayyy,” you exhale, still blissfully unaware of whose table you were now in front of. As you rushed the booth, you’d just barely seen the figures of five broad shoulders stuffed into a too tiny booth. Still focused on reading the table order off the crumbled receipt paper to even look up, you continued, “Three bacon cheeseburgers—one no tomato—and a double patty melt with extra cheese and extra caramelized onions. Anything else I can get you guys?” Thankfully setting down the final plate in front of the guy on the end before you looked up—locking eyes with him. 

Both of your faces swiftly settled into fiery disdain. 

His eyes flared first, arms crossing over his broad chest before he grumbled, “The hell are you doing here?”

With both hands now free, your fists quickly dug themselves into your hips. Eyes narrowing. “What a lovely surprise.” Completely ignoring his question.

It only ticked him off further, heated glare quickly scanning over your uniform. “You work here?”

“Oh gee! Someone get this guy a prize—how observant.” You sneered, then stiffly pointed to the “Line Cook” embroidered on your apron, right next to where your name tag would have been if it wasn’t sitting on your dorm room desk.

His glare deflated a tad, looking more like a sulking child. “Oh.”

“Yeah—oh.”

Dean giggled—literally, loudly giggled—effectively breaking the moment. “I’m loving whatever’s happening here.”

“What exactly is going on here?” Logan said, his eyes shifting between the two of you and back to Garrett in the booth corner. Both boys wearing mirrored grins.

Tucker huffed, muscles flexing under the cotton t-shirt as his arms crossed tighter—which you absolutely did not notice. Never. Nope. 

“We’ve got class together—”

“Unfortunately,” you added before he could.

Instantly, the whole table lit up with a jumbled chorus of “Oh my god!” and “No way!”

Dean’s hand slapped the table before pointing a finger at you, a proud grin spreading to his blue eyes like he’d just aced Tuesday Night Trivia. “You’re the girl!” Beside him, Tucker was trying to melt as far into the booth as possible.

Your brows lifted, mouth still pressed. “I am one, thanks for the info.”

“No no,” Beau cuts in, “the girl from Tuck’s hospitality classes, who, like, seriously gets on his nerves—what was her name? Something starting with an A, right?” 

“No, it was definitely an L,” Dean added with conviction, joining in simply for the sake of competition—and probably the two pitchers of beer they’d already downed. 

“Could’ve sworn it was an M,” Garrett said through another sip of his pint.

“Hey, bud,” Logan added, clapping a hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “Love ya man, but you’re not great at this. Specifically this.”

Before the table could descend into further madness, you finally said your name, earning another excited clap from the blonde.

“That’s it! I knew it!” Dean exclaimed, looking back down to his plate just enough to swat Beau’s hand from sneaking another fry. “Bro, get your own. I’m not letting you mooch off mine.”

Heaving an exasperated sigh, you crumpled the receipt paper into your apron pocket. “Enjoy your meal, guys.”

Dean sat up straight, Beau mirroring his stance without question. “Yes, chef!” Both boys saluting in such coordination that you couldn’t but giggle.

“Fucking weirdos,” you mumble, terribly fighting a slight grin.

Too focused on bantering with the duo, you didn’t see how Tucker’s tight grimace slipped into something akin to quiet awe, or admiration. Eyes drifting across your features that lifted in a way he’d never witnessed, probably because you were never laughing around him—unless you were laughing at him. In that case, he always made sure to look away from you. Like looking away from a solar flare. 

Maybe he should’ve been looking this whole time.

As quick as Tucker tried to be, Logan and Garrett spotted it. Both exchanging growing smirks as Tuck tried wrangling his face back into a convincing disgust.

“You,” Dean said after a gulp of beer, finger pointed at your face like he’d solved a philosophical mystery, “are fucking cool. I’ve got a radar for these things—she’s cool right?” Turning to the rest of the table as Tucker sunk further into the vinyl bench.

“She’s cool,” Garrett added with a smirk to finally placate Dean.

“See!” The blonde squealed. “My radar’s going like this.” Making a frantic motion back and forth with his hands, Beau having to duck slightly before getting poked in the eye.

“Once again,” you say sternly, “I’m going. Have a good night, guys.” Finally turning around before they could lull you back into another lengthy tangent.

By the time you reached the bar top again, Allie was leaning across from the register, chatting with Hannah who’d stayed at her post. 

“Did you just finish running that?” Hannah asked after spotting you approaching.

“Yep,” you sigh with an eye roll, settling next to Allie. “Hockey boys love to blab apparently.”

Allie slapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Ohmygod—I completely forgot that was their table. I’m so sorry I didn’t warn you,” her apologies slightly muffled by the hand resting over her mouth. 

“Are you though?” Hannah chuckled, lifting a teasing brow.

Allie ripped her hand away from her lips, chin tilting up in contemplation. “Now that you say it—no. That was divine intervention telling you to get over this stupid beef you’ve got going on.”

With a scoff, you swiveled away to move behind the bar. Gruffly filling up a plastic stackable cup with ice, you didn’t meet Allie’s awaiting eye contact, even as you felt her her stare lasers into your skull. “S’not stupid. I’ve got reasons.”

They both groaned before Allie poked your shoulder lightly. “It’s been three fucking years, girl! Get over it!”

“Hey,” pointing the soda gun at her chest before continuing, “he embarrassed me on our first day of class and then acted like it was nothing! Like he’s fuckin’ royalty just cause he’s on some stupid hockey team.”

“Gonna be honest, girl—”

“When are you not?” Hanna interjected, smiling innocently.

“As I was saying,” Allie continued with a glare, “I’d believe that about literally any of them. The whole starting line—absolutely. They walk around campus like God rolled out a red carpet for them personally. But, John Tucker?” She leaned in with a tilt of her head. “He’s a sweetheart. Ask literally anyone on this campus, no one’s had even one bad interaction with the guy.”

“Yeahhh,” Hannah echoed with a grimace, “even for fear of my life, I’m still agreeing with Allie on this one. Remember that time those girls smashed a bunch of glasses on stage during Karaoke? He stayed thirty minutes past closing to help Della and I clean them up.”

