A lone Bunny

“R-Right there,” you gasp, fingers curling into the fabric stretched across his shoulders as his cock sinks back inside you, thick enough to pull another breathless sound from your throat. The ridge of him drags against sensitive places you didn’t know you had until he started fucking them regularly.

The white lenses of his mask narrow slightly at the reaction, which still manages to bother you after four months of this because you have absolutely no idea how the damn things do that.

Four months of letting Spider-Man climb through your apartment window, and you still don’t know what he looks like underneath it.

You know he's somewhere around your age, know he lives in Queens, know he hates olives, and apparently carries condoms in one of the compartments built into his suit.

You know how his cock feels—know the way it twitches when you’re tight around him, how the veins along the shaft pulse against your walls, how the swollen tip presses deep enough to make your stomach flutter.

Priorities.

The mask has never come off—not when he kisses you through it, not when you’ve ridden him on this very couch, and certainly not when he’s buried between your thighs beneath the blanket, the covers pulled high enough to hide his face even after he rolls the mask up just far enough to free his mouth. You never get more than the faintest suggestion of skin before he disappears under there, leaving you with nothing but the pressure of his hands, the drag of his tongue, and your fingers curling uselessly into the covered shape of his head while he works you open.

You stopped asking about it weeks ago, mostly because anonymity turned out to be obscenely hot.

What you do know about him has accumulated in considerably less innocent ways…

You know patrol leaves him absurdly worked up, particularly on nights when he spends hours swinging through the city and arrives with restless energy still thrumming beneath his skin.

You know the head of his cock becomes flushed and painfully sensitive near orgasm, the slit wet and shiny, and that rubbing your thumb along the underside can make every muscle in his stomach tighten until he is shaking.

You know he likes your hand around his throat as long as your fingers stay below the mask, that slow oral turns his smart mouth into muffled little whines as he tries not to fuck up into your throat, and that whoever designed his suit clearly did not anticipate anyone spending this much time studying the shape of his erection through it.

You also know he is much bigger than you expected, which became painfully obvious during your first hookup when he eased into you on this same couch and both of you discovered halfway through that enthusiasm had caused a severe failure in practical judgment.

His name remains a mystery.

Maybe he’s Michael, David, Christopher, or some other perfectly ordinary twenty-something man who buys laundry detergent and forgets to charge his phone. Maybe his mother saddled him with something terrible. Maybe it really is something painfully average like Peter.

You have no idea, because the only version of him you know is Spider-Man, and Spider-Man is currently fucking you hard enough that the couch has started migrating several inches closer to the wall with every thrust.

“Somebody’s impatient tonight,” he murmurs through the mask, voice roughened beneath the fabric as he pulls nearly free before rolling his hips forward again.

Your nails scrape down his back when his cock fills you, the sudden stretch making your cunt clench greedily around the intrusion, and you mutter, “Somebody disappeared for five days,” while deliberately tightening around him.

He had been halfway through reminding you that he was busy saving New York when the squeeze steals the rest of his sentence, his masked head dropping toward your shoulder with a muffled groan as his cock twitches hard inside you.

“Congratulations,” you tease, dragging your hands down to his waist as he starts fucking you harder, the wet slap of his hips against yours louder now. “You want a medal?” His fingers tighten around your thigh in response.

You open your mouth to tease more when his free hand slips between your bodies and finds your clit, wiping the amusement from your face almost immediately. Two fingers part your folds so his gloved thumb can press directly against the swollen, slick little nub, circling with slow pressure while his cock keeps driving into you.

He has unfair advantages in bed. He can keep your leg folded nearly against your chest without tiring, hold your entire weight as though it means nothing, and whatever enhanced senses come bundled with the wall-crawling nonsense supposedly make it impossible to hide when you’re getting close.

His thumb works slow circles against you while his hips continue pushing deep between your thighs, and you can practically feel the smugness radiating from behind the mask when your breathing starts coming faster. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your jaw, increasing the pressure of his thumb as your hips lift helplessly into him. “I can tell you’re close.”

You manage to call him a show-off before another thrust punches the rest of the insult out of you, earning a breathless laugh against your neck.

Your fingers eventually wander toward the seam beneath his jaw, brushing beneath the very edge of the mask without actually lifting it, and his entire body tenses above you.

His cock twitches inside you hard enough to make your brows rise. “You like this stupid mask way too much,” he groans, catching your wrist loosely without removing your hand.

It feels filthy about knowing this much of somebody while knowing almost nothing at all; he has watched you come, has had his mouth on you, and could still pass you tomorrow on the sidewalk without you recognizing him.

“You’re the one fucking me without telling me your name,” you remind him, tracing the mask’s edge again until another twitch gives him away. He mutters something about secret identities, and your smile grows when you ask, “Maybe you’re ugly.”

Spider-Man actually stops thrusting.

The offended silence radiating from him makes you bite your lip, especially when he finally insists, “I am not ugly,” with enough conviction to make you laugh beneath him.

You point out that you’ve been given absolutely no evidence, and he begins arguing that there is plenty before you casually tell him his mom’s opinion doesn’t count.

“My aunt would—” The words die underneath the mask as his body stills again, and your smile spreads when he realizes what he has just said.

“You don’t know anything,” he mutters suspiciously, tightening his grip on your thigh when you tell him that you do now.

Apparently being tricked into revealing personal information while balls-deep inside someone is where Spider-Man draws the line, because he accuses you of interrogating him during sex while you wrap your ankle tighter behind his back and point out that it worked perfectly well.

The next thrust wipes the smugness from your face. His hips drive harder between your thighs, couch springs squeaking underneath both of you while the frame bumps rhythmically against the wall, and whatever irritation you managed to spark apparently convinces him that your security deposit is no longer his concern.

His thumb returns to your clit as his masked face presses beside yours, every deep stroke making your body shift farther into the cushions until your hands have nowhere to settle except around his shoulders.

You probably ought to care more about who he is underneath there, but it becomes increasingly difficult to worry about secret identities when the anonymous superhero in your living room has memorized exactly how to make your legs shake—how hard to press your clit, how deep to fuck you, how to angle his hips so the thick ridge of his cockhead keeps catching that same perfect spot.

When your cunt tightens around him again, the groan that leaves him sounds almost helpless. “Jesus,” he chokes against your neck, his rhythm finally losing some of its practiced control as you squeeze harder.

Your own orgasm makes answering impossible, pleasure rolling through you until your thighs clamp around his waist and your nails dig into his shoulders. He keeps moving through it, fucking you steadily while your body clenches around him, though every contraction drags another strained sound from underneath his mask until his hips eventually falter too.

He buries himself deep as he comes into the condom, forehead sinking against your shoulder while the hand beneath your thigh squeezes hard enough to remind you exactly how much strength he normally keeps tucked away.

The couch finally stops knocking against the wall once his body settles over yours, although the silence lasts until two heavy bangs rise from your downstairs neighbor’s ceiling.

Your laugh comes out against the side of his mask, and he slowly lifts his head as though personally betrayed by both you and the building. “Don’t,” he warns, still catching his breath as your laughter gets worse, and when he complains that he hates your apartment, you remind him that he says the same thing every week without ever actually staying away.

His eyes—or lenses, technically—drift toward the window when you ask whether he’s leaving, then return to you as his cock gives a faint twitch inside you, softening and sensitive, nestled deep in the wet heat of your cunt. “No,” he admits, settling more comfortably between your legs as your fingers lazily trace the spider stretched across his chest.

But soon, he’ll slip through your window without showing you so much as the corner of his face, leaving you to spend another day wondering whether you’ve passed him on the street, stood beside him in a coffee shop, or squeezed onto the same subway car without realizing it. Then, sometime after midnight, three familiar taps will land against your glass again, and you’ll open the window for Spider-Man exactly as you always do.

Whoever the hell he is underneath the mask can stay a mystery.

You’ve already learned the important parts.

© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.

You didn’t even look up at first. You just felt the shift in the air, the way the room suddenly got smaller.

Peter Parker stepped inside like the place had been waiting for him. Backpack slung over one shoulder, hair a little damp like he’d just come from the gym or a shower or someone else’s bed—hard to tell with him. He kicked the door shut with his heel and tossed his keys onto the counter without looking. His eyes landed on you almost immediately, and that familiar, lazy half-smile curved his mouth.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and deliberately amused. “Look who finally crawled out of their hole. Didn’t think you still knew where this place was.”

You kept your gaze on the TV, even though nothing interesting was happening on it. “Didn’t think you’d be back so early. Figured you’d still be making your rounds through the second floor.”

Harry made a quiet, warning sound under his breath. Peter just laughed, soft and unbothered, and dropped his backpack by the wall.

“Second floor’s overrated,” he said, walking past the couch close enough that his shin brushed your ankle. He didn’t apologize. “Third floor’s where the real talent is this semester. You’d know if you ever left your room for anything other than this one and judging me.”

You finally turned your head to look at him. He was leaning against the kitchen counter now, arms crossed, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who’d just been called a campus-wide whore.

“Judgment’s free,” you said. “Unlike whatever STD panel you’re probably due for.”

Peter’s grin widened, all teeth and zero shame. “Ouch. That almost hurt. You practicing those lines in the mirror, or do they just come naturally when you’re this sexually frustrated?”

Harry closed his textbook with a soft thud. “Can we not—”

“No, it’s fine,” you cut in, still locked on Peter. “I’m just trying to figure out how someone who treats the entire dorm like a revolving door still has a roommate who defends him like he’s actually a person.”

Peter pushed off the counter and took a few slow steps closer, stopping just short of the couch. He looked down at you, head tilted, that cocky little spark in his eyes that made it very clear he was enjoying this.

“Maybe because I’m fun,” he said, voice dropping a fraction. “And you’re… what, exactly? The dorm’s resident wet blanket who keeps score of who I fuck like it’s a personal insult?”

You sat up straighter, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking away. “It’s not an insult. It’s a public service announcement. People should know the risks before they make the same mistake half the building already has.”

He laughed again—quiet, almost fond, which somehow made it worse. “You keep talking like you’ve got me all figured out. It’s cute. Really. But if you’re so disgusted, why do you keep showing up here?”

“Because some of us actually care about our friends,” you shot back. “Not just who we can get horizontal with before the weekend’s over.”

Peter’s gaze flicked, just for a second, to Harry—who looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him —then back to you. Something sharper settled behind his easy expression.

“Careful,” he said, softer now. “You’re starting to sound jealous.”

