By Moonlight
Mom's at night shift. Come over.
Thursday night.
He was there in minutes. He'd been at his desk pretending to do calculus and instead staring at the outline of a web-shooter modification he couldn't get to work. The text came and the calculus was on the floor before he'd finished reading it.
He knocked. The door opened.
Cindy was wearing his flannel. The one she'd stolen off his bedroom floor three weeks ago, the green plaid, too big on her so the sleeves covered her hands and the hem hit mid-thigh. She had shorts on underneath. Maybe. Her legs were bare below the flannel and her hair was down and she was holding a mug of something hot and looking at him like she'd been waiting longer than she should have.
"That's mine," he said.
"Come get it."
She stepped back. He stepped in. She closed the door and put the mug on the kitchen counter and took his hand and walked him down the hallway to her bedroom.
Her bedroom was small and clean. Twin bed against the wall, desk with textbooks stacked on the corner, a hockey stick in the closet with the door open. The window was cracked and the night air was coming in. Moonlight through the curtains made the room grey and silver.
She pushed him onto the bed.
Firm. Both hands flat on his chest, and he sat down and then he was on his back and she climbed on top of him and straddled his waist and the flannel rode up to her hips and she was wearing shorts. Cotton. Grey.
"Stay there," she said.
"Okay."
"I mean it."
She raised her right hand. Her index finger and middle finger pointed at his left wrist. A thread of webbing shot out, thin and white, and wrapped around his wrist twice and stuck to the headboard rail behind him. Then the left hand. Same thing. His right wrist, webbed to the headboard, the silk pulling taut when he tested it.
He could break it. The webbing was thin on purpose.
"Stay," she said.
"I'm staying."
She looked at him. Dark eyes in the moonlight. She was sitting on his stomach with her hands on his chest and the flannel was open two buttons and the hollow of her throat was visible and the top of her sternum and nothing else and the bond was warm, a three, steady.
She leaned down and kissed him.
Slow. Deliberate. Her mouth was warm and she tasted like the tea she'd been drinking and her hair fell around his face and her hands were on his chest, flat, not gripping.
She pulled back. Looked at his face.
"You okay?" he said.
"I'm deciding something."
"That's not terrifying at all."
Her mouth twitched. She unbuttoned the flannel. One button at a time, watching him watching her. She wasn't wearing anything underneath it. The flannel opened and the moonlight hit her stomach and her breasts and she shrugged the flannel off her shoulders and it pooled behind her on his legs.
The bond went from three to five. His hands pulled against the webbing. The headboard creaked.
"I said stay."
"I'm staying. My hands have a different opinion."
She smiled. Small, real. She leaned down again and her mouth found the spot behind his ear, the one that worked on both of them, and his neck arched and his breath came out wrong and the webbing on his right wrist stretched.
"That's cheating," he said.
"Mm."
She ground her hips down. Slow. Through her shorts and his jeans, the pressure deliberate, and his cock was hard and the friction was not enough and too much at the same time and she was watching his face while she did it. Studying him. Taking notes.
"You make this face," she said. "When it starts."
"What face."
"Your jaw goes sideways. Like you're biting the inside of your cheek." She ground down again. Harder. "There. That one."
"I'm going to need my hands eventually."
"Eventually is not now."
She reached between them. Unzipped his jeans. Got her hand in and wrapped her fingers around his cock through his boxers and squeezed and the bond jumped to six and the webbing on his left wrist snapped.
"Already?" she said. "I used more this time."
"You're literally touching my cock."
"Fair point." She wasn't letting go. Her hand moved, slow, her grip firm through the cotton, and her other hand was on his chest, pressing him flat. "I practiced the webbing. After Ezekiel came. Every day. It's stronger."
"Is that what you practiced for?"
"Shut up."
She let go. Pulled his jeans and boxers down together, efficient, no fumbling. His cock was out and hard and the night air was cold on it for a second before her hand came back. Bare skin this time. Her palm was warm and her calluses were rough from hockey and she stroked him once, base to tip, and her thumb circled the head and he made a sound he didn't plan.
She took off her shorts. Cotton. Grey. Kicked them off the side of the bed.
She was on top of him in the moonlight, naked, her hand still on his cock, and the bond was a steady six and the room was grey and silver and her skin was silver where the moonlight hit it and her nipples were hard from the cold air through the window.
She positioned him. Hand on his cock, angling it, shifting her hips forward. She sank down.
First inch. Her jaw dropped open and her eyes went half-closed and her hand left his cock and went to his stomach for balance. Second inch. The heat was immediate, wet and tight and she was warmer inside than his hand had been and his hips wanted to push and he didn't let them because she was in control. Third inch. She took all of him and sat there, adjusting, her thighs tight against his hips, and the bond went to seven and stayed.