You swiveled the soda gun to face the other brunette, taking a ravenous chug of coke before speaking. “The only smart thing you’ve done so far is fear for your life.”

“Babe,” Allie emphasized with another poke to your shoulder, “for once, give him a chance to be at least a little nice to you.”

“You’re asking me to give a man the benefit of the doubt?”

Allie grimaced. “Yeah I don’t like the sound of it coming out of my mouth too—but that’s how you know I’m being honest! I’d be the first to say hate him and hold a grudge, cause all men are guilty until proven innocent.” Then booping your nose when she added. “But he, unfortunately, has proved himself innocent.”

You swatted her hand away with a grumble. “I’m going back to the kitchen, where I belong.”

“Not very feminist of you!” Allie called out to your retreating form.

“Suck my dick, Allison!” Yelling back right as Della walked out of the kitchen door. You tried putting on a bright smile, which never quite fit on your face. “Hi Della, you look lovely today.”

The older woman only eyed you up and down, her gaze shifting behind you to silently chastise your roommates as well. Like any mother hen, she simply hummed, letting you shuffled around her awkwardly to sprint through the swinging doors.

Unless Malone’s caught on fire, you were never leaving that kitchen again. 

Endnote: guys I really hope y'all like this, I literally giggled while writing part 1 & 2. Taglist is open, just comment below to be added!

Taglist:

Dividers are mine, made on Canva

[finalgirlfiction]

Maybe You Were Never Mine part 15

MAIN MASTERLIST

OFF CAMPUS MASTERLIST

TAG LIST

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Fem!Reader (Angst) and Beau Maxwell x Fem!Reader (Slow Burn)

Warnings: heartbreak, angst, crying, swearing, insynuation to smut but no smut

Summary: you always knew Dean wasn't relationship type of guy but you never could have guessed he would change for someone who's not you. Luckily you're not left all alone

a/n: A little tearful chapter this one but don't worry it will slowly get better! Let me know in the comments what do you think <3

The rumor started in the football locker room. Beau should have stopped it immediatly, he knew that.

He was halfway through pulling his hoodie over his head when one of his teammates held up a phone and grinned.

"Bro, the whole stadium saw it. You and Y/N are absolutely dating"

Laughter erupted around the room. Another guy whistled. "The jersey, the wink, the kiss? Maxwell is cooked"

Beau opened his mouth and stopped; not because he wanted to lie nor because he was trying to claim you. It was just because the word dating landed somewhere warm in his chest for half a second; a dangerous half second.

By the time he said, "We're not_"

The room had already exploded:

"TOO LATE!"

"He didn't deny it!"

"Maxwell finally caught feelings and forget Summer!"

Beau rolled his eyes but his smile betrayed him and unfortunately, that was all the evidence they needed.

The rumor spread through Briar by lunchtime; football players told their roommates, roommates told classmates and classmates told the internet.

Jules tried to help.

They posted a photo from the game: Beau pointing toward the stands after his touchdown, the teasing kiss thrown toward the crowd with a caption:

Briar football wins and Maxwell chooses chaos 😘🏈

Fifth line never mentioned you, never tagged you but the comments filled in the blanks almost immediatly:

@icedlatte_lily: That was definitely Y/N

@beaumaxwelldefender: She was wearing his jersey

@hockeygirl99: Dean's best friend??

@vanillaoatmilk: This campus is a soap opera

And then, buried halfway down the thread:

@puckbunnycentral: Wait, wasn't she in love with Dean Di Laurentis?

Your stomach dropped as you stared at the screen then nother comment appeered.

@campuschaos_22: Yeah, Dean said it after hockey practice. Someone overheard him talking to Garrett

The world seemed to tilt; Dean had said it out loud.

Publicly.

Not to hurt you, maybe or that was what you were trying to tell yourself. He would never hurt you like that right?

But it was out there now; your private heartbreak had become campus gossip.

You locked your phone so hard your hand shook.

"Y/N?"

You looked up. Allie was standing a few feet away outside the student center, coffee in one hand and concern written all over her face.

"Hey.." she said gently. "I was looking for you"

You tried to smile but failed.

Allie's expression softened immediately. "People are being awful"

That was it; not the rumors, not the comments and not even Dean. Kindness broke you faster than cruelty ever could.

Your eyes filled before you could stop them.

"Y/N_"

You turned and walked away as quickly as you could. By the time you reached your apartment, you were crying hard enough that you could barely get the key into the lock.

The room was dark, your roommate was gone. You dropped your backpack on the floor, crawled onto your bed, and buried your face in a pillow.

For weeks, you had been trying to survive Dean not loving you but you had not prepared for the entire campus talking about it.

Every comment replayed in your head.

In love with Dean for years.

Now dating Beau, what a plot twist. Like your feelings were entertainment, like the worst thing that had ever happened to you was just another Briar story.

Your phone buzzed, then again, then again but you ignored all of them.

An hour later, someone knocked and yu almost didn't answer but the knocking came again, softer this time.

"Y/N?"

Beau.

You sat up too fast, wiped your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, and opened the door.

The moment he saw you, his expression changed; anger vanished and concern took its place.

"Oh, sweetheart…" The endearment slipped out so naturaly that neither of you commented on it.

He stepped inside without waiting to be invited and you closed the door behind him.

"Have you seen it?" you asked quietly.

His jaw tightened. "Yeah..."

You laughed shakily. "So the whole Briar knows I was in love with Dean" The words tasted like humiliation.

Beau looked at you for a long moment then he said, very carefully, "I'm sorry'

You shook your head immediately. "It's not your fault"

"It's not yours either"

You looked away. "It feels like it is"

Beau crossed the room and sat beside you on the bed close enough that you wouldn't feel alone and for a minute, neither of you spoke.

Then you vispered, "I feel like I ruined everything"

His head turned toward you. "You didn't ruin us"

The word us hit harder than it should have. You stared at him. He seemed to realize what he'd said a second later, but he didn't take it back, instead he added quietly, "You don't get blamed for other people talking"

Your eyes burned again. "I don't even know what we are"

The honesty of it hung between you, Beau was quiet for a long moment then he admitted, "Neither do I"

Something in your chest loosened; the knowledge that you weren't the only one confused. A tear slipped down your cheek and before you could wipe it away, Beau reached up and brushed it away with his thumb. You went completely still, his hand lingered against your face like he was holding something fragile.