You scoffed, but the sound came out thinner than you wanted. “Of you? Please. I’d rather chew glass.”

“Mm.” He rocked back on his heels, studying you like he was deciding whether the argument was still entertaining. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll even believe it.”

Harry finally stood up, hands raised in surrender. “Okay. Both of you. Enough. Peter, go shower or something. You smell like ass. And you—” he pointed at you—“stop poking the bear. He’s already insufferable when he’s in a good mood.”

Peter raised both hands in mock innocence, already backing toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Hey, I was just saying hi. Not my fault your friend can’t handle a little honesty.”

He disappeared around the corner, but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder — like he already knew this wasn’t over.

The bathroom door clicked shut a second later. The water started running.

Harry dropped back onto the couch with a long, exhausted sigh and muttered, “I genuinely don’t know why I let you two exist in the same space.”

You stared at the empty hallway, jaw tight, pulse a little too loud in your ears.

Neither did you.

The dorm hallway was quieter than you’d ever heard it. No bass thudding through walls, no laughter spilling out of open doors, no one arguing about whose turn it was to buy more Red Bull. Thanksgiving break had hollowed the whole building out. Most people had scattered home the second classes ended. You were supposed to be one of them. The ticket price had laughed in your face, so you’d stayed, claiming the silence like it was a prize.

You were already dressed when you remembered the necklace. Black dress that hit mid-thigh, the kind that made you feel like you had somewhere better to be than an empty campus. Heels that clicked too loud in the stairwell. Hair done. Makeup sharp. You’d left the necklace at Harry’s place weeks ago after the clasp snapped during a night that ended with too much cheap wine and you insisting it was fine, you’d just leave it. He'd fixed it the next morning and texted you to come grab it whenever. You never had.

Tonight felt like the perfect window. Peter would be gone. Everyone would be gone. In and out, necklace in hand, then you’d hit the one bar still open near campus and pretend the holiday didn’t sting.

You used the spare key Harry had given you months ago and pushed the door open without knocking.

The living room lights were on.

Peter Parker was in the kitchen, barefoot, leaning against the counter with a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other. He was wearing a tight black crop top that stopped just above the sharp cut of his hips and a pair of black Juicy Couture velour sweatpants that sat low on his waist. The fabric clung in places it had no business clinging. His stomach was flat, a faint trail of hair disappearing under the waistband, and the crop top left zero room for interpretation about how much time he spent in the gym when he wasn’t busy being a walking cautionary tale.

He looked up the second the door shut behind you.

For half a second he just stared. Then that slow, filthy little smile pulled at his mouth.

“Holy shit,” he said, voice low and delighted. “Did hell freeze over or did you actually get dressed up for once?”

You froze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Peter took another bite of the protein bar, chewed, and shrugged one shoulder. The crop top rode up a fraction higher. “Could ask you the same thing, princess. Thought you’d be halfway across the country by now, crying into your mom’s stuffing.”

“Ticket was too expensive.” You hated how defensive it sounded. “I came for my necklace. HarryHarry fixed it.”

“Ah.” He set the protein bar down and pushed off the counter, walking toward you with that lazy, cocky gait that always made it feel like he owned the floor. “The little silver one. Yeah, it’s in my room. I moved it so it wouldn’t get lost in the chaos of his packing.”

You stayed by the door. “Of course it’s in your room. Because nothing can just be simple with you.”

Peter stopped a few feet away, eyes dragging down your dress in a way that felt deliberate and completely unapologetic. “You’re the one who showed up looking like that. Don’t act shocked that I’m looking. Most of the dorm’s gone. Campus is a ghost town. And here you are, all done up, standing in my doorway like you expected the place to be empty.”

“I did expect it to be empty,” you shot back. “I expected the campus whore to be off somewhere, ruining someone else’s holiday.”

He laughed, soft and mean. “There she is. Miss High Horse. Miss I-Would-Rather-Chew-Glass. You keep talking about me like that and people might start thinking you care.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure.” He tilted his head, studying the way the dress sat on your body. “Where were you even going dressed like that? Don’t tell me you had plans. On Thanksgiving. Alone.”

You clenched your jaw. “None of your business.”

“Everything in this dorm is my business when you’re standing in it looking like that.” He took another step closer. The sweatpants shifted with the movement, the soft fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the outline of him. “You came here thinking I’d be gone. You wanted the place to yourself. Necklace, quiet, maybe a little victory dance that you didn’t have to deal with me. And instead you get this.” He gestured vaguely at his own torso, at the crop top, at the ridiculous Juicy pants. “Disappointed?”

“Disgusted, mostly.”

Peter’s smile widened, all sharp edges and zero shame. “Liar. You’re staring.”

You forced your eyes back up to his face. “I’m staring because I can’t believe you own Juicy Couture sweatpants.”

“Laundry day” he said easily. “Found them in the clean basket. Thought they were yours honestly.” He reached out and plucked the keys from your hand before you could react, tossing them onto the counter behind him. “Necklace’s on my desk. You can come get it, or you can stand there in that dress pretending you don’t want to know why I’m still here either.”

You crossed your arms. “Why are you still here?”

Peter’s expression flickered—just for a second—before the cocky mask slid back into place. “Same reason as you, probably. Money. Or lack of it. Or maybe I just didn’t feel like explaining to my aunt why I wasn’t coming home this year.” He shrugged again, but it was tighter this time. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, you’re here. I’m here. The building’s empty.”

You opened your mouth to tell him to go fuck himself.

He beat you to it.

“Necklace’s this way,” he said, already turning toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. The crop top rode up again when he lifted one arm to push his hair back. “Try not to trip over your own judgment on the way.”

You hesitated for exactly three seconds.

Then you followed him.

Peter’s room was… normal.

You stopped just inside the doorway, the words dying in your throat. You’d expected a mess—empty condom wrappers, a rotating door of half-forgotten names written on a whiteboard, the smell of sex and cheap cologne baked into the walls. Instead the bed was made. The desk was organized. A few textbooks were stacked neatly beside a closed laptop. There was a framed photo of an older woman who had to be his aunt, a poster of some indie band you’d never heard of, and a single hoodie draped over the back of the desk chair. It looked like he was actually put together. Not the lair of the dorm’s most prolific problem.

He noticed you staring.

“What?” he asked, already moving toward the desk. “Expecting a red room and a list of conquests on the wall?”

“Honestly? Yeah.”

Peter huffed a quiet laugh and opened the top drawer. “Sorry to disappoint. I keep the list on my phone.” He pulled out the silver necklace, the clasp fixed and gleaming, and held it up between two fingers. “Here. All yours.”

You stepped closer to take it. That was your first mistake.

The crop top left his arms completely exposed, and under the soft overhead light they looked unfairly good—hard muscle, the kind that came from actual work instead of just showing up at the gym for the mirror. Veins faintly visible when he flexed to reach something. Your eyes dragged over them before your brain could stop it, and something low and traitorous in your stomach twisted.

Peter went still.

You looked up and found him watching you, that slow, knowing smile already spreading across his face.

“There it is,” he said softly. “Knew it was only a matter of time.”

You snatched the necklace out of his hand a little too fast. “I was looking at the room.”

“No you weren’t.” He leaned back against the desk, arms crossing over his chest in a way that only made the muscles in his biceps stand out more. The crop top rode higher. “You were looking at me. Specifically at these.” He flexed once, deliberately, just enough to be an asshole about it. “Don’t worry. Happens a lot. Usually people are better at hiding it, though.”

Heat crawled up the back of your neck. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” Peter’s voice dropped into something smoother, warmer, the cocky edge still there but now wrapped in deliberate charm. “Because you’ve been throwing insults at me for months, but the second you see a little skin you’re staring like you’ve never seen arms before. It’s cute. Really. All that judgment and you’re still human underneath it.”

You turned the necklace over in your fingers, refusing to meet his eyes. “I came for this. That’s it.”

“Then why are you still standing there?” He pushed off the desk and took one slow step closer. Then another. The Juicy sweatpants sat low enough that the cut of his hips was impossible to ignore. “You could’ve grabbed the necklace and left. Instead you’re lingering in my room looking at me like that. So either you’re about to call me a whore again for sport, or you’re starting to realize the problem isn’t that I’ve slept with half the dorm.”

Your pulse was too loud. “What’s the problem, then?”

Peter’s smile turned sharper, almost fond. “The problem is you want to know what all the fuss is about.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.” He reached out and gently took the necklace from your hand again, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary. “You’ve spent so much time deciding I’m disgusting that you never let yourself admit you like what you see.” He stepped into your space, close enough that you could smell whatever clean, expensive soap he’d used. “Say it.”

You swallowed. “No.”

“Coward.” The word was soft, almost teasing. He lifted the necklace and, without asking, reached around your neck to clasp it himself. His knuckles brushed the side of your throat. Warm. Steady. “You’ve got that hungry look on your face. And still you won’t just say you think I look good.”

His hands lingered at the back of your neck after the clasp clicked shut. You could feel the heat of his palms, the quiet strength in his fingers.

“I don’t think you look good,” you managed.

Peter leaned in just enough that his mouth was near your ear. “Liar. Your eyes already told on you the second you walked in here. So either keep lying and leave, or stay right here and admit it.” His voice dropped lower, velvet and filthy at the edges. “Tell me you like what you see, and maybe I’ll stop being such an asshole about it.”

You should have shoved him back. Should have taken the necklace and walked out while you still could.

Instead you stayed exactly where you were, pulse hammering, the quiet of the empty dorm pressing in around both of you.

Peter waited, patient and infuriatingly sure of himself, thumbs brushing once along the sides of your neck like he already knew the answer.

“You look good,” he said, quiet enough that it felt private. “Really fucking good. That dress is doing things it has no right to do on a night like this. And the heels? Dangerous. You walked in here looking like you were ready to ruin someone’s entire holiday, and I’m starting to think that someone was supposed to be me.”

You stayed silent. Admitting anything felt like handing him the win on a silver platter, and you refused to give him that satisfaction.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Still nothing?” His mouth curved, soft and wicked. “Alright. Let’s try again.” He shifted closer, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of the crop top. “You’re beautiful when you’re trying this hard not to want me. All that fire, all that attitude… and still you can’t stop staring at my mouth.”

Your breath hitched. Traitorous.

