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Subject: Freaks & Geeks Collaboration Proposal  From: [email protected] To: [email protected] CC: Clark Kent <[email protected]>, Peter Parker <[email protected]> Hi, We’re reaching out with a potential collaboration opportunity featuring you, Clark Kent, and Peter Parker. All three of you remain among the highest-ranking performers across many platforms, both individually and through your partnered content, and there has been continued audience interest surrounding the history between you. Viewers have consistently commented on never getting the chance to see either pairing film together while those relationships were public, with more recent requests asking for a scene featuring all three of you. With that in mind, Freaks & Geeks would like to offer you the opportunity to reunite for an exclusive video produced through our platform. The concept would lean into your shared past without requiring anything beyond what each performer is comfortable including. Compensation, testing, boundaries, scheduling, and final concept approval would all be discussed before filming. Please reply all to confirm whether you’re interested, and we’ll move forward once we’ve heard from everyone. - Freaks & Geeks Casting

Your eyes drifted back to the names copied beneath yours. Clark Kent and Peter Parker, sitting right there in the same email thread like someone hadn’t just casually suggested putting you and both of your exes in a video together.

You clicked reply all and started typing. Or, at least, you tried to. Every sentence made it halfway across the screen before you deleted it, caught between this being a horrible idea and one far too good to turn down. Answering too quickly felt desperate, but waiting too long would only make it seem like the proposal bothered you more than it did. And it did bother you, just not in a way to push you any closer to saying no.

The breakups hadn’t been messy. There hadn’t been any cheating, screaming, or catastrophic fallout that made working together impossible. It had only been bad timing with Peter and somehow worse timing with Clark, something you’d eventually made peace with in both cases, especially considering the kind of work you were in. Relationships were hard enough without schedules, travel, contracts, and thousands of strangers having opinions about who you fucked both on and off camera.

There had also been years of silence since then, enough that you couldn’t decide if it made the whole thing better or worse. Maybe the time apart meant there was nothing left to complicate. Maybe enough had changed that the three of you could walk onto a set, do the job, and leave without dragging anything old back up with it. Or maybe the distance just gave you enough of an excuse to say yes without looking too closely at why you wanted to.

You had just started another response when a notification dropped into the thread.

Clark Kent: I’m interested. Feel free to send over the proposed dates and additional details.

Professional, polite, and sent quickly enough that you found yourself checking the timestamp twice. Clark had barely taken five minutes to agree to filming with you and Peter, and before you could decide what that meant, another response came in beneath his.

Peter Parker: I’m in. Scheduling should be flexible on my end, so just let me know what works for everyone.

That left you staring at the thread with their answers sitting beneath the proposal. Neither of them had asked for more time. Neither had suggested talking privately first or added some careful little condition to make the idea sound less insane. They had simply agreed, one right after the other, leaving you as the only person in the thread still pretending the thought of finally getting both of them in the same bed required much more consideration.

Your hands returned to the keyboard before you could talk yourself out of it.

You: I’m interested too. Send over the details when you have them. Looking forward to working with you both.

You read it once, decided it sounded professional enough, and pressed send while you still had the nerve.

Even with the message sent and their replies coming back within seconds, your mind circled the last part of your email. It had sounded polite when you typed it, safe enough to pass as the kind of thing you could tack onto any booking without anyone reading too much into it, except you knew better. Your words had been more honest than polite, more than some little piece of professionalism added to keep the email clean. You meant it. You were looking forward to seeing Peter again, to seeing Clark again, to finding out whether all those years apart had actually changed anything once you were in front of either of them again.

And, yeah, maybe you were looking forward to the fucking part too.

Probably a little more than you should have.

When filming day finally rolled around, the pleasantries were quickly out of the way, both boys having greeted you with those soft, almost sheepish hi’s that had fooled everyone else into thinking they were far more timid than they actually were. Unfortunately, knowing exactly how misleading those little hi’s could be did nothing for your ability to keep yourself together around either of them. 

You’d made it through each introduction without embarrassing yourself, only to lose half a sentence when Peter stepped closer to hear you over something one of the crew members said, his smile pulling wider the second yours faltered under the attention. Clark wasn’t much easier. He asked whether you liked the set, a completely harmless question delivered while his gaze made one slow trip over you before settling back on your face, and you spent long enough staring at his mouth that he had to repeat himself.

It was awkward, sure, and there were nerves because there was simply too much history with each of them for there not to be, but none of it felt reluctant. If anything, the longer you stood around waiting for filming to actually start, the harder that became to believe. And slowly, somewhere between Clark trying not to stare and Peter very clearly enjoying the fact that you noticed, you started to realize that maybe you weren’t the only one with eagerness sitting just beneath every look and word.

By the time the camera pushed in, the skit was already done, the dumb little excuse for why three people were suddenly half naked having served its purpose, leaving you sitting between them on the edge of the bed in nothing but a skimpy bra and matching panties that seemed designed to hide as little as possible. Clark and Peter were shirtless beside you, close enough that their shoulders kept brushing yours while their hands started finding places to settle.

Clark had one hand on your chest, palm covering most of one breast while his mouth worked at your neck, sucking just hard enough to make your head tilt toward him. Peter was on your other side, kissing beneath your jaw while his hand ran up your thigh, fingers spreading over the inside of it before he tugged your leg toward him and hooked it over his. The movement opened you right up between them, and Peter didn’t waste the angle.