Your breath caught and Beau's eyes dropped to your mouth.

The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet and you leaned into his touch without thinking. His other hand came up, fingers sliding gently into your hair.

"Y/N…" The way he said your name made your heart ache.

He leaned closer, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn't.

Your eyes fluttered closed and you could feel his breath now. One more inch, maybe less.

Knock knock!

Both of you froze.

Another knock, harder this time and then Dean's voice through the door.

"Y/N!"

You pulled back so quickly your shoulder hit the headboard and Beau swore under his breath.

Your heart pounded wildly. "Are you kidding me?" you vispered.

"Apparently the universe hates me" Beau mutered, the knocking came again.

You stood, smoothing your hoodie with shaking hands. Beau stood too, running a hand through his hair.

You opened the door and Dean stopped dead. His eyes took in your flushed face, your red eyes, Beau standing close behind you and something in his expression snapped.

"So it's true"

You blinked. "What?"

"This" He gestured between the two of you. "Everyone's talking about it"

Beau stepped forward immediatly. "Dean_"

"No" Dean's voice was sharp. "I leave for one day and suddenly the whole campus thinks you're dating my best friend"

Your chest tightened. "I didn't ask for any of this"

"Then why are you here?" he shot back at Beau.

Beau's jaw clenched. "Because she was crying"

Dean laughed once, bitter and disbelieving. "And you're the one comforting her now?"

'Someone should!"

Silence, heavy one.

Dean took a step forward. "You couldn't even wait?"

"Wait for what?" Beau snapped.

"For her to stop hurting!"

"I'm not using her"

"That's not what it looks like!"

You flinched.

"Dean, stop"

He looked at you then, really looked.

Tears, flushed cheeks, Beau beside you and for a second, anger gave way to something rawer; hurt. But then he said the thing that made the room go cold.

"This is exactly what everyone is talking about"

Beau's expression hardened instantly "Maybe everyone should mind their own business"

"You're my best friend"

"And she's not your backup plan"

Silence crashed down, Dean went completely still so did you.

The words hung in the air like a slap because they exposed something none of you had been willing to name.

Dean looked away first, his throat worked once then he stepped back. "We're done talking"

"Dean_"you started but he was already turning away. He paused in the hallway without looking back and then he left.

The door closed but you stood there for a second, then another and suddenly the adrenaline drained out of you all at once. You sat down hard on the couch and pressed a hand over your mouth.

Beau was beside you immediatly. "Hey"

You shook your head. "Don't"

"Don't what?"

"Don't make me cry again" Your voice broke on the last word and that did it. The tears came anyway. You covered your face with both hands. "This is all my fault"

Beau gently pulled your hands away. "No, it isn't"

"I ruined your friendship"

"You didn't"

'I ruined everything"

His expression softened into something that almost hurt to look at. "You don't have to carry everyone" And before you could argue, he pulled you into his chest.

You broke then, crying against his hoodie while he held you and let you. No words, just his arms around you and his hand moving slowly through your hair. When the tears finally quieted, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Your eyes closed.

"Stay?" you wispered before you could lose your nerve.

Beau looked at you for a second then he nodded. "Yeah"

Later, when you fell asleep curled on your bed, Beau pulled a blanket over you and stayed there beside you and for the first time in weeks, you fell asleep before the tears had fully dried.

When you woke briefly in the middle of the night, the apartment was quiet, the lamp was still on and Beau was still there.

Tags: @afroditezj @tolkiendreammarvelqueens @itmekelpy @justheretoreadthxxs @foxmp @purplerainx1 @maybankslover @tinyceasarsalad @superchatnoir07 @saamanthaag3 @appepel @daphnen21 @wsg-pooka @charliezhorez1222@kennedy-brooke @wxn-drlst @absolutelystunning23 @lightdragonrayne @booklovr32 @ultimatetempestritual @charliezhorez1222 @mcolbz14 @b1u3c10ud @drewstarkeyluvr23 @hilunax @winterton-reads @wonderland2425 @chanelwidag @dakotapaigelove @cloudyzip @falloutdunes @fangirlingtrash @katieemerald@kpoplover-19 @carriemill @notafairyteen @watercolorskyy @viewssid @plants-w0rld@panandhockeyobsessed @idkanymore-05 @cheyrenee @jojodojo02@bruher @sunshineandsunflowerlover @maybankslover @green-lxght @moonlight52moonlight@urlocalbeaner5@takemetooneverlanddd @panandhockeyobsessed @idkanymore-05 @moneyisnotimportant @c-a-b3002 @takemetooneverlanddd @engelsmoment @ooopssssu @p0pstar11 @lexasaurs634 @samkysnks @mkgetsferal @cutiesinthecosmos @suns3treading @itllbefineeeeee

[finalgirlfiction]

Maybe You Were Never Mine part 14

MAIN MASTERLIST

OFF CAMPUS MASTERLIST

TAG LIST

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Fem!Reader (Angst) and Beau Maxwell x Fem!Reader (Slow Burn)

Warnings: heartbreak, angst, crying, swearing, insynuation to smut but no smut

Summary: you always knew Dean wasn't relationship type of guy but you never could have guessed he would change for someone who's not you. Luckily you're not left all alone

a/n: i like this chapter but not as much as one in the future we're getting closer too 😏☺️ anyway i hope you'll all enjoy this one, let me know in the comments💖🫶🏻

The first problem was that you had no idea what people wore to football games. You stood in front of your closet for ten minutes, staring at sweaters, jeans, and exactly zero pieces of clothing that said I support football and definitely have my life together.

"Why is hockey easier?" you muttered.

Your roommate looked up from their bed. "Because you've been emotionally attached to hockey for years"

Rude.

Accurate, but rude.

You reached for another hoodie, then paused when your eyes caught on something shoved in the back of the shelf; a navy Briar football t-shirt. You pulled it out slowly and your stomach twisted.

Dean had given it to you sophomore year because Beau's team had made the playoffs and Dean had been absurdly proud of him.