Peter’s hands slid from your neck to your jaw, tilting your face up with careful, deliberate pressure. “There it is. That little crack. You hate that you like how I look in this shirt. You hate that the sweatpants are doing it for you. You hate that I’m standing this close— your pulse is going crazy under my fingers.” His voice dropped lower, coaxing, almost gentle. “Just say it. One sentence. ‘You look good, Peter.’ That’s all. I’ll even pretend I didn’t already know.”

You clenched your teeth. “I’m not giving you that.”

“Then I’ll keep talking until you do.” He leaned in another inch. His breath brushed your lips. “You smell expensive tonight. Like you actually tried. For who? Some stranger at a half-empty bar? Or did some part of you hope I’d still be here to see it?”

Your hands had somehow found the soft fabric of his sweatpants at his hips, fingers curling without permission. He felt it. His smile turned sharper.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Hold on to me if you need to. I don’t mind.” Another step closer and your chests nearly touched. The crop top left almost nothing between you. “You’re shaking a little. Did you notice? Because I did. Your body’s already answering for you. It’s just waiting for your mouth to catch up.”

He was so close now that every word brushed against your lips. His hands tightened just enough to keep you exactly where he wanted you—tilted up, open, trapped in the quiet gravity of him.

“Say it,” he whispered, the words a soft command against your mouth. “Tell me you like what you see. Tell me the judgment was bullshit. Tell me you’ve been thinking about this longer than you’ll ever admit.”

You tried to form a denial. Something sharp. Something safe.

What came out instead was a broken little sound—half protest, half surrender—as your body finally betrayed you completely. A quiet, helpless whine slipped past your lips and straight into his.

Peter’s control snapped.

He closed the last fraction of space and kissed you like he’d been waiting months for the exact sound you just made. His mouth was hot, sure, and filthy with intent—lips parting yours immediately, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming stroke that made your knees weak. One hand stayed locked on your jaw, the other sliding down to the small of your back to haul you flush against him. The hard line of his body pressed into yours and he kissed you deeper, hungrier, like he was determined to swallow every last scrap of resistance you still had.

When he finally pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was rough and satisfied.

“There she is,” he breathed against your mouth. “Knew you’d taste as mean as you talk.”

Peter didn’t pull away after the words left his mouth. He stayed right there, lips brushing yours, breathing you in like he’d already won something. The hard line of his cock pressed against your lower stomach through the thin fabric of the velour sweatpants, thick and unmistakable, and the second you felt it your brain short-circuited.

He kissed that good. Filthy and controlled and just a little mean, like he knew exactly how to make you melt and was doing it on purpose. Your hands tightened on his hips without thinking. Your body moved before your pride could catch up. You rolled your hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding against the heavy length of him, and the quiet, punched-out sound he made against your mouth went straight between your legs.

Peter’s grin was pure sin when he pulled back just enough to speak.

“There it is,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Knew you’d start rubbing on it the second you felt how hard I got for you. Look at you. All that talk and now you’re grinding on my cock like you’ve been waiting for permission.”

Heat flooded your face. “Shut up.”

“Make me.” He rolled his hips back into yours, dragging the thick ridge of his cock against you, letting you feel every inch. “Go on. Tell me you don’t want it. Tell me that little grind was an accident. I dare you.”

You hated how easily he got under your skin. Hated that your stupid brain had flipped from get out of here to please him in the span of one kiss. You shoved at his chest—hard enough to make him take a step back—and he went willingly, still smiling that cocky, knowing smile like this was exactly the reaction he’d been angling for.

The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. You pushed again and he dropped down onto the mattress, catching himself on his elbows, crop top riding up to show the sharp cut of his abs and the dark trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of those ridiculous sweatpants. His cock strained against the soft fabric, thick and obvious, the head of it already leaving an impression near the waistband.

You dropped to your knees between his spread legs before you could talk yourself out of it.

Peter’s eyes went dark and hungry. He looked down at you like you were the best Thanksgiving present he could’ve asked for.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, voice thick with satisfaction. “Look at that. On your knees already. Didn’t even have to ask.” He reached down and brushed his thumb across your bottom lip, slow and lazy. “You gonna keep glaring at me while you do it, or are you finally gonna admit you want my cock in your mouth?”

You glared up at him, hands already sliding up his thighs. “I want you to shut the fuck up.”

Peter laughed, low and filthy, and leaned back on one hand so he could watch you better. The other hand stayed on your face, thumb pressing gently against your mouth.

“Not a chance, baby. You’re about to put that pretty mouth to work and I’m gonna talk the entire time. You’re gonna hear every single filthy thing I think while you suck me. That’s the deal.” His fingers slid into your hair, not pulling yet—just resting there, possessive. “Now take it out. Show me how bad you’ve actually wanted this.”

The air in the room felt thicker. Your heart was slamming against your ribs. And still, kneeling between Peter Parker’s legs with his cock hard and waiting inches from your face, all your brain wanted was to make him sound as wrecked as he was making you feel.

You tugged the soft waistband of the Juicy sweatpants down just enough to free him. His cock sprang out with a soft thud against his stomach. Heavy and flushed, the thick head already shiny at the tip. The scent of clean skin and arousal hit you immediately. You wrapped your fingers around the base and felt him throb against your palm, hot and solid.

Peter’s breath left him in a low, satisfied sound.

“Look at that,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face. “Finally got your hands on it. You gonna keep staring or are you actually gonna do something?”

You ignored the dig and leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of the head. Slow. Deliberate. You dragged your tongue in a lazy circle around the ridge, tasting the faint salt of precome that had already gathered there. His thighs tensed under your free hand.

“Fuck—” His voice had gone rougher. “Cute. Real cute. You think taking your time is gonna make me lose it?”

You hummed against the sensitive skin just beneath the head and felt the vibration travel through him. Another slow lick, this time from the base all the way up, flattening your tongue so you could feel every ridge and vein. His cock twitched hard against your mouth.

Peter’s hand shot into your hair.

He didn’t ask. He just gripped a fistful and guided the swollen tip past your lips in one smooth push. The head of him filled the front of your mouth—hot, smooth, already leaking. You tasted more of that salt-sweet precome the second it hit your tongue.

“That’s better,” he said, voice low and smug. “Just the tip for now. Look at you. Mouth stretched around me and still trying to pretend you’re in control.” His fingers flexed in your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted. “Suck. Nice and slow. I want to feel that tongue working.”

You hollowed your cheeks around the head, sucking gently, swirling your tongue under the sensitive ridge the way you knew would make him react. He exhaled hard through his nose, the muscle in his jaw jumping.

“Fuck, that’s good. Messy little thing already.” He rocked his hips the smallest amount, pushing the tip a fraction deeper before easing back. “You look filthy like this. On your knees in that dress with my cock in your mouth. All that attitude and here you are, letting me use your face.”

You glared up at him, the expression ruined by the stretch of your lips and the wet shine already coating the head of his cock every time he pulled back. He just smirked down at you, completely unbothered.

“Don’t give me that look. You started grinding on me first. You dropped to your knees. Now you’re sucking the tip like you've dreamed about this before.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth where it was stretched around him. “Tell me how it tastes.”

The constant stream of cocky, filthy commentary was starting to get under your skin in the worst way. Every smug word made the heat between your legs worse. You wanted him quiet. You wanted him wrecked.

So you stopped teasing.

You braced both hands on his thighs, took a breath through your nose, and sank down.

The thick head pushed past your tongue, over the soft palate, and kept going. Inch after hot, heavy inch filled your mouth until your lips met the base and your nose brushed the soft skin of his lower stomach. Your throat fluttered hard around him. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the stretch. Spit welled up and spilled past your lips, dripping down his shaft and onto the waistband of the sweatpants still shoved low on his hips.

Peter’s entire body went rigid.

“Jesus—fuck—” The cocky drawl cracked for the first time. His hand tightened almost painfully in your hair, but he didn’t pull you off. He held you there, buried to the hilt, while your throat worked around the thick intrusion. “Oh my god. You just—took all of it. Look at you. F-fucking look at you.”

You stayed down, swallowing around him on purpose, letting your throat ripple and squeeze. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the quiet room. When you finally needed air you pulled back only far enough to breathe, spit connecting your lips to his cock in a shiny string, then immediately sank down again—slower this time, dragging every inch along your tongue until he was lodged deep once more.

Peter’s head dropped back for half a second before he forced himself to look down again. His voice had gone wrecked and mean at the same time.

“Best fucking mouth I’ve ever had. You hear me? Best. A-and you’re still trying to shut me up by deepthroating me like a professional.” He rolled his hips up in a short, controlled thrust, fucking into the tight heat of your throat. “Not gonna work, baby. Gonna tell you exactly how perfect your throat feels while you choke on me.”

You moaned around the thick length of him, the sound vibrating straight up his cock, and watched his abs flex hard under the crop top. Spit was everywhere now—your chin, his shaft, the soft black velour of the sweatpants. Your eyes watered freely. Your jaw ached in the best way. And still you kept taking him to the base, determined to turn every smug word into a broken sound.

Peter’s grip in your hair stayed firm, guiding the pace just enough to remind you who was actually in charge even while you tried to ruin him.

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice thick and filthy. “Take it. Show me how bad you wanted this cock. Swallow around it again—yeah, just like that. Fuck, you’re gonna make me come down your throat if you keep being such a good girl.”

You pulled off him with a wet, filthy gasp, a thick string of spit still connecting your bottom lip to the flushed head of his cock. Your voice came out ruined already—hoarse and low from how deep you’d taken him.

“Look at you,” you rasped, stroking the slick length with one hand while you caught your breath. “Sitting there being such a good boy for me.”

Peter’s eyes flashed. His fingers flexed hard in your hair, but the next cocky remark never made it out of his mouth.

You didn’t give him time to recover. You sank back down in one smooth motion, taking him straight to the base again until your throat closed tight around the head and your nose pressed into his skin. The wet sounds of it was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Spit flooded past your lips and ran down his shaft in warm rivulets. Your eyes watered instantly from the stretch. You held there, swallowing hard around him on purpose, letting your throat flutter and squeeze.

When you pulled up again it was only far enough to speak, lips still brushing the shiny head.

“That’s it,” you breathed, voice thick with spit. “Just like that. Letting me choke on this thick cock like a good boy. You’re being so fucking patient for me.”

You dove back down before he could answer. Deeper this time. Your throat convulsed around the intrusion and a broken gag tore out of you, wet and raw. Tears slipped free and tracked down your cheeks. You didn’t stop. You stayed buried, swallowing repeatedly, the muscles of your throat working him in tight, rhythmic pulses while more spit dripped onto the soft black fabric of his sweatpants.