His hand went straight between your legs and under the lace, finding you wet enough that the first rub over your clit came slick. Your head fell back on instinct, mouth opening around a breath, and Clark took the invitation for what it was, dragging his mouth lower over your throat and chest while you reached for both belts like the scene called for. Your hand on Peter managed well enough, thumb catching the buckle and pulling the leather free, but the one working at Clark’s belt slipped the second his mouth closed around your nipple. He sucked through the lace first, wetting the fabric against you, while his hand came up to your other breast and squeezed before pinching your nipple hard enough to make your fingers lose the metal completely. You found the buckle again, fumbled it, finally got it loose, but Peter had already decided to make the whole thing harder.

Two fingers pushed inside you. 

That alone would’ve been manageable, except Peter didn’t fuck them in and out the way most guys did when the camera wanted something easy to see. He went straight for what he remembered worked on you—fingers curling up inside while his thumb stayed pressed to your clit, rubbing in tight little passes that made your thighs tense around his hand. You knew that move. Knew exactly how quickly it could wreck your concentration, which was probably why the moan that started in your throat came out sharper than you meant it to.

Peter caught it with his mouth before it got far. He kissed you open and messy, tongue already pushing against yours while his hand kept going between your legs. It looked sloppy from the outside, wet mouths and bad angles and too much tongue, but there was nothing careless about it. Peter knew when to curl his fingers. Knew when to press his thumb harder. Knew exactly how much pressure would make your hips roll into his hand without sending you over too soon, and you were still trying to keep up with his mouth when Clark decided he wanted yours.

His hand came up under your jaw and turned your face away from Peter mid-kiss, pulling you into him. Clark’s mouth covered yours before you could breathe, deeper and heavier, while Peter moved in behind your ear and started kissing the damp skin there, his fingers never stopping inside you. If anything, he got nastier with it once Clark had your mouth, curling harder while his thumb stayed planted against your clit, keeping the pressure constant enough that your body started tightening around him in little involuntary pulls.

A quiet “fuck” slipped against Clark’s mouth when Peter hit the right spot, then another when Clark’s hand closed around your breast again and rolled your nipple between his fingers. Neither of them eased off. Peter kept his hand buried in your panties, working you just enough to keep you soaked and twitching, while Clark kissed you like he’d forgotten the camera was six feet away. Your hands were still somewhere near their belts, technically, but whatever you’d been supposed to do with them had become a distant problem because there was suddenly too much happening at once. All of it was getting overwhelming much faster than you’d expected, and worse, the two of them seemed entirely too comfortable making sure it stayed that way.

Clark’s hand disappeared behind you a second later, fingers finding the clasp of your bra and popping it open with one easy motion. The band loosened against your ribs and the cups shifted away from your chest while Peter’s hand finally slowed between your thighs, then stopped altogether as his attention moved upward. His fingers withdrew, wet enough that you felt them drag along your inner thigh before his hand came up and caught the strap on his side. At the same time Clark pulled the other free, the bra falling down your arms until your breasts spilled free.

Peter’s mouth was on you almost immediately, lips closing around one breast while Clark took the other, and whatever little room you’d had disappeared somewhere between them. The difference in the way they touched you made it impossible to settle into either one for long. Peter was rougher, teeth catching your nipple every time he pulled back before his tongue swept over the sting he’d left behind. Clark stayed on you, sucking until the pressure had your back arching before flattening his tongue over the sensitive tip, slow enough to make you feel every pass. Your body kept giving you away in stupid little jerks between them, hips shifting and shoulders twitching whenever one of them changed what he was doing, only for the other to make it worse before you could adjust.

Your head tipped back, another curse breaking loose as their hands joined in. One squeezed where a mouth had just been, the other dragging lower over your ribs and waist, both of them touching wherever they could reach like neither wanted to give the other much room. Their bodies kept crowding closer until the camera started losing you between them, the shot turning into flashes of bare shoulders, hands gripping skin, mouths pressed to you, belts coming loose, denim shoved down, and the last scraps of lace getting tugged away somewhere underneath all of it.

When the next shot finally cleared, there wasn’t anything left between any of you. You were on your knees between Peter’s thighs with Clark positioned behind you, one hand already locked around your hip while the other ran up your spine. He dropped lower without wasting time, both hands going to your ass as he spread you open and settled in close. Your fingers closed around Peter’s cock at the same time Clark’s slipped through your folds, collecting what was already there and dragging it back over you in long passes.

You gave Peter a few strokes, thumb brushing over the head, trying to stay focused on what was in front of you while Clark made that increasingly difficult from behind. His fingers left you and his mouth took their place, lips pressing right into your pussy before his tongue dragged through you. Wet, open, and hungry. You leaned forward to take Peter into your mouth and missed him completely when Clark sucked at you hard enough to pull a loud moan out instead. Another sound followed when Clark’s tongue pushed back over you, and then another, your mouth hovering uselessly near Peter while the man behind you kept eating you like getting you distracted had become the whole point.

Peter had always been good with his hands, way too good, and it wasn’t like either of them had ever left you wanting when it came to their mouths, but there was just something different about the way Clark ate you out. He didn’t rush through any of it. Every lick felt like he wanted the full taste before moving on, every suck drawn out just enough to make your thighs tense, and every time you shifted against his face he answered with one of those deep, rough sounds that vibrated through you. 

So when your hips bucked back into his mouth by accident, the gravelly noise that tore out of Clark was filthy—damn near obscene—as his hands tightened around your ass. A soft chuckle came a second later, his lips ghosting wetly over you as he murmured, “You miss that?”

It was quiet, something too low for the mics, but you heard every word. Before you could respond, Clark flattened his tongue against you and dragged it up in one firm press, hard enough to make your hips push back into his face again, this time very much on purpose. Another groan left him at that, warm against you, and apparently that was answer enough. He gave the back of your thigh one light kiss, almost sweet compared to everything he’d just been doing, then rose onto his knees behind you.