"Wear this" he'd said. "Maxwell gets weirdly sentimental about football"

You stared at the shirt for a long moment; Dean had given it to you and now you were wearing it to support Beau.

The symbolism felt almost too obvious.

You nearly put it back but then before you could change your mind, you put it on.

Beau checked his phone for the fourth time in three minutes.

"Dude" one of his teammates said "if you look at that screen any harde, it's going to file a restraining order"

Beau ignored him. The locker room buzzed with pregame energy music, shoulder pads, shouted jokes but none of it reached him properly when his phone vibrated.

YOU: Here. Don't die 🙂‍↕️

A smile spread across his face before he could stop it and his teammates groaned dramaticaly.

"Oh my god, there is a girl out there!"

"There's not"

"You smiled at your phone"

"I smile at lots of things"

"You smile at touchdowns. That was a different smile!"

Beau shoved his phone into his locker. "Focus on the game Joel"

The guy pointed at him"That means yes"

Beau laughed under his breath and grabbed his shirt, but his pulse was already a little faster than usual.

The stadium was louder than you expected; not Briar Arena loud, but broader somehow music echoing across the field, students filling the stands, the smell of popcorn and cold night air.

Garrett waved you over imediately. "There she is!"

Hannah smiled beside him and scooted over to make room while Logan was already halfway through a pretzel the size of his head.

Tucker pointed at your shirt. "Excuse me, when did you become a football girly?"

You looked down at the navy Briar logo. "Dean gave me this..."

Tucker froze, Garrett froze and Logan froze with pretzel halfway to his mouth.

Hannah looked fascinated. "Oh..." she said softly. "That's emotionally complicated"

"Please don't start..."

A familiar laugh sounded behind you so you turned; Dean and Allie were climbing the stairs toward your row.

Allie smiled warmly. "Cute shirt"

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "Thanks"

Dean's eyes lingered on it for a second longer than necessary; recognition flickered across his face. He remembered giving it to you.

The realization passed through all three of you silently then Tucker quetly announced, "I'm seated in the middle of a psychological thriller..."

Garrett smacked the back of his head.

Dean sat down beside Allie. The tension from the fight yesterday hung over the group immediately. No one mentioned it and that somehow made it worse.

On the field, Beau adjusted his boots and tried not to look toward the stands.

He failed.

The second he spotted you, his expression softened but then his eyes shifted.

Dean.

For a heartbeat, Beau's jaw tightened as the memory of gloves hitting the ice flashed through his head. He looked away first.

Warmups began, the crowd rose to its feet as the team spread across the field. You watched Beau move through drills with the same focused intensity he had on the ice, but football fit him differently:

Sharper.

More dangerus.

Hockey had made him attractive, but Football made him look dangerus. Like he could run through a wall but apologize to it after. Your breath caught embaressingly hard.

Beside you Hannah leaned closer "Oh, you're in trouble"

"What?"

"You looked at him like he's made of sin and shoulder pads"

You nearly choked. "Please never say that again"

She grinned into her drink. During warmups, Beau jogged toward the sideline carrying an extra jersey.

You frowned.

Then he looked up at your section and threw it. The jersey sailed through the air straight at you, you barely caught it against your chest.

For one stunned second, your entire row went silent then Tucker exploded "OH MY GOD!"

Logan whistled so loudly people turned around, Garrett looked delighted and Hannah looked like she'd just been handed front row tickets to a romance movie.

You stared down at the jersey.

MAXWELL — 11

Your face went completely hot. On the field, Beau rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little less confident about his decision.

Dean went very still, Allie glanced at him, then at the jersey in your hands, and said absolutely nothing.

"Are you going to put it on?" Tucker demanded.

"I'm going to throw you off the bleachers"

"That's not a no"

Hannah took the jersey gently from your hands.

"You're absolutely wearing this!"

"Traitor"

"Correct"

Two minutes later, you were pulling Beau's jersey over your Briar t-shirt while the boys provided a level of commentary that should have been illegal.

When you looked down at the number on your chest, something fluttered low in your stomach, not because of the jersey but because he had wanted you to have it.

Dean watched the whole thing.

Garrett leaned over. "You okay?"

Dean kept his eyes on the field. "This is getting weird"

Garrett frowned. "What is?"

Dean glanced at you in Beau's jersey.

"Y/N spending all this time with Beau"

Garrett's expression changed immediatly. "They're friends"

"Yeah, but after everything?" Dean rubbed a hand over his jaw. "It feels like she's trying to prove something"

"Dean…"

'I'm just saying maybe this is more about me than him"

Garrett stared at him for a long second then he said quietly "Don't do that"

Dean looked away. Allie, who had heard every word, was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read.

The game started and unfortunately for your emotional stability, Beau was incredible; fast enough that defenders kept missing him by inches, focused in a way you'd never seen off the field. Every catch made the crowd roar, every time he got hit, your heart jumped before you could stop it.

At one point he caught a pass near the sideline directly below your section. He looked up, saw the jersey on you and grinned. The kind that made your stomach flip and Dean saw that too.

"You're doing it again" Allie murmured.

"What?"

"Watching them"

Dean looked back at the field. "I'm watching Beau"

"No" she said gently. "You're watching Y/N watch Beau" The words landed harder than he expected.

He didn't answer.

Late in the third quarter, the game was tied and the stadium buzzed with nervous energy.

Beau lined up wide, the quarterback dropped back, the ball flew and for a second, everything slowed. Beau caught it in stride and took off and the crowd erupted as he crossed the goal line.

You were on your feet before you realized it, cheering so loudly your voice cracked, Beau turned toward the stands. His eyes found you immediately and he pointed straight at your section, then, before you could process that, he winked.

Actually winked.

Tucker screamed like someone had proposed marriage, Logan nearly dropped his pretzel and Hannah covered her mouth with both hands.

Your entire face went up in flames and Beau, apparently deciding chaos was worth it, lifted two fingers to his lips and flicked a teasing kiss toward the stands.

The section around you exploded.

"Oh my God!" Hannah wheezed wit a big smile on her face.

"TELL MY FAMILY I LOVED THEM!" Tucker shouted while grabbing his heart.

Garrett buried his face in his hands. You stared at the field in complete horror and complete delight.