Peter’s free hand had fisted in the sheets. His abs were clenched hard under the crop top. The only sound he managed was a low, punched-out groan.

You pulled off again, panting, chin shiny and dripping. Your hand kept stroking him in long, tight twists, spreading the mess you’d made.

“Fuck, you’re taking it so well,” you praised, voice wrecked and filthy. “Letting me use your cock like this. Sitting there all pretty while I gag on it. Such a good boy for me, Peter. Look how hard you are. Look how much you’re leaking just from my mouth.”

You licked a slow stripe up the underside, gathering the fresh precome that had beaded at the tip, then took him deep once more. The stretch burned in the best way. Your throat bulged visibly for a second before you forced yourself farther, until your lips were sealed tight around the base again. Another wet gag spilled out of you, the sound filthy and helpless. Spit poured down his balls. Your mascara was definitely ruined.

Peter’s hips jerked once—short, controlled, like he was fighting not to fuck up into your throat. His breathing had gone ragged. The constant stream of smug commentary had dried up into broken little sounds he couldn’t quite swallow.

You pulled back just enough to speak against the head of him, lips dragging over the sensitive ridge with every word.

“That’s my good boy,” you murmured, the praise low and dirty. “Staying so still while I choke myself on this cock. Letting me take every inch. You’re doing so well for me. So fucking well.”

You sank down again, slower this time, letting him feel every inch of tight, wet heat as your throat opened and accepted him. The wet sounds were constant now—obscene, rhythmic, mixed with the soft wet gasps you made every time he bottomed out. Your jaw ached. Your eyes kept watering. Spit soaked the front of his sweatpants. The insides of your thighs were damp where you’d started shifting restlessly against nothing.

Peter’s hand in your hair had gone almost tender despite the firm grip, guiding you in short, shallow rocks while you kept him buried. He wasn’t talking anymore. Just breathing hard and watching you with dark, blown-out eyes like he couldn’t quite believe what you were doing to him.

You moaned around the thick length of him on purpose, the vibration making his thighs tense under your palms, and kept going—choking, gagging, praising him in wrecked little scraps of voice every time you came up for air.

You felt it the second his control started to slip.

Peter’s thighs were shaking under your hands. His cock throbbed harder against your tongue, the thick vein along the underside pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Precome was leaking steadily now, salty and constant, mixing with the spit that already coated everything. His breathing had gone short and rough. The hand in your hair tightened until it bordered on painful.

He was close.

You doubled down.

Instead of pulling up to breathe you stayed buried, nose pressed to his skin, and forced your throat to relax around him. The stretch burned. Tears kept slipping down your cheeks. Spit poured freely past your lips. You swallowed hard around the head of him—once, twice—then moaned low and long so the vibration traveled straight through his cock.

Peter’s hips jerked.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—” His voice cracked back into existence, rough and mean and desperate all at once. “You’re gonna make me come. Look at you. Throat stuffed full and still trying to milk it out of me. Such a greedy little mouth.”

You didn’t pull off. You let him take over.

Peter’s grip in your hair shifted from guiding to outright using. He held you down and started fucking up into your throat in short, filthy thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, using your mouth like it belonged to him. The wet, choked sounds you made every time he bottomed out were obscene. Your eyes watered freely. Your mascara was a complete disaster. Spit and precome ran down your chin in shiny strings and dripped onto the floor between your knees.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice wrecked and cocky even as his rhythm got more frantic. “Take it. Take every fucking inch. You’re gonna swallow all of it, aren’t you? Gonna let me pump this throat full.” His hips snapped up harder. “Fuck, you feel perfect. Best throat I’ve ever fucked. Knew you’d be this good the second you dropped to your knees.”

You didn’t care anymore. The constant stream of filthy praise and arrogance only made you wetter. You kept your hands braced on his thighs and let him use you, throat fluttering and convulsing around every thrust. When he pushed especially deep a broken gag tore out of you, wet and helpless, and Peter groaned like the sound alone was going to finish him.

“Gonna come,” he warned, voice low and strained. “Gonna come right down this pretty throat. Stay open for me—fuck—just like that. Don’t you dare pull off.”

His rhythm stuttered. His cock swelled even thicker against your tongue. The hand in your hair locked you in place as his hips snapped up one last time and stayed there, buried to the hilt.

Peter came hard.

Hot, thick pulses flooded your throat in heavy spurts. You swallowed instinctively around him, the muscles working to take every drop while he kept you pinned. More came—another strong pulse, then another—until your throat felt coated and warm and full. Some of it still managed to spill past the tight seal of your lips, mixing with the spit already dripping down his shaft. His thighs shook violently under your hands. A low, punched-out groan tore out of him as the last weaker pulses spilled across your tongue.

He held you there through every second of it, hips pressed tight to your face, cock still twitching in the back of your throat while he rode it out.

When he finally loosened his grip you pulled off slowly, gasping, a thick string of come and spit connecting your swollen lips to the head of his cock. Your voice was completely destroyed. Your chin and chest were a mess. Tears and mascara streaked your cheeks.

Peter looked down at you like he’d just found religion and lost it in the same breath—eyes dark, chest heaving, cock softening against his stomach.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, thumb dragging through the mess on your bottom lip. “You really just let me do that.”

You stayed on your knees for a few more seconds, just long enough to watch Peter’s chest rise and fall like he’d run a marathon. His eyes were hazy. His mouth hung open just a little. For once, the constant stream of cocky commentary had been fucked right out of him.

You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, smearing the mess of spit and come, and stood up on slightly unsteady legs.

Peter’s gaze tracked you slowly, like his brain was still buffering.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he rasped.

You didn’t answer. You smoothed the bottom of your dress once, then turned and walked out of his room without another word.

The bathroom was right across the hall. You flicked the light on, locked the door, and finally looked at yourself in the mirror.

Mascara streaked down your cheeks. Your lips were swollen and shiny. You looked thoroughly used and completely unbothered about it. You turned on the faucet, wet a clean washcloth, and methodically wiped your face clean—chin, cheeks, the corner of your mouth. You fixed your smudged liner as best you could, smoothed your dress back into place, and stepped back out into the quiet apartment.

Peter was still on the bed when you passed his open doorway. He’d managed to shove himself up onto his elbows, sweatpants still tugged low. He looked wrecked and confused and a little pissed that you were no longer on your knees.

“Hey.” His voice was still rough. “What the fuck? You’re just leaving?”

You paused in the living room long enough to slip your heels back on and grab your keys from the counter.

“Yep.”

Peter pushed himself fully upright, running a hand through his messy hair. “You can’t be serious. You just—come back here.”

You glanced over your shoulder, one hand already on the front door. The necklace sat cool and perfect against your collarbone. Your voice came out light, almost sweet.

“Bye, Peter.”

You opened the door, stepped into the empty hallway, and let it click shut behind you before he could get another word out.

The silence of the dorm building swallowed the sound of your heels as you walked toward the stairwell, the faint taste of him still lingering on your tongue and a small, private smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

spiderman will return in "my spidey senses are tingling pt 2"

The last thing you recalled was looking at the city. Taking deep, shuddering breaths and weighing up the pros and cons of your dream job, spending days with Peter, and the distress it causes your bleeding, fluttering heart.

You felt sick. Like you were on the way down on a rollercoaster. The cold beneath you was soothing.

You roll your head against the cold. When you press your cheek to the floor, you look around and see an empty room.

A warehouse?

You can hear water and the hum of machinery. You blink at the shadow in the corner and realise it's actually a man.

There’s a scar down the side of his face that slices through his eye, rendering it milky and unfocused. He watches you lazily, like this has equally inconvenienced you both.

Wait - you know him.

You’d seen his face on a thousand announcements. He was in Peter’s file.

Mac Gargan.

Your blood ran cold, and you shifted, eyes glued to the only other person in the room, suddenly alert with panic.

“Scorpion.” You pant, whining as your body twists against the earth. Your shoes snag the floor, and the squeak stabs through your skull.

“Rise and Shine. How are we feeling?”

“My head hurts.” You whisper and clutch your temple as you try to stand. You hiss, side aching, and your arm wobbles as you try to push yourself up.

“Just a little bit of tranquilliser. Nothing crazy. You'll be fine.” He steps away from a screen set up on a simple table.

“What for?” You blink away the haze and peek out of one eye to survey the room.

You'd read through the 'dangers' section in your contract when you'd taken the job. Amongst plagiarism, copyright, bankruptcy and imprisonment, you hadn't seen anything about kidnapping.

Your attention spiked. Your job. Peter.

What if he wasn't safe?

“For your boyfriend." The man's voice stabs through your skull. "Had to get his attention somehow.”

“He's not- " You press your lips firmly together. He's not your boyfriend.

He doesn't care about you like that.

He won’t come.

A chill stretches beneath your skin. Tony and Pepper will find you - you hope - but not Peter. Then Scorpion will know all your public affection was performative, even if you hadn't been able to convince your heart of that. He'll know it wasn’t real. He’ll look closer at Peter’s life. He’ll find MJ, he’ll-

“I'm not going to kill you," Mac says as he approaches, but he corners you against the wall like someone who absolutely would. "I just want a little revenge. Even the playing field between me and your bug boy. You get it, right?”

His towering form swallows you. You shuffle back until the metal pillars against the wall press into your spine. The confidence you'd gained from working beside Tony Stark had dwindled since you'd woken up, and you reached across the uneven wall with shaking hands. Now you felt small, breakable, and alone.

“Revenge?” You whimper. You don't want the details. You don't want to think about it - most of all, you don't want Peter to feel responsible.

“You see this?” He taps a finger down the ugly scar across his cheek. He leans forward, forcing your head to the side, and you nod and bite your lip. His breath fans over your cheek. You shiver. “Your little spider did that.”

He waits. The fear he'd intended to summon blooms perfectly. It wraps around you so tightly that it's as if restraints were keeping you in place. Nervously, you glance at him, eyes jumping from the floor to his face and back again. You steal a shaky breath.

“I wonder how he’d react if the same thing happened to you." Mac pauses and turns his hand around to brush against your skin. You flinch as his fingertip traces your cheek. A snarl curls his lip, and you shake. "If your pretty little face was ruined. Do you think he’d still find you pretty? Do you think he’d be upset?”

You shook your head, no. You couldn't help it.

Peter wouldn't be upset. This was all a lie.

At some point between your first PR meetings and sneaking to watch films in the Avengers' tower when neither of you could sleep, you'd fallen.