You finally leaned in and took Peter properly into your mouth, lips stretching around the flushed tip before you took him deeper, the effect on him almost immediate. His head tipped back, throat working around a sharp hiss while one hand found your hair, fingers tightening before he caught himself and moved them beneath your jaw instead. His thighs tensed beneath you, the slight draw of muscle across his stomach showing every time you took more, along with the effort it took to keep himself steady as his cock pushed farther toward your throat. He wanted to thrust. His hips kept threatening to follow you, his hand flexing against your face, but he held himself mostly still until one jerk got away from him, a stutter that pushed him all the way in and made his breath catch.

Behind you, Clark already had one hand wrapped around his length, guiding himself to your entrance. The thick head slid through the wetness his mouth had left behind, pressing in until your body gave around him—slow enough to feel every inch, hard enough that your body opened around him with a stretch that pulled a filthy groan from him. His hands locked around your hips while he fed more of himself into you, and the second he bottomed out, your moan spilled around Peter’s cock instead of into the room. 

You didn’t pull away. If anything, your grip tightened around Peter, both hands wrapping around the base while your mouth stayed on him, tongue circling the head before you sucked him back in.

Peter exhaled roughly. 

“Fuck.”

The scene kept building around that: Clark fucking you from behind while you worked Peter in your mouth, your body caught between two rhythms. Clark had one hand on your hip and the other spread over your lower back, holding you steady while he kept pushing deep enough to rock you forward. Peter kept catching that movement from the other side, hips jerking whenever your mouth pulled back, chasing your lips until the head of his cock knocked into the back of your throat and ruined whatever little breathing pattern you’d managed to find. He’d always done that when he got worked up, that involuntary little chase like his body got ahead of him, and apparently time hadn’t changed it.

Before long, there wasn’t much rhythm left for you to keep at all. Every thrust from Clark shoved you farther onto Peter, every push from Peter made your throat tighten around him, and the sounds coming out of you were mostly useless now, wet and broken around a mouthful of cock. It turned into this nasty back-and-forth where neither of them really had to do much more than keep going because your body was already taking the force from one and feeding it straight into the other.

The crew stayed close through all of it, catching spit slick around your mouth, Peter’s cock disappearing between your lips, Clark’s hand digging harder into your hip every time you clenched around him. Then someone behind the camera finally called for the switch, and Clark slowed just enough to pull out. Your hips followed him before you could stop them, pushing back into the empty space he’d left like your body was still expecting another thrust. You gave Peter one more pass before moving, taking him deep enough that his breath broke into a jagged sound above you, then dragged your mouth back up his length until the swollen head slipped free with a wet pop.

As the camera pulled wider, Peter shifted farther back against the mattress and took you with him, his hands settling at your waist while you climbed over him. Clark stayed right behind you, following the movement until one knee sank into the bed and his other leg came up beside you, foot planted firmly against the mattress. You barely had room to think about how close he still was before your thighs opened around Peter and you settled over him, knees bracketing his hips while your hands came down near his head.

Peter reached between your bodies and wrapped a hand around himself, dragging the wet head through your folds before lining up beneath you. You started lowering yourself, your body opening around him inch by inch while his hands returned to your waist. The burn had you struggling to catch air, but you kept sinking, watching his expression change the more you took him. One of your hands moved from the mattress to the side of his neck, fingers curling there, while the other cupped his jaw and tipped his face toward yours. Peter looked right back at you, lips parting on a rough breath while your own opened around a quiet sound as he filled you deeper and deeper between your thighs.

Clark started easing in from behind once you’d settled over Peter, one hand catching your hip while the other guided himself into the little space left between you. He pushed the head of his cock against where Peter was already buried in, trying to fit in beside him, and the second that thick pressure started forcing its way inside, your whole body jumped. The stretch hit mean and immediate, your thighs locking harder around Peter as your fingers clenched at his jaw.

“Wait—” You sucked in a breath, your forehead nearly dropping against Peter’s. “I need a warmup.” 

Clark stopped right there. 

He backed off just enough to take the pressure down, leaving only the head pressed against you. Peter’s hands shifted at the same time, one sliding up to your shoulder while the other held firm at your hip, and then he started fucking you from underneath. His hips lifted into you in short, steady thrusts at first, working you open around him while Clark stayed there behind you, waiting. Each push from Peter forced more air from your lungs, your body moving over him as the tightness started to give. The drag of him inside you felt different now with Clark pressed at the edge too, every lift making you more aware of just how full you were about to be.

Peter kept going, filling you, pulling back, then pushing up again while your body slowly gave around him. Little by little, your hips started meeting his on their own, following the movement instead of simply taking it. Clark’s hand stayed at your hip through all of it, steady but restless, the little flex of his fingers giving away how badly he wanted to try again.

“You okay?” Peter asked, voice low and already a little fucked up from the way you were tightening around him.

You let out a shaky sound, the answer coming as a soft, breathy hum while your hips kept moving with his. 

In the same second, both of Peter’s hands dropped to your thighs, palms sliding down until he had enough of a grip to start driving up into you harder, his hips snapping under yours in a quicker rhythm that made every stroke hit sharper. You leaned down with it, one hand bracing beside his head as your mouth found his, and the kiss turned messy almost immediately, your breathing too uneven for anything cleaner. Peter kissed you through it anyway, catching every little sound while his hands moved from your thighs to your ass, spreading you wider for Clark.

You felt Clark’s hand join his from behind, palm pressing into one cheek as he opened you up farther and started easing back in. He was slower than Peter, had to be, the thick head of his cock working into the same tight space Peter was already filling while Peter kept fucking up into you underneath. The stretch came back, only this time you didn’t stop them. Your mouth broke from Peter’s around a sharp moan as you tried to breathe through it, tried to work your body around both of them while Clark kept feeding himself in a little at a time.