Dean felt something twist sharply in his chest.

Not because Beau was flirting but because you were smiling because of it and not the careful smile you'd worn for weeks, not the polite one but the real one and Beau had put it there.

Briar won.

The crowd poured toward the exits, but your group headed for the fence near the tunnel. Players started coming over one by one then Beau appeered; sweaty, flushed, exhilarated, and somehow even more attractive than before.

This was getting ridiculous.

"You didn't die" you said, holding out a bottle of water.

He took it, fingers brushing yours. "Barly" His eyes dropped to the jersey still hanging on you and his smile softened. "You kept it"

"You threw it at me in front of half the stadium. I didn't have many options"

He laughed, shaking his head then, quieter "I wanted you to have it"

Your breath caught. Around you, the others suddenly seemed very far away.

Tucker ruined it immediatly. "I'm witnessing a sports romance!"

"Shut up!" you and Beau said together.

Garrett groaned, Hannah laughed, Logan looked delighted and Dean didn't say anything.

A little later, Beau walked you away from the crowd while the others stayed behind arguing about where to get food. The stadium lights cast long shadows across the pavement.

You tugged at the oversized jersey. "I still can't believe you winked at me"

Beau looked briefly horrified. "I got carried away"

"And the kiss?"

He groaned. "Tucker dared me with his eyes"

You burst out laughing. "That is not how dares work"

"It felt real in the moment" The honesty of it hit harder than the flirting had.

For a few steps, neither of you spoke then a cold breeze lifted your hair across your face.

Without thinking Beau reached up and tucked the strand behind your ear, his fingers brushed your cheek. This time, when he realized what he was doing, he didn't pull away immediately.

Your breath caught, his eyes dropped to your mouth. The space between you changed and then Beau glanced over your shoulder.

Dean was standing near the stadium entrance, watching but for the first time, Beau did not step back right away.

Not to provoke him but just because he was tired of acting guilty for caring about you.

The moment stretched for one dangerus heartbeat but then he lowered his hand.

"Text me when you get home?" he asked softly.

The familiar question steadied your heartbeat.

"Okay"

He smiled.

Farther back near the stadium entrance, Dean watched the two of you in silence. Allie stood beside him, her hand tucked through his arm. Neither of them could hear what was being said.

They could only see: the jersey, Beau smiling at you, his hand brushing your hair back and you not moving away.

A week ago, Dean would have told himself Beau was helping you heal. After the fight on the ice, after the way you had shown up for Beau anyway, that explanation no longer felt safe.

Because if this were really about getting back at him, it would have looked performative, louder and krueler.

This looked frightening genuine and that scared him more than jealousy ever could.

Beside him Allie squeezed his arm once, Dean looked at her. She held his gaze for a moment, then said quietly, "You're not losing because Beau is trying harder"

His throat tightened.

She looked back toward the parking lot where you were laughing at something Beau had said. "You're losing because she's starting to look happy again"

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[kooksandpearls]

Man's Best Friend ☾ House Tour

pairing – garrett graham x kitty!reader summary – an empty apartment, a cold kitchen island and garrett graham’s complete lack of self-control bring the house tour to an early end. warnings – 18+, explicit sexual content, multiple orgasms, rough sex, consensual manhandling, biting, hair pulling, anal-play discussion and repeated boundary testing, strong language notes from me – I MEAN ANYWAYS U READ THE WARNINGS. none of this is a metaphor! word count – 2.2k

navigation – masterlist | MBF masterlist

The kitchen counter is colder than she expected. That’s the first coherent thought she has managed in several minutes, and even that one feels loosely assembled, dragged through the heat collecting beneath her skin while Garrett’s hand stays firm around her hip and the other braces beside hers against the pale stone.

Her new apartment is still empty enough that every sound carries. His breathing against the back of her neck. The sharp little slap of her palm when she loses her grip and catches herself again.

The obscene complaint of the counter beneath her bracelets. Her own voice coming back from the bare living-room walls sounding higher and less dignified than it ever does inside Garrett’s bedroom, where a mattress and several layers of hockey-house filth usually absorb the evidence.

Here, the apartment gives everything back. She grips the counter harder, nails clicking helplessly against the stone while Garrett moves behind her with the focused, punishing rhythm of a man who had arrived twenty minutes ago to inspect square footage and has somehow managed to bend her over the kitchen island.

“Never–” Her breath disappears when his hips drive forward again, the words scattering before she can collect them. “Even got– fuck, Garrett– to play tour guide.”

His laugh breaks warm and rough near her ear. He bends over her, chest pressing along her back, one hand sliding from her hip to her waist as though he needs to hold more of her at once. “You’re a very hot tour guide, baby.”

She tries to laugh. It turns into a thin, breathless sound when he moves harder, her forehead nearly touching the counter before she catches herself on trembling arms. “You saw one room.”

The words come out thinner than she intends, broken slightly by the way Garrett’s hand tightens around her hip. Her nails skid over the counter before finding purchase again, glossy tips clicking against the pale stone while she tries to glare back at him over her shoulder. 

It would probably be more effective if her breathing weren’t already wrecked and if the look on his face didn’t say he knows exactly how little authority she currently has.

Garrett bends over her until the warm weight of his chest presses along her back, his curls brushing her temple when he turns his mouth toward her ear. He sounds unbearably pleased with himself when he says, “Great room.”

“It’s the kitchen.”

She means it as a correction. It comes out closer to a gasp when his hips press firmly against hers again, driving her farther over the counter until the cold edge catches beneath her stomach. 

The apartment gives the sound back to her from every bare wall, louder and more humiliating than it would be in his bedroom, where blankets, furniture, and three inconsiderate roommates usually absorb some of the evidence.

Garrett’s laugh is low against the side of her neck. “Love what you’ve done with it.”

His free hand slides over her waist, palm broad and warm beneath the bunched fabric of her shirt, as though he’s inspecting the place through touch alone.

There’s nothing to inspect. The kitchen contains two takeaway coffees, her handbag, a packet of screws that may or may not belong to the bed frame being delivered tomorrow, and the keys she dropped onto the island approximately thirty seconds before Garrett kissed her hard enough to end the tour at the entryway.