Worst of all, Peter had no idea.

You should confess - tell Scorpion that this was all futile. Peter wouldn't care what he did. This wouldn't end the way he wanted.

But you wouldn't risk Peter's identity like that. So you pushed your teeth into your cheek until it drew blood.

The animatronic tail connected to him reared over his shoulder. You shuddered and recoiled, but the tip followed your movements like it was attached to you by string.

"...He ruined my life. He took everything from me." Scorpion tells you.

If you'd had an ounce of gumption, you'd argue that he ruined his life. That he did all those horrible things that landed him in prison. Instead, you remained silent and trembled against the pole.

“I’ve done some research on you. Working for Stark, adoring girlfriend of Spiderman. What a life in the spotlight."

"I'm no one." You insist. He laughs.

"No one? I think our friend Spiderman would disagree."

It draws a sob from you. It slips out from a deep, torn place within your chest. The truth hurts more than anything: You were no one to Spiderman.

“Stop." You gasped as the tail snapped beside your head. "Please.”

"Okay," He bargained, "How about you tell me his name?"

You shake your head furiously. Scorpion shrugs. The metal hook presses against your skin, trailing down from your forehead.

A sharp, hot pain dribbled down your face, and your yelp was strangled until it became a scream. It resonated through the warehouse with a haunting echo, and no one was around to hear it.

The hook dragged lower, towards your eye. You slipped down the pole, but Scorpion kept you pinned in place. He slammed you with such unnatural force that it felt like your ribs shattered.

The pain stuttered when a familiar voice pierced through it.

“Hey Scorpion, why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

A blur of red and blue. Scorpion released you with an oof, as his body tumbled across the hall. You heard the thwap! of shooting webs. You tried to look for him, but your vision was swallowed by crimson. You squinted. You caught the snap of the metal tail and Spiderman's body spinning through the air.

The earth shuddered - someone else had arrived.

It bought Peter enough time to drop to your side.

“Y/n?” You heard his voice, frantic and strained, muffled by the suit. “Are you alright?" Through his goggles, Peter watched the blood trickle through your lashes, weeping from the deep cut at the top of your skull. "Jesus-" He fell to one knee, feeling as though he'd taken another hit. His chest throbbed, and he reached out to you with trembling hands. "Oh, my god. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. This is my fault.”

“No, it’s not.” You croak, and your certainty tightens the vice around his chest. It was so clear that you wouldn't accept that he'd caused this.

“I should’ve heard something. I should've-“

You reach mindlessly toward the wound. A gentle pressure at your wrist stalls your movements. Peter shakes his head, shuffles closer, and cups your face. “Hey,” he soothes, “...don’t do that.” From the softness of his voice, you whimper.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” You confess. Exhaustion, adrenaline and fear liquidate your thoughts. It tumbles out without hesitation.

“What?" Peter straightens; your words hit him like he'd swung into a wall. "Of course I would come for you.” He watched your head tip back to the metal behind you. Your eyes slip into your skull. There's a short, calculated nod of your head.

Why were you looking at him like that?

You sigh understandingly. “For the press.”

It made sense - if he didn’t come to get you, the public would guess that there was someone else. Someone would find out about MJ.

That alone feels worse than the cut, the bruises, or the blood dripping down your face.

“No - for you." Peter insists, but it washes over you. He sees his words fall deafly to the concrete. He places a gentle, yearning touch to your cheek. "I was so scared something had happened to you. That someone had hurt you." His voice breaks, and it's convincing enough that you glance up through your good eye.

"Hey..." Your voice is agonisingly gentle. Peter stutters, eyes snapping to your lips to hear your quiet words over the chaos. "He's not looking. You don't have to do all this."

"We never should’ve done this..." Peter drops his head. "It never should’ve been fake. I shouldn’t have put you at risk like this. I am so sorry.”

You were listening, but you didn’t hear him. His chest tightened.

“It’s fine, Pete." You whisper. Smiling beneath the blood painting her face. "We gotta keep them away from MJ and Ned. We gotta make them believe it.”

Peter grabs his head. He pants a devastated sigh.

In the hours it’d take to find you, Peter had been assaulted by thoughts of a world without you in it. It’d flashed behind his eyelids, clawed at his insides, twisted around his heart like barbed wire. The fear pushed the truth off his tongue in a shaky whisper.

“But I'm starting to believe it, y/n.”

You look up. “…What?”

“Kid!” Tony's voice rattles out the speakers; red and gold metal skid across the floor and sparks. The suit crowds you, and you shift as Iron Man approaches. He moves so quickly that Peter stumbles to the side. “You alright?" The mechanical voice says, his gold mask whirling as it surveys you, "You-shit. You’re okay. We’ll get you patched up.” He looks down at your body.

“I’m sorry, Mr Stark.” You groan. "I'm late for work."

Through the mask, his chuckle reaches you. "Pepper wasn't kidding. You do take this job seriously."

"I'm sorry." You say again. Though you don't elaborate, they can both hear what else you wish to say: I'm sorry for the bother. I'm sorry to worry you.

“No." Tony clears his throat. "No. You’ve got nothing to apologise for." The mask unfolds, and you see him scowl at the cut, painting your face red. You startle.

"You didn't have to come-"

"He got you good, huh?" Tony's eyes, so frantic and unexpected, take your breath away. You nod. "Pepper’s gonna have my balls for this.”

The mask closes, and he turns to Peter.

“Can you clean this up? Wait for the cops? Friendly neighbourhood stuff while I take her to get checked out?”

“Yes, sir.” Peter obeys.

“Right. Let’s get you back.” Tony says and scoops you against his suit. You're too overwhelmed to protest.

The hospital room had been a giant overreaction. It seemed Mr Stark had become fonder of you than he'd let on. You perched on the end of the bed, wires tangled around your hand, and sighed. There was a patch on your forehead, and stitches in your hairline. It might have been a small hit for a superhero, but it'd left you aching and tired.

You startled at the knock on the door.

“How’re you feeling?” It was Peter. He'd worn a dark shirt tucked into your favourite jumper with a bundle of flowers against his chest.

You shake your head. “Oh, Pete. I’m fine. This is all...." You wave your hand around the room, and the wires clink together, "...very dramatic.”

Peter looms in the doorway like he's frightened to cross the threshold. You frown, and he shuffles in.

“I was really worried about you.” He mumbles and approaches the bed. Naturally, you scoot over so he can join you on the mattress. He hesitates and drops beside you. He grasps your fingers.

“I’m sorry I scared you." You say back. You brush your knuckles against your forehead. Peter's eyes follow you frantically. "I’m sorry you had to come find me.”

“Are you kidding? I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.”

You breathe a laugh. "Don't be silly. I'm fine. This was what it was for anyway, right? They see me instead." You meant anyone targeting spiderman, but the words land like a physical blow to Peter. He lets go of your hand.

“I don't want to do this anymore." Peter pleads, "I don't want you to be at the forefront of danger-"

"As much as I'd do it for you anyway, it's my job. Mr Stark is tightening security measures. I'll be fine."

"I don't-"

"I really want to keep this job." You turn to him fully. Your eyes are wide and pleading. His protest dissolves in his throat. You look so desperate that he can't fight you on it. He excuses himself and leaves.

Months had passed. You relocated upstate to New York to the new Avengers compound. With it being so close by, Peter visited frequently. Paparazzi would catch you together with the masked vigilante. Walking down the street, in his arms, sat at the top of a building watching the city. Your personal favourite showed the two of you on a rooftop, his mask pulled up slightly, a straw propped against his lips between your fingers. Things had gotten back to normal. It'd been nice.

Then Mr Stark died.

It had hollowed out your life. You were nothing without him, without Pepper, without Peter. The foundations of your life had crumbled. Overnight, everything that defined you had vanished.

Pepper was overwhelmed with raising their daughter, Morgan, on her own. You visited often. Brought homemade cakes and books and took her on trips. It felt pitiful in comparison to Tony's sacrifice, but you weren't capable of much else. It felt like you'd left your soul in the compound when it collapsed, and had been walking around like one of his empty suits ever since.

You still visited Peter. The two of you would sit in silence for hours, but things felt a little easier when you were side by side. You brought him food in containers to make sure he ate. You flicked through his chemistry books while he worked on his suit. You told him that Pepper had given you what she could salvage from the wreck. Some of Mr Stark's tech, some leftover research from Dr Banner that he didn't want. The tablet you'd relied on while interning. You'd share meals together, you'd visit Pepper near Christmas - things started to feel like they were getting better.

Then Mysterio happened.

The world knew who Peter was. They knew you were a fraud.

Almost instantaneously, you were hounded. As the news anchor mouthed the words 'Peter Parker', you heard booing in the street. When you saw yourself beside him on national television, rocks shattered your windows. You were called a fake, fame-hungry, and worst of all, an accomplice to Mysterio's murder.

You'd rushed to Peter's apartment. At the fear on your face, he wrapped around you and pulled you inside. May and Happy led you into the apartment. All of you relocated to somewhere safer

Peter had sworn he'd fix it, with a blind determination that had made you uneasy. You'd seen it a hundred times before. When Peter was frightened, he was unpredictable. Just stay here, he'd insisted, and you'd obliged. At first.

While Peter tried to save the world again, you were reviving the tech Tony had left you. You might have been just an intern when you'd first met, but you'd be damned if you were useless this time around.

"E.D.I.T.H?" you called, tapping the black screen as it illuminated, "You still there?"

"Miss Potts, what a nice surprise. It's been a while." You smile, suddenly hopeful, and jump to Peter's desk.

You were past boundaries after years of fake-dating. You shared food from the same plate, drank from the same mugs, had a handful of his jumpers permanently in your wardrobe. You knew his passwords off by heart, had already opened the college letters bundled on his desk, and May didn't bat an eye when she saw you, as she often did, spinning in his chair.

"You think you can help me with something a little out of the ordinary?"

"Mr Stark programmed me to handle exactly that."

"Great." You said, "I need you to link with Peter's suit. But don't alert him."

To save his friend, Peter had visited Doctor Strange. You couldn't figure out why at first. Then E.D.I.T.H cleared it up for you: Eldrich Magic.

Did you really think Tony Stark wouldn't predict the kid would do something reckless and selfless (seemingly Peter's middle names) if he wasn't around?

Did you think Tony hadn't imagined a time that Peter would need help, and he wouldn't be there to lend a hand?

Of course he'd thought about it.