The closer Clark got to being fully inside, the messier it became. Peter was still moving faster under you, hips snapping up in short, dirty strokes while Clark kept sinking farther from behind, and the difference in rhythm made your whole body work around them instead of with them. One thrust would make you gasp, the next would pull a curse out of you, and then both of them would move close enough together that you couldn’t tell whose cock had hit what, only that the fullness kept dragging higher and hotter until your thighs started shaking. You could feel Peter beneath you, Clark behind you, both buried in the same place and moving just differently enough to make every second hit twice.

“Oh, fuck—shit,” you breathed, except it came out broken because Peter thrust up again at the same time Clark pushed deeper.

That was what made you fold.

Your arm gave beneath you and you dropped forward onto Peter’s chest, the movement so sudden he caught you on instinct. His arms wrapped around you, one hand spreading wide across your back while the other settled high between your shoulder blades, holding you against him as they kept moving. Peter turned his mouth near your ear, breath hot against your skin, and the praise that came out of him was quieter, dirtier, more specific than anything rehearsed for a camera.

“Yeah, there you go,” Peter murmured, his hand pressing flat between your shoulders when he felt you tighten again, his voice slipping into that same low, familiar tone you remembered far too well. “You’re doing so fuckin' good. Knew you could take both of us.”

The words hit almost as hard as the next thrust. You moaned into the side of Peter’s neck, fingers curling into the mattress while your body stayed wedged between them, already too full to pretend any of this felt remotely manageable. 

A cameraman moved in closer for another angle, and Peter adjusted with him, catching your arm and folding it behind your back until your chest opened toward the lens. The second he did, Clark’s hands locked onto your hips from behind, palms spreading wide like he finally had the leverage he wanted. Peter planted himself beneath you, Clark used the hold at your hips to drag you harder into him, and whatever softness had been left in the pace disappeared instantly.

Peter started driving up into you while Clark pounded in from behind, the two of them picking up at nearly the same time until the room filled with the wet smack of skin, the bed creaking underneath it, your own voice getting dragged out louder with every hit. You felt them moving inside you, Peter’s hips meeting yours just as Clark drove forward, their cocks rubbing against each other inside you. Every thrust changed the pressure. Sometimes one pulled back while the other went deep, sometimes they both pressed in close. Clark made a rough sound behind you each time you clenched hard, fingers digging into your hips as he kept fucking into the same cramped, slick space Peter was already taking up.

You were a mess now, moaning too loudly to care what the mics picked up, breath hitching every time one of them reached somewhere sharper inside you. The pace had you slipping in and out of any rhythm of your own, just taking what they gave you and reacting to it, your pussy stretching around both of them while their movements kept grinding against each other.

“Yeah,” Peter murmured when another helpless sound choked out of you, his mouth close to yours while his hips kept snapping under you. “You like having both of us, huh?” 

You wanted to answer, but when Clark drove in harder, the only thing that came out was another snagged sound, your chest heaving while Peter watched you struggle to catch up.

“Hey,” he said against your mouth, lips brushing yours. “Breathe.”

You tried. You actually did, pulling in what little air you could, but Peter pushed up at the exact moment Clark managed another inch into you and the breath fell apart into a moan. Peter’s arm drew you closer, not pinning you, just keeping you from folding completely while his free hand came up over your chest. His palm closed around one breast, squeezing as his mouth went to the other, kissing and sucking at your nipple while Clark kept pounding into you from behind. The extra sensation made your whole body jump between them, and somehow Peter’s name finally made it out of you, choked and thin, barely recognizable under everything else.

“I know. I know,” he murmured against your chest, his hips easing just a little beneath you while his hand stayed firm at your back. 

Clark felt the difference from behind before you even managed a proper breath. The sudden pull of your body around them. The little shake that ran through your thighs. His hand came off your hip and found the arm folded behind your back, fingers closing around your forearm while Peter’s hands dropped to your waist instead. You tensed harder at the change, breath going thin in your throat, and Clark caught it instantly. “Slow, deep breaths,” he told you from behind, voice low but steady. “Come on. Nice and deep.” 

You listened, pulling one shaky breath all the way into your lungs, then another, forcing yourself to loosen around the two thick lengths already stretching you open.

Clark waited just long enough to feel you give before he started fucking you harder. His hand kept your arm pinned where it was while his hips drove forward with more force, each push feeding more of his cock in alongside Peter’s as Peter started thrusting up beneath you again. The rhythm got filthy fast, both of them moving through the same soaked, overfull space, their shafts dragging against each other while your pussy tried to hold around both.

Your careful breathing fell apart into moans, each one getting louder as Clark gave you more of himself and Peter kept meeting him from below, and then Clark hit you just right and his name tore out of you on a cry. It cracked halfway through, thin and fucked up, your body clenching hard enough around them that Peter cursed beneath you.

“Come here,” Clark said, rougher now, not stopping. He gave your arm a firm pull, just enough to lift you off Peter’s chest and bring your upper body higher while Peter kept both hands planted at your hips. 

Whatever rhythm you thought you'd found disappeared once they picked up again, Peter punching upward from the mattress while Clark pounded in from behind, your body caught between the two motions with nowhere for the pressure to go except straight through you. Clark’s free hand came up to your shoulder and brought you a little more upright, changing the angle enough that more of him disappeared inside you with every thrust. The next one landed with enough force to leave your mouth hanging open around a broken sound.

You started trying to move with them, hips working where they could, riding Peter while pushing back for Clark, your body chasing both at once even when it barely knew which rhythm to follow. It was getting too good too fast. You could feel it all building, every thrust feeding the pressure while you tried to fuck back into them through it, thighs shaking around Peter’s hips as Clark kept you lifted just enough to stay seated fully inside of you. 