“There’s nothing in here.”

“There’s you.”

The answer is so stupidly pleased with itself that she twists her head to glare at him, except Garrett catches her jaw and kisses the corner of her mouth before she can arrange the expression properly.

His curls brush her temple. He tastes faintly like the gum he had been chewing in the elevator, which is now stuck to the wrapper of the takeaway coffee he abandoned near the sink.

She bites his bottom lip. Garrett makes a sound against her mouth and straightens, grip tightening at her waist. The next movement knocks the rest of the air out of her in one startled rush.

“Asshole,” she gasps.

“You bit me.”

“You deserved it.”

“For complimenting your apartment?”

His laugh turns into a groan when she shifts against him, and satisfaction flickers through her despite the fact that her thighs are shaking badly enough to make standing a questionable long-term plan. 

She has already come twice since he followed her through the front door, once against the wall beside the intercom because Garrett had insisted the entryway counted as part of the tour, and once bent over this exact counter while her apartment keys dug into her palm.

That’s without accounting for last night, when he had turned up at her dorm claiming he needed to discuss tomorrow’s moving logistics and then contributed absolutely nothing to the discussion beyond taking her clothes off and telling her Dean could carry the couch.

Her body feels warm and overused in that heavy, molten way she’ll complain about later while climbing directly into his lap. Every hard movement drags another helpless noise from her, and Garrett keeps reacting like each one is new information, breath roughening, fingers flexing into her skin.

His hand begins to wander. She feels the shift immediately. The slow sweep of his palm over the curve of her ass, his thumb tracing experimentally lower while the rest of him keeps her pinned securely between his body and the counter.

Her eyes narrow even though he cannot see them. “Garrett.”

“Mm?”

“No.”

His mouth touches her shoulder, suspiciously affectionate for a man attempting a border incursion. “Just once.”

“No.”

“Let me.”

She twists as much as his grip allows, staring back at him over her shoulder with genuine offence. Garrett’s face is flushed, curls falling into his eyes, mouth damp and swollen from kissing her. He looks unfairly pretty for someone proposing crimes against the established order.

“Never,” she says.

His brows lift.

“You will never, ever enter the back door.”

Garrett sighs with the long-suffering disappointment of a man whose rights have been denied. “Fine.”

“Don’t sound like that.”

She feels his sigh more than she hears it, the warm push of his breath against the back of her shoulder while his chest remains pressed along her spine. 

Garrett’s hand is still spread over her ass, fingers flexing in a slow, absent squeeze that would almost seem innocent if his thumb weren’t resting exactly where it has no permission to be.

“Like what?” His voice is rough with exertion and completely false confusion. 

He drags his thumb downward by another fraction, tracing the sensitive crease between her cheeks until her whole body tightens around him and her nails scrape sharply across the counter.

She looks back at him, cheeks hot and breathing uneven, which significantly undermines the severity of her glare. Garrett’s curls are damp at the temples, his mouth parted, and his eyes keep dropping to where his hand disappears behind her as though he’s genuinely struggling to accept the limits of the property.

“Like I cancelled Christmas.”

“You’re very restrictive.”

He says it with a wounded little crease between his brows, but his hips keep moving, hard and steady enough that the next breath catches painfully high in her throat. His thumb presses once – not inside, not technically doing anything she can prosecute, but close enough that her stomach clenches and Garrett’s mouth curves against her shoulder when he feels the reaction run through her.

“I’m protecting national security.”

His mouth twitches. “Your national security?”

The words brush hot over her skin while he lets his hand wander again, palm sliding down, thumb teasing the place she has already explicitly removed from negotiations. Her legs tremble beneath her, partly from the last orgasm and partly from the humiliating fact that Garrett’s persistence is making every nerve in the area feel alert enough to testify.

“My borders are closed.” She punctuates it by reaching behind herself and smacking blindly at his wrist. Garrett catches her hand before she can do any real damage, pins it gently against the small of her back, and gives one more deep movement that makes her mouth fall open against the counter.

“Jesus Christ.” The exasperation would carry more weight if he didn’t sound half wrecked saying it.

He turns his face into the side of her neck, laughing breathlessly there while his grip tightens around her wrist and his other hand finally retreats to the safer territory of her hip.

“You’re acting like I denied you basic human rights,” she pants.

“You did.”

“I denied you access to one entrance.”

“Best entrance.”

Her head whips around as far as it can. “Garrett.”

“What?” His grin flashes against her skin, filthy and boyish and entirely too pleased with the way she clenches around him when he drives forward again. “I said fine.”

“You’re still campaigning.”

“I’m allowed to be disappointed.”

“You’re allowed to shut the fuck up and use the entrance you already have.”

Garrett goes still for half a beat. His eyes sharpen, amusement burning immediately into something heavier, and the hand on her hip clamps down hard enough to pull her back against him.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

She grins against the counter, but it disappears when Garrett suddenly pulls away. The loss makes her body follow before her pride can interfere, a soft, wounded whine slipping from her as she looks back. “Oh, now what?”

Garrett takes her by the waist and turns her before she can finish complaining. His hands fit beneath her thighs, lifting her with humiliating ease, and she barely gets her arms around his shoulders before he sets her on the edge of the counter.

The stone is cold beneath her again. Garrett is not. He steps between her knees, dragging her closer until there is no room left for reasonable thought, then eases her backward across the island with one hand cupped protectively behind her head.

He catches both her ankles and lifts them over his shoulders. The new angle makes her breath catch before he has even done anything, her thighs trembling visibly on either side of his head.

Garrett notices. His eyes move slowly down her body, then back to her face with an expression that makes heat crawl up her throat. He turns his head and bites gently at the inside of her ankle.

“So fuckin’ hot,” he murmurs.

Her laugh breaks apart into a shaky moan when he moves against her again. “My legs are literally malfunctioning.”

“Yeah?”

“You sound proud.”

“I am proud.”

She reaches up and grabs his curls, tugging hard enough to wipe the grin from his mouth. Garrett’s eyes darken. His hand closes more securely around her thigh, thumb pressing into the shaking muscle as though testing the evidence. He laughs, then drives forward hard enough that the sound vanishes from both of them.