Tony had thought about it extensively. Ever since that night with Scorpion - you'd been so scared Peter would feel responsible. You'd insisted he'd do something stupid, and that he'd be swallowed up by guilt. You'd mentioned it to Pepper constantly. So in turn, Tony had heard it over and over. So as Thanos became an increasing threat, he'd mapped out a list of every possible outcome for a world where Peter had to live without him. Somewhere at the bottom of that list, under a heading that said 'utterly stupid last-ditch attempts to keep everyone safe' was Doctor Strange.

Looking through Tony's data, you realised Peter was going to mess with reality. The highest probability, according to E.D.I.T.H., was destroying his identity.

So while he'd been planning to eradicate himself, fighting villains from the multiverse, you'd been crafting a way to resist it. Tony had already provided blueprints.

Granted, you were no tech wiz. You were relying solely on Stark's legacy, scraps and the books Pepper had given you. You'd forced yourself on a crash course about the multiverse that you didn't entirely understand.

So it was no surprise, being a complete amateur, that your anti-spell plan didn't work immediately.

Almost a year had gone by. The seasons changed and spread a frost over your window. The wound on your head throbbed from the cold. You checked the scar in the mirror and caught sight of your pin board in the reflection. You retracted your hand and looked back.

There was an array of clippings on your wall. All of them were of you and the infamous Spider-Man. In the centre, a photo of the two of you on a rooftop, his mask pulled up to taste your drink.

The headlines all said the same thing: you were dating. You were inseparable. You were in love.

So how come you didn't know who he was?

You'd spend hours at a time staring at these photographs. You must've known Spider-Man well. Even in this photo, you were the one lifting his hood. That implied a level of trust. Of intimacy. You must have seen what was beneath all the time - you must've known his name.

How could you spend years dating and not remember a thing about it?

The memories were spotty and disappeared if you chased them. You'd reflected on it a hundred times and never uncovered anything new. You walked across the room to grab a glass of water, musing over the same mystery as always.

Then something came to you. Fleeting, like a voice through radio static.

Peter.

You gasped, dropped the glass, and ran back to the newspaper cuttings like they'd spoken to you. You blinked rapidly. A flash. A memory.

Peter Parker.

You recalled his smile, the chocolate brown of his eyes. He was intelligent, kind, thoughtful. He'd make your drinks in the morning; you'd take walks in the Tower. Whenever he spoke to the Avengers, he'd stumble over his words, and you'd tease him about it. He'd mock you for following Bruce around, desperate to pick his scientific brain.

If you pried through your memories, they'd retreat. Each day that passed brought more information, and you started following the Spidey-Tracker like it was a source of nourishment. You tracked the sightings across the city. You started to pinpoint the places he'd go by the most, according to E.D.I.T.H and probability.

Then, a few days later, your chance came.

He was just a blur in the night, but he was approaching.

If memory served you well, which it didn't, you were sure he'd hear you if you called out to him even over the hum of traffic. He had enhanced hearing. Enhanced vitals. You remembered the hologram you'd inspected on your Stark Industries monitor.

From a roof top, you clasped your hands around your mouth and called his name.

You waited.

Suspended momentarily, you saw his body hesitate as it swung through the air. He shot another web to regain his balance.

He'd heard you.

You stared up at the sky. If you'd risked blinking, you'd have prayed. You held your breath.

When he landed on the rooftop with a thud, you stumbled forwards, like your body remembered him before your brain did.

"Peter," You demanded. “That's it, right? Peter Parker." Your voice trembled. The words tumbled out of your mouth urgently, like you were in a dream and made the mistake of acknowledging you were sleeping.

As his figure neared you, your hands started to shake, convinced he'd vanish.

"H-how-"

"I'm right, aren't I?"

The two of you halted a few steps from each other. The question formed a threshold neither of you were brave enough to cross.

God, you hoped you were right.

"I-" He twisted over his shoulder to the streets below.

Your eyes searched his suit desperately.

Please, you thought, let me be right.

“…Hold on."

"Hold on to what?"

You squeaked as a thick arm wrapped around your waist.

What the-

You were catapulted into the air. You grabbed onto his neck, grip settling where it had been a thousand times, and you panted a laugh of disbelief as you tumbled through his apartment window. Wind snapped through your hair, whipping around your face, and the sensation was as habitual as breathing. He was firm and warm around you. Familiar.

He tore off his mask.

The man that stared back at you was not the boy you'd been seeing in your memories - he was older now. Soft, brown curls framed a strong, angular face. His dark eyes were large, swollen with emotion. Fear melted through his features, and he seemed just as apprehensive as you did. He moved to touch you. He froze.

"You just said-"

"Peter." You reaffirm, sensing what he was about to say.

Tears sprang into his eyes. He nodded over and over. He rushed to you with open arms, but you swatted his hands away as a new memory crashed into your mind.

"What were you thinking?"

"Ow!"

You smacked his bicep. He lifted his hands in surrender and fell back.

"You were gonna cast some stupid spell so I'd forget you, and didn't even tell me about it?"

"How do you even work that-"

"I used E.D.I.T.H."

He stuttered. A crooked smile creeped onto his lips.

"You tracked me?"

"You disappeared and random people were spawning in the street! I had to do something. Did you think Tony's scanners wouldn't be going crazy?"

Peter dropped his eyes over you, to his mask, at his computer.

“But how did you know how to-“

“I was a fly on the wall in that place for years. Obviously I learnt some stuff.”

There's a pause. Your chest heaves. You flick your eyes over him, smacked with the understanding that something integral had been missing from your life until now. Your heart thumped painfully, and an unavoidable ache exploded through your chest.

You fell forward and hugged him. His strong arms wrapped around you instinctively. You gripped his suit, his shoulders, his hair, and gasped against the heat of his skin like it hurt.

Then, a final realisation hits you like a train. Sudden and overwhelming. You understand instantly, and without question, that you were completely in love with him.

You pull away like you’re scolded. Peter’s hands press firmly against your spine to keep you against him. You lean back enough to glimpse at his face.

A new fear grips you. Another memory. You hesitate in his embrace, and swallow thickly.

"But it was fake, right?” You whisper, the words slicing your throat as they leave.

How had you pretended for so long?

“It was all fake.” You regain yourself, glancing at where you lean on him and peeling your touch away apologetically. “We never-"

"It wasn't fake.” Peter’s grip tightened on you desperately. He shakes his head. He follows you as you move. “Not in the end." He says, and his voice wavers, “Not now.”

His confession pulls your own from the depths of your chest, released like a floodgate bursting. You can’t help it. The memories assault you, flood your senses, and you aren’t able to conjure anything but the truth.

"I remember now. I wanted to tell you the day you left me at the apartment. I didn’t get chance to say it to you. I-I…”

Brown eyes search you, flicking between your eyes.

You’d waited years to say it. You’d been haunted, empty and alone. You’d pretended to be his girlfriend in front of the entire world. You’d forgotten him and built a machine to make you remember like some kind of obsessed mad scientist. In the grand scheme of things, what were three little words?

Fuck it.

“I love you."

Peter lurched forward. Through the suit, his hands cradled your jaw. He pressed his lips to yours and you slipped your fingers into his hair, terrified he’d disappear beneath you if you let go.

When you paused for air, he kissed you harder. He chased your lips as they retreated, and stepped with you as you stepped back.

“Peter.” You said against his lips. He was nodding without pulling away, as if he were glued to you.

You might be Pepper’s niece - and very young to be their intern - but you’d been told no special treatment. So you wouldn’t say no to a single thing. Even if that included jumping from the roof.

And Mr Stark was right; the public would eat that shit up.

“Sure,” You squeaked, “Of course, Mr Stark.” You nodded frantically, ponytail swinging as you rushed down the halls. “And less talking. Got it. Don’t let Spidey take the mic. Understood.” You nodded again, automatic doors swinging open as you approached, but stumbled as you crossed the threshold.

The hero in question - a teenager - stood before you. Mask clutched tightly in one hand, his chest heaved from the moves he’d been testing. Webs still dangled from the ceiling like abandoned balloons in a shopping mall. Your voice broke, withering in your throat, and his head swivelled in your direction.

You stared at each other. Your voice died. You nodded again, though Tony Stark couldn't see you. Pepper joined the call.

“You don’t have to do any of those things.” She dismissed whatever Tony had suggested. “Just keep an eye on him. Get a good shot for the fans. Don’t let him talk so much. That kid can’t keep anything a secret.” Your head lifted up and down mechanically. 

“Y/n?”

“Yes. Sure.”

“Okay. Talk to you later.” The voice in your ear disappeared. There was a beep that signaled the call was over. 

“Sorry.” Your thumb gestured over your shoulder to the way you came. “I’d have knocked,” You said slowly, “But there’s no…it opens by itself.” 

“Yeah.” The brunette breathed, “They open automatically.” He nodded and swallowed thickly. Then, he looked down at the mask in his hand. 

“Not all of them.” You admitted, “Mr Stark has a child lock on yours. It opens for anyone. He doesn't like to leave you unattended.”

“Oh.”

You shrugged apologetically. Your eyes flicked to the hood in his hand, then up to his face.

“You’re my age.” 

“Um,” Spiderman glanced at his mask, paled, and then looked back at you in distress. “I think so.” 

“I’m sorry.” You confessed, and stumbled down the stairs to the centre of the room. “I won’t tell anyone. Obviously. I’ll lose my job. Besides, I already know your name and everything. I just wasn’t sure what you looked like.”

Pretty, you thought. Handsome, young, kind. All strong words to describe him.

“You know my name?” Peter’s brows furrowed. You nodded like it were obvious, veins thrumming with the endless new-job anxiety. You dropped your eyes to the holographic screen you’d been given. 

“Yeah. Of course. Your address, your school, your blood type, your hormone levels-”

“My what?”

“I didn’t mean to see your face.” You blurted, eyes wide with guilt.

“I get it,” Peter had replied, and his expression softened. “If Mr Stark trusts you, then so do I.”

“Good.” You’d said. “That’ll make my job a lot easier.” But what you really wanted to say at the time was good, I want you to trust me. 

That’s how it’d all started. Knowing his identity had crafted a surprising closeness between Peter Parker and you. Though you’d been tasked with protecting Spiderman’s reputation, Peter was the best part of the package.

At first it’d all just seemed like work-talk. Just polite conversation to pass the time. But then it had snowballed into knowing each other’s coffee preferences and sharing inside jokes. Peter would always take the seat beside you. You would find the other's eye in any room.