“Feels so good,” you forced out, the words coming out breathless and ruined, more moan than sentence by the end. Neither of them needed much more than that. Peter’s fingers sank into the flesh at your hips, his thrusts getting rougher while Clark’s pace turned heavier as your body kept bearing down around them.

They could feel how close you were, and judging by the way Peter’s breathing had gone ragged and the rough sounds Clark kept letting out behind you, they weren’t far off either. Your pussy kept pulsing around both lengths, slick and stretched, catching harder whenever one pulled back as the other pushed in, and Clark felt every bit of it.

“That’s it, baby,” he said behind you, voice lower now, gravelly from how hard he was working. “Just like that.”

The name hit somewhere stupidly low in you, somewhere you hadn’t even realized was still there, and your body reacted before you could think too hard about why. 

Peter noticed it too, the way you cinched around them and the little sound that slipped out with it. 

“You still like being called that?” he asked, breath rough beneath you.

“Yes,” you managed, but the word faltered halfway out and turned into a soft, helpless hum when the pressure inside you shifted again.

Peter’s palms pressed harder into your hips. “You gonna come for us?”

You tried to answer. Really tried. But the words got tangled somewhere between the next thrust and the one after that, your mouth opening around something that sounded closer to a moan than anything useful. Clark kept you where he wanted you, his palm bearing down against your bare shoulder as another thrust knocked whatever was left of the answer right out of you.

“Can’t hear you,” Clark said from behind, voice strained and wrecked enough to crawl straight down your back.

“Me neither,” Peter added, and there was something almost sinful about how calm he sounded saying it while his hips kept snapping up into you. “Say it again, baby. You gonna come for us?”

“Yes,” you said again, louder this time, only for it to crack apart into another sound. Every little shift between them changed the pressure in some new awful, perfect way, and both of them seemed way too aware of what they were doing to you.

Peter’s focus stayed locked on you, intense enough that it made the words feel heavier than they were. “One more time,” he said. “Lemme hear you say it.”

Finally the word broke through, over and over. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” spilled out of you in a rush, each one harsher than the last as they kept working you between them. You were making a mess of everything. Breathing too fast, cussing under it, trying to ride Peter and push back for Clark at the same time.

“That’s it,” Clark said, his voice soft but heavy. “There you go. Keep going.”

Peter’s hand moved over your side, steadying you when your body started losing its own rhythm. “Come on, baby. You’re right there.”

That was the problem. You were so close it hurt, and they knew it. The angle had you stretched in a way that made every nerve feel lit up at once, Clark keeping you upright while Peter held you in place on top of him, and the praise only made it worse. Every soft little correction, every filthy bit of encouragement, every time one of them said baby now that they knew exactly what it did to you. Somewhere between another curse and whatever got dragged out of you next, your whole body gave up trying to keep any of it contained.

Your voice came out too loud, the sound followed immediately by a moan that turned into something dangerously close to a sob. Your thighs went rigid first, the rest of you locking around them before the tremors started rolling through. There was no holding any of it back after that, nothing graceful left in the way curses, moans, and breathless little cries kept escaping from of you. Each wave hit hard enough to leave you shaking, Peter and Clark having to keep you balanced as you clenched around them again and again, your body squeezing down so hard it pulled rougher sounds out of both of them.

They talked you through every ugly, helpless reaction your body gave them, but Peter was the first one to lose whatever restraint he still had underneath you. His eyes stayed fixed on you while you came apart over him, watching your face, your shaking body, the way your tits bounced with every movement, still flushed and marked from where his mouth and hands had been all over them earlier. That sight got him. You watched it happen in real time, his jaw going tight, breath breaking with one rough curse as his body tensed beneath yours.

The first hot spill of him landed deep while you were still coming around both of them, and the feeling ripped another cry out of you before you could swallow it. He kept filling you, thick and warm, your body squeezing around him through every pulse while Clark stayed buried behind you and felt all of it happening. Peter’s orgasm pushed you even further over the edge, the fullness turning obscene now, everything inside you slick and crowded and too fucking good.

Clark didn’t last much longer after that.

He finally let go of the arm he’d kept pinned behind your back, both hands dropping to your hips instead, and whatever control he’d managed to hold onto went with it. His hips lost the measured rhythm they’d kept all scene, each thrust turning more frantic as he dragged you back to meet him, Peter still underneath you, shuddering through the last of his own release. Clark kept chasing the feeling until even that started slipping, every movement less controlled than the one before until it finally broke apart completely.

Clark came with a guttural groan, driving himself in as far as your body would take him before filling you right behind Peter. The second load made the pressure inside you feel almost ridiculous, hot and heavy and way too much in the exact way the scene had been threatening to become from the second you agreed to it. Their final pulses kept coming against the same stretched, sensitive walls, one after the other, leaving you trembling around everything they’d given you.

The last of them had barely faded when Clark finally pulled out, Peter following as his hold loosened around your hips. Without either of them there to keep it inside, cum started leaking from you almost immediately, slow, heavy streaks gathering along your pussy before trailing down over the swollen skin. That was when the cameraman moved in. The lens dropped low between the three of you, close enough to catch the aftermath the wider shot couldn’t. 

You were still hovering above Peter with your knees spread and Clark close behind, too oversensitive to do much more than hold yourself there as more cum dripped from you and ran down over them. Some caught along Peter’s shaft where he lay beneath you, more streaked over Clark’s as he stayed close at your back, both of them still coated from being inside you.