Her head tips back against the cold counter. The empty apartment blurs around the edges: high windows letting in late-afternoon light, two coffee cups near the sink, her handbag abandoned beside a packet of screws Garrett had found on the floor and declared load-bearing despite having no idea what they belonged to.

Tomorrow, Dean and Logan will bring the couch. Tucker will arrive with tools because Tucker understands that enthusiasm is not a substitute for a drill. Garrett will complain about the dresser instructions, insist one of the walls is structurally fucked, and quietly put her bed together first because he knows she will be exhausted by lunchtime.

Right now, though, there’s only his hand beneath her knee, his mouth against her ankle, and the rough break of his breathing every time she tightens her legs around his shoulders.

His gaze lifts to hers. “Where?”

The question comes low and direct, cutting cleanly through the haze. Even like this, even with her nails scraping his scalp and his control visibly hanging by a thread, Garrett waits.

She swallows, chest rising too fast. “Inside.”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” She tugs his hair again, impatience returning now that he has made her use a complete sentence. “And don’t make me repeat myself in my own kitchen.”

“Bossy homeowner.”

“Homeless hockey player.”

“I have a house.”

“Then go fuck on the counter there.”

Garrett stares at her for half a second, then laughs so hard he has to drop his forehead briefly against her shin. The sight of him like that – flushed, wrecked, grinning against her skin in an apartment that still smells like fresh paint and cardboard – pulls something warm through her that has very little to do with the way her body is trembling beneath him.

She strokes one thumb beneath his eye. “You okay, hockey boy?”

His smile fades into something softer and more focused. He turns his face and kisses the centre of her palm. “Yeah,” he murmurs. 

Before she can make fun of him for sounding accidentally sincere, Garrett catches her wrist, kisses it once more, then bends over her and steals whatever she might have said directly from her mouth.

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[finalgirlfiction]

Maybe You Were Never Mine part 13

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Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Fem!Reader (Angst) and Beau Maxwell x Fem!Reader (Slow Burn)

Warnings: heartbreak, angst, crying, swearing, insynuation to smut but no smut

Summary: you always knew Dean wasn't relationship type of guy but you never could have guessed he would change for someone who's not you. Luckily you're not left all alone

a/n: i wanted to make up for long break latly so here's another one☺️🫶🏻 i hope you'll like it! 💖😄

Garrett's text arrived during your last class.

GARRETT: Come to practice

GARRETT: Beau's last hockey practice 😭

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

Right.

Starting tomorrow, Beau was back with football full time. No more temporary practices, no more seeing him at the rink every afternoon.

You looked down at your notebook, suddenly unable to remember what the professor was talking about.

A few weeks ago, that thought wouldn't have affected you at all. Beau had been Dean's best friend, a familiar face in the background, someone you liked but never really knew.

Now the idea of not seeing him here anymore felt strangely wrong.

You typed back before you could overthink it.

YOU: I'm coming

Briar Arena smelled like cold air and sharpened skates and memories.

The sound of pucks hitting the boards echoed through the rink as you slipped into the stands.

Garrett spotted you immediately and waved dramatically.

Tucker followed his gaze and nearly dropped his water bottle. "THE FOOTBALL WIDOW ARRIVES!"

You burst out laughing.

"Shut up, Tucker"

"Can't. I'm processing emotions"

Logan leaned over the boards. "He's taking this harder than Beau is"

"Lies" Tucker said. "I'm devastated"

Across the ice, Beau looked up, the moment he saw you, his expression changed into something warmer. He lifted a gloved hand in a small wave.

You waved back, smiling before you could stop yourself and from center ice, Dean saw the whole thing.

Practice started hard and fast. Coach was clearly trying to squeeze every bit of usefulness out of Beau before football stole him back.

Garrett chirped everyone, Logan nearly started a fight over a drill and Tucker somehow ended up flat on his back after attempting something that looked illegal in at least three countries.

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt. For a little while, you forgot to be careful with your heart.

Halfway through practice, Coach blew the whistle for a water break, players skated toward the bench, helmets coming off, breathing hard. Beau pulled off his gloves and grabbed a bottle.

When he looked up and saw you waiting by the glass, his tired face immediatly softened. "You came"

The simple happines in his voice caught you off guard.

"Of course I came"

He smiled, his cheeks flushed from the cold. "I was starting to think football had already stolen all my fans"

"Pleease....Your ego is big enough"

"Rude!"

"And you love me!" The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Both of you froze for a fraction of a second then Beau laughed, but there was something startled in it. "Yeah" he said quetly. "Probably"

Your heart stumbled and before you could think about what you were doing, before you could decide whether it was too much or too soon, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

A quick hug.

Beau froze for half a second then his arms came around you automaticaly; you noticed how strong they were, certain and cold from the ice.

"You're freezing" you laughed against his shoulder.

"Occupational hazard" He held you for one heartbeat longer than nesessary.

Then two.

Around you, the rink seemed to go strangely quiet and from the middle of the ice, Dean watched the entire thing. For years, if you needed comfort, you had reached for him but now you were hugging Beau without even thinking about it. Seeing this made smething ugly twisted in his chest.

Since when does seeing Beau hold you make something ugly twist in his chest?

This time, he didn't immediatly have an answer.

Coach's whistle cut through the silence. "Break's over! Move!"

You pulled back quickly, cheeks warm. "Sorry, I just_"

"Don't apologize" Beau said just as fast.

His hands lingered at your waist for a heartbeat before he stepped away with a wide smile on his face and Dean saw that too.

The next drill started. Dean hit Beau hard enough to rattle the boards, Garret and Logan looked over.

Beau pushed back to his feet, frowning.

The second shift was worse.

Dean drove him into the glass with a force that made your stomach drop. Garrett's head snapped up.

Logan mutered, "Okay, what the hell?"

Beau skated away this time, jaw tight.

Coach blew the whistle. "Again!"

The puck dropped, Dean came in fast.

Too fast.

His shoulder caught Beau square in the chest and sent him crashing into the boards hard enough that his helmet smacked the glass.

The entire rink went silent.

Beau ripped out his mouthguard. "What the hell was that?"