You enjoyed your time together and forgot it was work at all. It made the tasks Mr Stark and Pepper had set for you feel easy. Fun.

Until it really wasn't. 

“You want me to do what?”

It was the first time you’d resisted any idea your boss had suggested. With wide eyes, you tore your gaze from Tony to Pepper, and pleaded with her in the silence.

Tony Stark’s presence was like gold dust and it had never become less intimidating, especially when he stepped beyond the screen into the same four walls, even now.  Yet his request was ludicrous.

Tony Stark, on the other hand, thought himself somewhat of a matchmaker.

Through the tech alone, Tony had noted the connection between the two of you. Peter’s heart rate would accelerate when you laughed. His blood pressure would rise when you complimented him. He’d stare at you for so long that the sensors in the spider-suit would monitor your vitals.

Tony thought it was cute. Tony liked the kid - liked you. So he moved your rooms opposite each other. Left the cinema room door open so that you'd peek inside when he was in there. Send you on never-ending coffee runs at the same time that Peter would be talking with him so that you'd have to interrupt.

Weeks turned to months. You listened to all Peter’s rambling like it were the radio, you'd smile at his wacky ideas and watch films at the back of meetings. Somehow, you never tired of him, and it pulled on Tony's old, worn heartstrings.

You insisted on being professional, so regimented, even is your breath quickened whenever Peter spoke.

It was true that Tony had said no funny business when you started, and unbelievably, you’d stuck by it. Even if it were killing you. Half of him respected it; the other half wished you’d realise it was a ploy. The two of you were so sweet together. You were painfully well matched. And you, clearly, were besotted.

Tony's antics had not gone unnoticed. Pepper had picked up on it the first week, cornering him with a firm glare and a finger waved in his face. Don't hurt her, she'd muttered, she likes him. Pepper had caught the stolen glances across the room, the gasps and blushes, the hesitation of one when the other wasn’t looking. Even Happy had seen it, for Christ's sake. It’d become its own little joke - Tony and Pepper sharing a knowing look when Peter walked in, and they'd pretend to have a meeting just to fawn over the two of you.

So when Peter came to them one day with some concerns, they brainstormed a foolproof solution. It was a little mischievous and certainly blanketed by an ulterior motive, but a solution all the same.

To protect his friends, the two of you were going to convince the world that you were dating.

Tony’s request tipped the earth beneath you, and you gripped the tablet tucked under your arm for some form of grounding. 

“I want you to date Spiderman.” He said. Arms crossed, like it were perfectly reasonable.

“What?”

“I want you…” He shrugged and looked at you over the rim of his glasses. “To date Spiderman.”

Your hands started to tremble. Behind the yellow lenses of his spectacles, Tony could see your heartbeat accelerate.

“For MJ.” Peter splutters through the suit.

Tony clicks his tongue and glances irritably to Pepper, who shook his head as if to say, I told you this was a bad idea, which only seems to spur him on.

You glance at the mask, and a deep pain churns through your stomach. You blink, slowly at first, then rapidly. 

“I don’t-”

“Look. Peter came to me with a few concerns. Spiderman's getting a lot of traction. A lot of speculation online. People are searching everywhere for more about him. He’s worried those close to him will become targets.”

“We have things set up for that.” You say, and glance at the tablet and the extensive security measures Tony had already arranged, “We have drones, and-”

“Yes, but the general public are not a force to be reckoned with. They’re scrutinising everything we do. Every interaction. They want more. And Peter is scared that’ll put a target on May’s back, or his nerd friends, or-”

“MJ.” Peter says again.

You ignore the painful stab just above your ribs. Wrapped in your own little bubble here, you'd forgotten about his life outside these walls. You felt foolish and naive. You nodded.

“Right.” You say, and ignore the words that were floating spitefully around your head - you, girlfriend, MJ.

“The kid needs a girlfriend.” Tony flatlines

“That's not-” Pepper pinches the bridge of her nose, and shakes her head.

“For the media.” Tony insists.

“Right.” You pale.

“Which is your job.” Tony points out, “You are responsible for all the PR handling. That includes stuff like this. For the fans.”

“Yes.” You breathe, hands flexing at your sides. You avoid looking toward Peter, worried you’ll topple if you catch his eyes.

“Great.” Tony Stark claps his hands together. End of conversation. He glances at Pepper. They turn to leave the room.

“Oh, and be careful with that; that was expensive. You’ll crush it.” You look at the tablet you had gripped tightly in your hands, knuckles white. You gasp. Tuck it under your armpit and smile politely. When they vacate, you stare at your feet. 

“It’s a little weird.” You hear Peter say, a chuckle rasping beneath the suit. You glance at him and try to giggle, but the sound gets stuck behind your teeth. 

“I get it.” You say, and ignore the way your chest constricts.

You absolutely don't get it. It feels like you are being punished.

“You just want to keep her safe. That’s…” You look at the tablet, praying for an alert to pull you away. “That’s really sweet of you. She’s lucky to have you, Peter.”

“No.” He breathes, “I’m the lucky one.” You smile at him, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You feel tears coming, so you rub your forehead as a distraction.

“It won’t be weird for us, right? It’ll be like normal. But in front of the cameras.” His words coil around your heart.

Like normal.

As if your normal looked like dating. As if all the stolen glances and whispered stories were nothing out of the ordinary. You stare at the floor and nod.

“Just a little closer than usual.” 

It sounds so easy for him. Like every word you share doesn’t weigh heavily on your chest at night when you should be sleeping.

“Not weird.” You say, and try your best to sound convincing. “We’ll just have to put on a good show.”

“Exactly.” He sighs, and you don't catch the way his voice wavers while heat crawls up your face. “I was worried when Mr Stark suggested it. But he said you’d be cool. I just didn't want it to make our friendship weird. I like you.”

“I like you too, Peter.”  It falls from your lips fast. It’s true, obviously. But not in the way you intend for him to take it.

You pull a ragged breath and remind yourself to be a professional.

This was a job. He was your priority. He was a client, not a friend or anything more. And it was clear he felt the same.

You smile at him, and turn towards the door. “Well,” you say apprehensively, “We best get started.”

Each minute tucked into his side was agony.

Each time he held your hand beneath flashing lights, each time he pecked your cheek through the mask and your eyes flickered shut. Each time he picked you up like you weighed nothing and placed you down for the good ol’ ‘hero shot.’

Every day you spent pretending to be Spiderman’s girlfriend worsened your desire to be Peter’s.

Your hands shook at your sides; a fragile smile had become a constant accessory on your lips. You didn’t flinch, didn't resist, did whatever was necessary to make it seem real so that Peter could keep MJ a secret. MJ was what mattered most to Peter, and as the time in your role beside him stretched on, you realised whatever mattered to Peter mattered to you.

“I can’t.” You hiss against the shell of his ear, suit brushing your lips as he wraps a strong arm around your waist. His touch sends bolts of electricity over your skin, and you try not to tremble in his hold. 

“I’ve got you.” He says. “You’ll be fine. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ve gotcha.” You nod, wrap your arms around his neck in front of the whooping crowd and hold your breath. He laughs a little. “Calm down.” He mumbles, and it hums through his chest straight into yours. “After this we’ll watch that movie you were telling me about. We'll make buckets of popcorn.” You nod against his shoulder, and ignore the heat of his body or the way he feels so right beneath you. “We just gotta get a shot for the papers. Mr Stark said so.”

Sensing your anxiety, Peter grips you tighter. It’s silent promise that you are safe with him, but it makes you feel even more unsteady. Your heart hammers shamefully against your ribs.

He can feel it. You know he can. You’d studied his abilities for months. You hide your face against his suit. Your shame feels overwhelming.

“Okay.”

“Jump.” He insists, and your body freezes.

“What?”

“Jump up. Wrap around me.”

“Pete…”

Was this some sick joke? Did he enjoy torturing you?

Heat crawls up your neck, burns your cheeks and tints your ears pink.

“I can hold you better for the swing.”

“Oh, god.” You close your eyes. Gritting your teeth, you jump. He grips your thigh with one large hand, the other shooting a web to the closest building.

You’d obeyed before you’d meant to.

“You ready?” You shake your head no, but mumble a yes. He mutters another promise of how he’ll never hurt you - but you remain silent.

He had absolutely no idea how much he hurt you on a daily basis.

Every touch destroyed you.

He’d been killing you for months. Silently, slowly, like some form of torture. 

You’d never say anything - not when his only intention was to protect those he loved. It was honourable. Good. Kind.

So you just tried to bask in any moment when his attention was on you. Even if it were fake.

When he leapt from the roof, you squealed. Instinctively, his grip wrapped further around you. He held you so sweetly, arm wrapped around your spine and hip, tucking you beneath his chin like an embrace.

“You’re okay. Nothing’s gonna happen to you.” He whispered.

“I’m scared.” You confess, and whimper against his throat.

“There’s no need to be. I’ve got you.”

But you weren’t talking about the swing. You were scared because you were sure you’d stuffed your heart in his chest, while he was too busy searching for another.

Somewhere below, people cheer. They call out for Spiderman. They sound so happy.

You frown and hide in the crook of his neck until it’s over.

“I told you.” He says as he places you down, but he catches the way your smile flatters.

Peter had spent weeks beside you, in front of and behind the cameras. He’d learnt your habits, your tells and your frustrations. He knew you were strong-willed and passionate. He knew this job - at your age - meant everything to you. He knew you liked movies, and Lego, and read blogs in your spare time. He knew you’d put everyone else before yourself.

The expression on your face was unguarded and raw. It unbalanced him, and he followed you back in to the tower. He called after you, but you hurried away.

He wasn’t sure why, but it kept him up all night. The look on your face haunted him. He’d been so distracted by it that he didn’t notice you leave the tower for some fresh air. His senses didn’t pick up on you moving across the balcony, or the sound of you being snatched right from it.

The thing was: the plan worked perfectly. If the world believed Spiderman loved you, they’d never look elsewhere for weakness. They’d never turn to MJ or Ned, or May. Even if it always meant you were collateral. Even if it meant you’d become the target.

It was all fun and games until that night. Tony had thought himself clever. He had more than enough measures in place to protect everyone. But villains often struck when he got too cocky.

Peter awoke to Pepper’s voice blaring through the intercom, stressed and high-pitched. She was asking if he’d seen you, and the three of them scrambled throughout the tower with mounting apprehension.

Peter told himself the fear in his chest was normal. A colleague-related concern. He rationalised that it was a reasonable amount of worry, and not a heavy terror that squeezed his heart.