Sweat, spit, slick, cum, all of it was there in the shot, mixed across skin and flushed bodies while the three of you tried to catch your breath. It was filthy, excessive, obscene in the best way, and exactly what everyone had asked for: you completely fucked out from both of your exes.

The camera pushed in for one last dirty close-up of the aftermath, of you still stuck in the middle, leaking over them until—

“Cut!”

The word came, meaning the shoot was over but between the three of you, nothing really changed even when it should’ve. Peter’s eyes met yours, his hands slowly tracing back up your thighs, while Clark’s breath warmed your shoulder, lips hovering so close to the skin there that one small shift would’ve turned it into a kiss. Neither seemed particularly interested in putting space back between you. 

Somewhere in the middle of it all, it finally hit you how little you’d wanted to hear that word. How little you wanted any of it to stop. The cameras cutting, the set resetting—everything going back to normal. And judging by the way Peter still hadn’t looked away, or the way Clark’s mouth brushed the spot near your shoulder anyway, you had a feeling you weren’t the only one thinking it.

You’d spent so long caught up in all the what-ifs of the shoot that you hadn’t really thought about what came after. And now that it was over, one video suddenly didn’t feel like enough.

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a/n: it’s finally here!!! again, i’m sorry it took FOREVER (four months to be exact) but it’s here now. i’m still a little new to writing threesomes, so please bear with me. on that note, i hope you guys enjoy all the filth that went into this. please let me know if you like it!! <3 (also pornstar!peter au?? i think yes.)

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Not even when he reeked of entitlement that labelled him as resident douchebag. Not even when he dripped of sex appeal each time he walked into a room, owning his new look as girls pined over him and whispered about their dirty fantasies behind closed doors.

Closed doors.

Maybe it’s all the cigarettes that were passed to you or maybe you actually had more than one edible tonight than you could recall. But either way, it’s a bit hazy when you try to remember the details of how you got into this situation.

Willingly stuck inside a bathroom with none other than Peter.

Key word: willingly. Meaning you’ve done this to yourself, knowing fully of the consequences that could happen between you and the boy.

There’s a comfortable and somehow respectable distance between the two of you despite the exaggerated size of the bathroom. The marbled floors are covered in golden swirls from the awful yellow tinged light of the vanity-like mirrors. The open window lets in a cool draft to soothe the warm air of the inside.

Peter takes a heavy drag of his blunt in the bathtub, long limbs outstretched in front of him as he peers over at you curiously.

“What?” You huff out, foot dangling over the sink counter while your knee remains propped up on the surface. A lopsided smile tugs at his lips. He shakes his head at you. “Seriously, what?”

Forty minutes ago, you had originally walked in to dry off after being thrown into the pool by your friends, not realizing that Peter was occupying the clawfoot tub until he piped up about you getting undressed in front of him.

He wanted time away from the noise.

You shared that same sentiment with him.

But, god, the tension was awfully, awfully sexual.

“You’re just cool, Y/N. That’s all.” His voice is muffled, a lisp forming as a result of the burnt joint hanging from his mouth. His ankles cross over one another, battered Chucks scuffing the expensive porcelain with black marks.

“And you’re saying that because?”

“Because I wanna fuck you, yet you won’t even give me the time of day.”

You laugh at his desperation, watching him lean over the side of the tub to look at you. His eyes wander over your bare legs, ingraining the visual of your thighs into his mind and how your underwear hugs your hips graciously beneath your oversized shirt.

There’s no subtlety with him.

“You’re an asshole, what else can I say?” You shrug casually, tongue darting out to lick your bottom lip when he blinks expectantly at you.

His half-lidded gaze is tempting, but you don’t want to give him that satisfaction he always gets to receive.

You didn’t have anything to prove. But honestly, you just wanted to test his self-control.

Maybe a little bit of yours, too.

“Then,” He taps a finger against one end of the blunt. “Why are you still here? Am I entertaining to you? Or are you looking for something more?”

You sigh. “Peter, if you wanted to have sex, you could literally go fuck anyone else.”

“Jeez, can’t you accept I’m just horny and I don’t wanna get up?” He whines, motioning with grabby hands at you. “Can’t you accept that, maybe, I just wanna fuck you?”

You gape at him, nose scrunching up in confusion despite the heat rushing to your cheeks. “We barely know each other and you’re suddenly dying to get into my pants.”

“Do you wanna get in mine?” He sits up, dark eyebrows raised as his dilated pupils lock onto yours. You scoff dryly, acting appalled that he would even suggest such a thing. The issue is he isn’t wrong. He isn’t, not in the slightest. You take a swig out of your beer bottle before you hop off the counter and avoid any of his further questions by turning your back to him. “Is it the blonde?”

“It’s just you.”

“Does the blonde make me seem more of an asshole?” He drawls, studying the way you mindlessly nod in agreement.

You stand in front of the mirror, dabbing at your flaky mascara with a paper towel. “Sure.” The messy streaks on your face leave little to his imagination, a faded red gloss stained upon your lips.

“And how fuckable does it make me? Scale of one to ten?”

“Negative.”

He hums shortly. “Mmm, I don’t believe that.”

“Are you always this annoying?” You jeer at him, voice dripping with snarkiness and distaste. “Does the cocky attitude make up for whatever inches are missing down there?”

Peter can’t take his eyes off you, especially when your reflection stills to meet his clouded stare.

“Why don’t you come find out for yourself?”

He challengingly runs his tongue across his teeth. Your jaw clenches at the dilemma. The air is thick, too thick for you to inhale. The mirror feels like it could crack at any time beneath the weight of your glares, while the floor thumps beneath your feet to the beat of the fast music downstairs.

Even from across the room, Peter looks enticing.

His left arm has him propped up, tucked behind his head while the other waves the lit joint between his pointer and middle finger around.