Dean skated closer, breathing hard. "It's hockey"

Beau laughed once, disbelieving. 'Bullshit"

Garrett and Logan exchanged glances. The coach started skating toward them.

Dean shoved Beau, but not enough to knock him down, yet enough to make it personal.

Beau shoved him back harder. "What's your problem, man?"

"Nothing"

"You nearly drove me through the boards!"

"You can handle it"

Beau stared at him for a second, then realization flickered across his face. "This isn't about hockey"

Dean's expression darkened. "Don't make this about Y/N"

The words landed like a punch because that meant Dean already knew it was.

Beau's jaw tightened. "Seriously?"

Coach almost reached them. "Enough!"

But neither moved instead Dean stepped closer so Beau stepped closer too and then the testosterone took over.

Gloves hit the ice.

"Oh my God!" Tucker shouted from the bench.

"Not 'oh my God' help them!" Garrett yelled back.

Dean grabbed Beau's jersey, Beau grabbed his. They slammed into each other, skates scraping, shoulders colliding.

For a second it was all motion and anger and years of friendship twisting into something neither of them recognized.

Coach and two teammates finally dragged them apart.

"ARE YOU BOTH INSANE?!" Coach roared.

Breathing hard, Beau wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. Dean's chest heaved, neither looked away first.

Practice ended ten minutes later in complete silence; no chirping, no jokes and no Tucker commentary.

You waited near the tunnel, shaken. This hadn't felt like two guys fighting over a girl.

It had felt like something much older breaking.

When Beau came out of the locker room, his lower lip was split.

Your breath caught. "Oh my God..."

He looked surprised to see you still there. "I'm fine"

"You're bleeding"

"It looks worse than it is"

"You're a terrible liar"

Without thinking, you reached up and touched the cut with a tissue from your bag and Beau went very still.

The hallway was quiet except for your breathing and his. You concentrated on the blood, not on how close he was.

"Hold still"

"Yes, ma'am"

You snorted softly. "There. Better"

Beau looked at you for a long moment. "Thanks"

And from the doorway behind you, Dean watched the scene in silence; not the touch itself but the way Beau looked at you while you took care of him. like he couldn't decide whether to smile or stop breathing.

Something in Dean's chest tithtened painfully.

"I uh...."Beau started but then he glanced past you and saw him. His expression cooled.

Dean stepped forward and for a second, you thought they were going to start fighting again.

Instead Dean said, flatly, "You good?"

Beau's laugh was sharp. "Great practice..."

Dean looked away first. "Coach is going to kill us"

"Probably"

Another silence, awkward, heavy and unfinished.

You looked between them, suddenly exhausted.

"Can you two please stop acting like strangers?"

Neither answered and that hurted more than the fight.

Outside, the evening air was cold enough to sting your cheeks. Beau walked you toward the parking lot in silence.

Halfway there you said quietly "I'm sorry"

He stopped. "For what?"

"For… whatever this is doing to you guys"

His expression softened immediatly. "This isn't your fault"

"It feels like it is"

Beau shook his head. "Dean and I have been idiots together since we were twelve. This is not on you"

You smiled faintly. "That's not very reassuring"

"It's the truth" The honesty in his voice warmed something inside you.

When you reached his car, neither of you moved right away. The split in his lip had started bleeding again.

You sighed and reached up automatically but Beau caught your wrist gently.

"You don't have to keep fixing me"

Your breath caught and the parking lot suddenly felt very small.

His fingers were warm against your skin, his eyes dropped to your mouth.

Your heart stutered.

For one terrifying second, you thought he was going to kiss you and the worst part was that you were sure you wouldnt stop him.

Then the memory of Dean's face on the ice flashed through your mind; the friendship, the history and everything tangled together.

Beau seemed to think of it at the exact same moment. You saw the conflict cross his face.

Slowly, he let go.

"I should probably drive home and rest..."

You laughed shakily. "Probably"

A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Saturday. Football?"

"I'll be there"

This time neither of you looked away first, then moment later Beau got into his car but before closing the door, he looked at you one more time and there was something in his expression that hadn't been there a few weeks ago.

Something that looked dangerously close to wanting.

You stood in the parking lot until his taillights disappeared.

Inside the arena, Dean remained alone for a while after everyone left. The rink crew had started cleaning the ice; the sound of the machine echoed through the empty building.

Beau was leaving the hockey team tomorrow and Dean should have felt relieved.

Football for Beau.

Hockey for him.

Maybe things would stop getting complicated but instead all he could think about was the look on your face when you hugged Beau. Something that looked dangerously close to trust and then the look on Beau's face when you touched his split lip.

Dean leaned back against the glass and closed his eyes. A few weeks ago, he had been worried about losing his best friend, now he wasn't sure which loss scared him more.

Because for the first time, watching you walk away with Beau, Dean realized something he had been trying very hard not to see.

Maybe Beau wasn't just helping you move on. Maybe, while Dean was trying to hold on to the past, Beau had quietly become the person you were moving toward.

Tags: @afroditezj @tolkiendreammarvelqueens @itmekelpy @justheretoreadthxxs @foxmp @purplerainx1 @maybankslover @tinyceasarsalad @superchatnoir07 @saamanthaag3 @appepel @daphnen21 @wsg-pooka @charliezhorez1222@kennedy-brooke @wxn-drlst @absolutelystunning23 @lightdragonrayne @booklovr32 @ultimatetempestritual @charliezhorez1222 @mcolbz14 @b1u3c10ud @drewstarkeyluvr23 @hilunax @winterton-reads @wonderland2425 @chanelwidag @dakotapaigelove @cloudyzip @falloutdunes @fangirlingtrash @katieemerald@kpoplover-19 @carriemill @notafairyteen @watercolorskyy @viewssid @plants-w0rld@panandhockeyobsessed @idkanymore-05 @cheyrenee @jojodojo02@bruher @sunshineandsunflowerlover @maybankslover @green-lxght @moonlight52moonlight@urlocalbeaner5@takemetooneverlanddd @panandhockeyobsessed @idkanymore-05 @moneyisnotimportant @c-a-b3002 @takemetooneverlanddd @engelsmoment @ooopssssu @p0pstar11