After all, you weren’t really his girlfriend. All the times you'd confessed a secret or held his hand. All the times he'd swung your legs over his, or searched for you in a crowded room. All the nights you'd spent looking out at the city, giggling. It wasn't real. Your affection for each other was utterly fictional.

So why did it feel so real now that you were in danger?

“Mr Stark?” Peter’s voice trembled as he called out within his suit. An unprecedented fear rumbled through his veins, and he suddenly missed the heat of your skin, your laugh, your voice.

What if you were hurt?

The mental image was like a knife in his gut, and Peter’s swings became sloppy and frantic as he scoured the city.

“This is my fault. We’ve gotta-“

He stared at you without responding, and there was a long pause of silence before your smile dropped into something smaller.

“Wait? Do you not sell?” You covered your mouth, “Oh my gosh that’s so embarrassing, they told me they bought from you before!”

“Relax, bird. I do.”

“Oh! Great, that’s great. Um, how much for an eighth?”

“On the house.” He smirked, digging through the back of his car.

“What?”

“First time buyer, gotta guarantee you like it.”

You caught the bag he tossed you with a shy smile on your face, humming. “Okay, thank you!”

Ghost watched you jog to your friends after that, holding the bag out to them with a proud smirk.

The next time you bought from him, you were all by yourself, jean shorts showing off your pretty legs.

“Hi.”

He chuckled, “You’re back.”

You leaned into the window, low-cut shirt clinging to the swell of your breasts.

“I am.” You smiled, “How much for an eighth this time, for real?’

“Already have some pre-rolls, you can just have ‘em.”

“Huh? No, I didn’t pay you last time!”

“No one ever wants the pre-rolls anyway,” He shrugs, he lies. “They’re cherry flavored.”

That sparks your interest, “Really? I didn’t know they did that.”

You hand him your phone then, “Put your number in, yeah? So, I don’t have to hope to randomly run into you to buy more.”

When he hands the phone back you laugh after reading the contact name, “Ghost? That’s your drug dealer name? Really?”

“Do you want free weed or not?”

You laugh louder this time, “Yes! Yes! I was just teasing. Thank you!”

You text him two weeks later, a stupid meme at that with beady eyes, ‘more, please sir?’

He hates the way it makes the corners of his lips twitch.

He’s mobile that day, and you send him your address with one too many exclamation marks tagged on the end. You run out in leggings and slippers, a giddy smile on your lips.

“Hi.”

He laughs, “Hi, bird.”

“I liked the pre-rolls!” You say excitedly, leaning into the window, “Never had those before.”

“Yeah? What you need today?”

“You have any more?”

He frowns a little, “Get in with me, I’ll roll you some.”

You open his passenger side door too willingly, “Oh good. I don’t know how to roll,” You confess, “My friends usually do it for me.”

His mouth dips into a smirk, “Yeah? ‘Ts not that hard, watch.”

You lean closer, eyes wide like he’s actually teaching you valuable information and not how to roll a joint.

“Gotta make sure to take out all the seeds and stems before you grind it.” You watch him grind it enraptured. “Gotta roll up the tip first, then, wrap the paper tight.”

You nod eagerly.

“Fill it with your flower, roll it upwards with your thumb to make your shape. Then,” He licks across the paper, “Seal it with the glued edge, and twist the tip.”

He holds it out to you, “There you go.”

You take it between your fingers with a soft smile, “Thank you.”

You text him three days later, a picture of a lopsided joint that he definitely didn’t sell you.

‘How’d I do?’

‘Looks like shit.’

‘That’s mean :(‘

‘Come over, let me help.’

‘On my way!’

You show up an hour later, the crooked joint in your hands. You sit on his couch with a frown.

“You know, I didn’t think it came out that bad.”

“Give it here.” He laughs, “You packed it up wayyy too much. Got too much at the end here too, didn’t tap it out.”

Still, he lights it, holding it out for you to smoke. You take it between your fingers, inhaling a small amount before coughing slightly. He smirks at your watery eyes, taking the joint from you to smoke it.

“Sorry,” You say, “I got my lip gloss on it.”

He chuckles, the tip glistening with the gloss, placing it in the corner of his lips, “Doesn’t matter.”

It tastes like your lip gloss. Strawberries and weed.

You take turns smoking it. Simon watches you the whole time, with lidded eyes, focused on the way your pretty lips curl around the joint. The way your chest rises with each inhale, your eyes becoming heavier and heavier, a lazy smile smeared across your lips as you lean closer to him on his old couch.

All he can think about is those lips wrapped around his cock and not the tip of the joint. And he’s definitely rock hard in his sweats, but he doesn’t care if you notice, not when you keep giggling at every bad joke he cracks.

He jerks himself off when you leave, promising you’ll be safe and text him when you get home. He finishes when your message pops at the top of his screen ‘made it safe :)’

He invites you over himself a week later because he’s got random inventory, he ordered them himself, of strawberry wraps and he’s certain you’ll like them.

You do like them. You’re melted into his couch, blinking lazily at him.

“How come you never charge me?” It’s a whisper.

He looks at you, the room dizzy with smoke and your pretty gaze.

“Never make pretty girls pay.”

“Oh?” You sound disappointed, “So, you give it free to other girls?”

He shakes his head, “Just you.”

You squint, “Are you only giving me free weed so you can get a lay?”

He smirks, “Is it working?”

You scoff, smacking him in the shoulder, “Unbelievable.”

He catches your wrist.

“You giving it to my friends for free too?”

“Careful,” He smirks, “You’re starting to sound jealous.”

You roll your eyes, trying to pull away from him. He keeps you close, tugging you into his lap so fast you have no choice but to slip onto his thighs. You don’t look at him, eyes focused to the side.

“Just you.”

You peer down at him then, “Huh?”

His fingers find your cheek, still burning from the embers of the joint, “You’re the only one I don’t charge.”

“Yeah?” You whisper.

“C’mere already.” He murmurs, pulling you down to kiss him.

You make a noise of surprise, like you hadn’t expected your smoke sessions to lead to this, with his cock pressed between your thighs eagerly, grip on your chin and hip to keep you close to him.

You kiss him back earnestly, smaller hands finding his shoulders. He loves it, fuck he loves the way your hands shake against his skin, the vibrations that leave your chest and fill his. He’s been dreaming about this since the moment you walked over in your tiny skirt.

Your bottom lip pops away from his, glistening with his saliva and not the lip gloss you insist on wearing.

“Wanted you to do that for ages.”

He chuckles against your lips, “Yeah?”

Your hips grind against his then, “Only reason my friends made me go was because I wouldn’t shut up about how hot you were.”

He presses his teeth against your neck, fingers making quick work of your belt and pants. “Came over with your ass and tits out, been jerking off to the memory ever since.”

You inhale sharply, “Fuck.”

Your eyes flutter when his fingers find your cunt, squelching with the sound of your arousal. He dips one finger in, drawing a whimper from you, and god you’re so fucking warm. The weeds got you nice and lax, a small grin on your lips as he coaxes you with one thick finger and he's sure he's never wanted to fuck someone more.

Your grin turns into a broken cry when he adds another, lips quivering around the shape of his name. Ghost. Ghost?

His thumbs already on your lips, gaze strong on you, “Simon.”

You nod in quiet understanding, “Simon.”

There’s a sticky strip of arousal that clings to your panties when he slides them off your thighs and it takes everything in him not to bury his face below and smell.

You scramble to his sweats, tugging them down impatiently. He lifts his hips willingly, lets his strained cock smack against his abdomen angrily. You lick your lips when you see it, eyes wide at the sight.

He grips it by the base, thumb coming up to wipe at the precum spilling from the tip.

“Oh my god.” You groan, “Let me ride you, please.”

He slides lower on the couch, tapping your hips casually in agreement like he hadn’t been picturing you on top of him for weeks, “Go on.”

You rise to your knees above him, shaking hand grabbing his cock so lightly it makes his eyes flutter. You glide his tip along your seams until it snags at your entrance, and you make a soft noise when he pops through. You slide down eagerly as much as he holds your hips and grits through his teeth to take it slow.

Your head falls to his shoulder when you sink to the base, his head rolling to the back of the couch because you’re so fucking warm and tight, and the weed definitely isn’t helping because he’s feeling everything ten times worse.

And when you lift your hips, he swears he sees heaven between your thighs when you drop back down and your pussy makes an obscene squelch.

You bury your face in his neck, arms around his shoulders and just fucking go at it. Ass slamming against his so fast the room echoes with each slap. You whine high-pitched with each thrust like you aren’t the one setting the pace, like you aren’t the fucking yourself raw around his cock.

“Jesus, bird, slow down.” He grunts, fingers dimpling your skin.

He says it because your legs are shaking and there’s sweat beading on your chest, whimpers falling from your lips endlessly, but more so because he doesn’t want it to end this soon. When he hasn’t even laid you back properly to fuck you the way he had hoped.

You don’t listen well.

You just keep sloppily fucking yourself onto his cock because you’ve found the sweet spot, the one that has you on the brink of an orgasm.

His lips on your neck do it for you, your toes curling into his shitty ass couch when you break. You soak his balls then, pussy clenching so tight around him he has to bite down on his cheek so he doesn’t bust.

He’s already moving you to your back, finding a home between your thighs when you come back down. You don’t even argue, like the perfect thing you are, folding your own legs to his shoulders, and arching into the couch.

He slides in slow, and your pussy spreads for him so prettily.

“Fuck,” he drawls, “Listen to her, just fuckin dying for me to fuck her.”

You whine loud at that, hips bucking to get him to move. He doesn’t wait a second longer, thrusts so hard into you, you feel it in your toes and your legs straighten out in shock.

He fucks you slow and hard, pace languid from the weed pulsing in his veins. You like it, at least he thinks you do from the way you keep writhing under him, the beginning syllables of his name broken on your lips between every thrust.

When he leans forward, pressing your knees to your shoulders, you gasp in shock from the stretch, but then his tip snags against that spot in your cunt that melts your brain into mush, and your eyes just roll into the back of your head.

He smirks proudly, bullying his length against that spot until you’re pushing at hips, murmuring something along the lines that it’s too much.

He doesn’t stop.

You pulse around him when you cum a second time, sweet voice ripped from your throat, and turned into blinded pleasure when he stamps his thumb against your swollen clit. Your feet tense at his shoulders, fingers tight against the cushions.

He finishes inside of you then, head falling to your shoulder with a deep groan, hips fucking into you with each pump.