His green sweatshirt rides up his belly, revealing the happy trail along his lower abdomen. His strong jaw advertises itself as kissable and soft, even with the dark stubble on his face that makes him look older than he actually is. His chest rises and falls steadily, a small cough escaping from him.

He watches you like a vulture ready to devour a meal.

You slowly turn on your heels, bare feet making their way toward Peter until your leg hits the side of the tub. You kneel, leaning your head on perched forearms as you gaze at him from the lowered angle.

His blinks are slower. The moons of his eyes grow foggy when you suddenly reach up to take the blunt between his lips. It leaves him easily, then his next breath hitches in his throat when you place it in your own mouth.

You suck your cheeks in, inhaling quickly before puffing out the smoke off to the side.

“I don’t wanna fuck you, Peter.”

The gesture is a telltale sign that you thought otherwise.

He grabs it back from you, taking a drag before he stalls and leans forward. His hand finds the underside of your chin, gently pulling your mouth open as his eyes bounce from the upper half of your face to the lower half.

You feel lightheaded when he shotguns the smoke into you.

Not from the drugs. Not from the drinks.

But from how close his swollen lips are to yours.

“Then what’s stopping you from leaving this room?” Your lungs are hot with Peter’s breath, skin slick with sweat and bones trembling with anticipation as he moves to hold you by the nape of your neck.

You swallow. “I’m gonna leave.”

His thumb runs across your earlobe.

“Okay, go.” His voice drops to a raspy hush.

You can smell him from here, the odd combination of musk and weed. The scent shouldn’t be this desirable, but you’re breathing him in and out like some kind of flavored cigarette.

And somehow, you can’t get enough.

“I’m g-going.”

You close your eyes when his forehead pressed against yours. His body is warm, fingers antsy as they trail down the side of your strained neck. Your hands rest in your lap, thighs squeezing together when you feel the soft button of his nose nudge against yours.

“I’m gonna try you again.” He sighs into your mouth, lips barely touching as he leans over the bathtub. “How fuckable does it make me?”

All self-control (on both ends) goes out the window when Peter forms a fist at the back of your head, pulling on your hair with enough force to have you looking up at the ceiling.

You gasp, not in surprise, but at how good it feels.

Peter likes the way you bite your lip.

“This is ridiculous.” You fight back a moan when his grip tightens, covering it up with shaky laughter that didn’t at all convince the blonde.

“Yet you still haven’t left, Y/N.”

“Maybe I just need you to make me.”

He inhales deeply, thumb running across your cupid’s bow as you survey him deliberately. He lets go of his hold on your hair, but you don’t distance yourself from him. In fact, you subconsciously shift closer, knees growing sore against the marble tile.

“Make you, huh?” He whispers.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” His nose prods against your cheek. “If I kiss you, will that make you leave?”

You smile devilishly, using his own words against him.

“Why don’t you come find out for yourself?”

All at once, his hand flicks the blunt aside.

Peter’s mouth is heavily on yours, a combination of his saliva and the taste of marjiuana intermixing on his warm tongue. The kiss is noisy and wet — the stunning interaction of two horny people at a party desperately trying to fuck one another. You pull at the string of his sweatshirt when he nibbles at your bottom lip, making it tender to the touch before he attacks yet again.

His head is pounding. The bulge in his pants is aching.

But he can only think about how kissing you turns him on even further.

“Get in here.” He groans into you, eyes never leaving your body as he guides you into the empty bathtub with him. Your knees hit the bottom roughly while you straddle his lap, feeling his erection grow beneath your clothed mound.

The friction of his denim pants against your soft skin already has you grinding against him, stifled whimpers leaving you as Peter frames your face with both of his hands to better the angle of kissing you. His tongue is in your mouth, savoring you and nothing else as your chest presses against his.

“So far, do you think a kiss is enough to make you leave?” He pipes up in between pecks, running his lips down your throat.

He nips at your flesh when it bobs beneath his touch, suckling a darkened mark by your carotid. He wraps his arms around your waist, trapping your body on top of his.

“Dunno. How about we just keep doing this and see where it takes us?”

“Thought you didn’t wanna fuck me.” Peter laughs, the sound vibrating against his own sternum.

“Things change,” You hastily pull your shirt over your head. Peter tenses when you reveal your breasts to him, his grasp stilling at your side as if he’d never seen tits before. “I was trying to be dignified.”

He curses under his breath.

“So for my peace of my mind, you do wanna have sex?”

“Is this an attachment style thing? Why do you keep asking that?” You moan when his mouth latches onto your nipple, leaving your skin moist from the wetness of his tongue.

“It’s about consent.” He gazes up at you, adorably nestling his head in the valley between your breasts. “And the fact I wanna hear it coming from that pretty mouth of yours, Y/N.”

You lean back, resting your hands on his calves as he runs a large palm up your stomach. It settles around your throat, stroking the soft flesh until your words leave you with certainty.

“I want you to fuck me.” He inhales deeply beneath you, nostrils flaring while your jaw flexes at him in the dim light. “However you want it, Peter.”

“However I want it, huh?” He repeats, sitting up to rid himself of his sweatshirt. A whimper slips out of you when his bare chest is on display, his abs toned and stomach soft when you tantalizingly trail your nails down his lean torso. “I want it so many fucking ways, Y/N. Hard.” He leaves a hickey on your ribs. “Rough.” Another one just beneath your jaw. “Slow, so I can feel every part of you.” Again in the dip of your collarbones. “Fast, till you’re squirming on top of me. Begging me to make you cum. Would you like that?”

“So many choices,” You shift to settle between his generous thighs, fingers flying from the belt buckle to the button of his jeans. “Oh, how will I ever pick?”