"Okay," she breathed. To herself.
She started moving.
Slow. Grinding, not bouncing. Circular motion with her hips, pressing down, finding the angle. Her hands on his chest. His hands on the headboard rail because the webbing on the right wrist still held and the left was free and he gripped the metal because he had to grip something.
The wet sound started. Soft. Her cheeks went pink.
"Don't," she said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were going to."
"I was going to say I like that sound."
The pink went darker. She moved faster. The grinding shifted to rocking, her hips lifting and dropping, shallow, and his cock slid half out and back in and the wet sound got louder and she bit her bottom lip.
"'Ah-'" Quiet. Muffled by her own lip. She was watching his face. He was watching hers. Her eyes on him, studying what made his jaw go sideways, what made his breath catch.
A strand of webbing shot from her fingertip and stuck to the wall above the headboard. She didn't look at it. But when the second strand came, she glanced at it, and it was thicker, intentional, and it anchored to the ceiling.
"That one was on purpose," she said.
"I know."
"I'm getting better."
"You're getting better at a lot of things right now."
She dropped her hips. Full length. His cock bottomed out and her mouth opened and "'Nn-'" came out and her fingers curled against his chest and a third strand of webbing hit the ceiling, deliberate, structural.
Her pace increased. Steady. She found what worked and she stayed on it, her hips rolling, the angle catching her clit on the downstroke and he could tell because her breath stuttered every time and her eyes went unfocused for a second before snapping back to him.
"Right there," she said. To herself. "'Right- right there- don't move-'"
He didn't move. His free hand found her thigh. The other gripped the headboard. She was riding him with her eyes open, watching him, and the bond was at eight and he was getting simpler. Her skin. The wet. The sound of it. Her weight on his hips. The moonlight on her back.
She leaned forward. Her mouth found the spot behind his ear. She breathed against it and his whole body jerked and the webbing on his right wrist snapped and both hands went to her hips and he pulled her down and she gasped.
"I said stay-"
"I broke it. Not my fault."
"It's- 'ah-' exactly your fault-"
His hands were on her hips, guiding, and she was still riding but he was pulling her down on each stroke and the depth changed and the sound she made was different. Deeper. Less controlled. Korean started slipping out. Half-words, sounds that weren't English, the language her brain defaulted to when she stopped managing the translation.
He found the ear spot. His mouth on the skin behind her ear, the one that made her go silent and then loud, and she went silent. Her hips froze. Her thighs shook against his sides.
Then loud.
"'Ah- geogi- right there- hajima- don't stop- haji-'"
She was riding him hard now, her control gone, her hips slamming, and his hands were on her ass and the bond was at nine and she was close, she was getting tighter around him, her thighs trembling, nails in his chest.
She leaned down. Her mouth against his ear. Her breath ragged. And she whispered it.
"Nae geoya."
He didn't know what it meant. She'd said it their first time too.
Her hips stuttered. Her pussy clenched around him so tight his vision blurred. Her mouth opened against his neck and "'Ah- ah- ah-'" came out in a rhythm that matched nothing, just sound, just her, and her body locked up and she pressed down, all her weight, and the orgasm went through her in waves he could feel around his cock, pulsing, squeezing, her fingers clawing his chest and webbing shooting from her fingertips and hitting the ceiling and the wall and the headboard and she didn't care because she was coming and the words were gone and there was just the sound she made when everything shut off at once.
He was close. Right there. Her body still pulsing around him. But she slumped forward, her forehead against his collarbone, breathing hard, and the angle changed and the pressure eased and he was at the edge without going over.
He held her hips. Didn't push. Let her breathe.
"Give me a minute," she mumbled into his chest. "I can't feel my legs."
"Take your time."
"You didn't-"
"I know."
"I'll-"
"Take your time."
She breathed against his chest. The bond was settling. Eight. Seven. Her weight was on him, warm and heavy, and the moonlight had moved from the wall to the bed and it caught her hair and her back and the strands of webbing connecting her to the ceiling and the headboard like she'd built a web around them.
"That was better," she said. Into his chest. Her voice vibrated against his skin.
"Than what?"
"Than worrying."
He put his arm around her. The one that had broken the webbing. He put it on her back and her skin was damp and warm and her heartbeat was against his chest, fast, slowing.
She turned her head. Her cheek against his chest, looking at the web strands going from her fingers to the ceiling. "Some of those were on purpose."
"How many?"
"Three. The other four were not."
A siren went by outside. Distant, Queens, nobody's emergency they could help with. The web strands caught the moonlight. Cindy's breathing slowed against his chest. The bond sat at four, warm.