“Just means you gotta try them all to know what you like.”

“And if I already know?” You tug the denim down his hips and past his bottom, letting it pool around his knees as you skim your lips over the crotch of his boxers. He leans his head back when you free his hardened cock from the material, your fist wrapping around the base of his dick.

“Fuck. Then use me all you want, beautiful.”

You pump him once, maybe twice, putting off the idea of actually how big he is in your grasp. He can tell you’re a bit surprised, judging from how your eyes widened when you first saw him and now, with how your breaths become shallow with each slow jerk.

You lock gazes, lips pressing together to grace a kiss to the throbbing tip of his cock. It twitches at your touch, then your mouth envelops him quickly. Too thick to fit, you use your hand to stroke whatever length remains.

“So pretty, Peter.”

“Mm… god, Y/N. Just like that, use your tongue — shit, there you go, princess.” He chuckles heartily, guiding his hips towards you as your head bobs up and down his shaft. “Suck me off. Wish you could see yourself right now.”

“You’re such a whore.” You whisper at him, batting your lashes.

“Me? You’re the one with my dick in your mouth.” Peter tenderly courses his fingers through your hair. “And frankly, I prefer the word slut when it comes to pretty girls having me down their throat.”

You lick the underside of his cock, nose following the visible vein that stops just below his tip. A bubbly giggle erupts from you when a string of saliva connects your chin to him, and Peter shares the laugh when he sits up to wipe at your jaw.

He uses the back of his hand, then playfully taps his thumbs against the corners of your lips. He pauses — even though he’s still obviously hard — to properly look at you: the redness in your eyes, the lust in your dark pupils, the sly smile you sport.

“I want you to eat me out.” You mumble, his calloused digits rubbing circles into your skin.

He kisses you short and fast, tasting himself. The act almost comes off as innocent, except for how he stares at you hungrily and hums thoughtfully at your declaration.

“Lay back.” Peter tosses you his sweatshirt, gesturing for you to put it behind your head as he crawls on top of you. He lifts your legs, placing each one on either side of the tub. You clear your throat nervously beneath him, the way his gaze trails down your inner thighs, following the curve of your calves, flickering back to the damp patch on your cotton panties. He kisses up your chest, whispering against your jawline. He smells your neck, moaning at your sweet fragrance. “You let me between your legs now and I won’t be able to stop.”

You meet his fiery eyes in the chaos of your moving bodies.

“Then don’t.”

Peter scoffs in amusement, pulling the blue fabric of your underwear off of you. “Atta girl.” He flings it behind him, landing on the windowsill. You laugh when he blows raspberries around your belly button, placing open-mouthed kisses on the suppleness. You writhe against him, hips circling to draw his attention to where you want him most. “Oh? Needy, are we?”

“Not needy. Just think you’re taking too long.”

“Slut.” He mutters playfully, looking down at you with a wide grin.

“Whore.” You fire back instantly, yelping when he hooks his arms behind your knees and bends down to spit on your cunt.

“My god, Y/N. You look fuckin’ delicious.” He uses his fingers to spread the drop of saliva around your folds, purposefully brushing over your clit to study your reaction. The visual of your lips parted in a pleasurable ‘O’ stays in his mind, almost on loop till he nestles a long digit at your entrance. “You’re practically drenched, princess.”

“Peter…” You sigh, knee jolting in desperation when he pushes it inside you. You cover your face, earning a soft click from Peter’s mouth that makes you rethink your previous actions.

“If you want me to eat you out, then I have to see your face.” He cooes. “After all, how will I know I’m doing it right if I can’t watch you moan?”

You nod feverishly, your façade falling apart in his grasp when he cranes his head to the side and swirls his hot tongue around you. His motions are slow, his eye contact unwavering as you guide his hands all over your body — up your hips, squeezing your breasts, your throat.

But the reality of being eaten out by Peter is cut short when a series of knocks echo at the bathroom door. You jump, nearly kneeing the blonde in the face through the process, but he immediately spreads his palm over your front and pushes you back down.

Quickly, he pulls the curtain around the clawfoot tub, keeping your heaving bodies hidden inside. He pinches his lips together, holding up his pointer finger in an effort of telling you to stay quiet.

Your long silence only allows the person inside, and you nearly squeal aloud when Peter abruptly suckles at your swollen clit.

Roughly, you pull on his blonde locks with an instinctive nature, squirming when he pries your legs further apart.

Your mind is caught in a twist, ears listening in on the walking interruption and at the same time, how Peter messily laps at your cunt with the filthiest look you’ve ever seen.

“You make a sound and we’re done.” He remarks. “Got it?” The toilet seat lifts up, the loud noise ringing through what should’ve been an empty bathroom. Never would’ve you imagined Peter hiding between your thighs in a bathtub while some stranger took a piss during a party. “You taste so good.” He whispers in your ear, replacing his mouth with his hand.

“Peter, someone is in here. I can’t — we cannot get caught.”

“I told you I won’t be able to stop.” He sticks his knuckle between your teeth, smiling in satisfaction when you bite down to stifle a cry of pleasure. “I may be an asshole, but I’m a man of my word, Y/N.”

“Peter.” His name falls from you as a warning, but your body clenches around him and tells a completely different narrative.

“Oh, Y/N. Your cunt is just so fucking loud, we might get caught.” His fingers are buried inside of you, curling against your spongy walls as he spreads you open. He fixates on the way you flutter around him, wondering how good it would feel if he shoved his dick inside of you right here and right now. “Once they’re gone, you can make all the noise you want.”

“I’m gonna cum.”

He shakes his head at you, eyes wide. “No, you aren’t.”

“Please.”

The toilet flushes, and Peter takes advantage of it to muffle your string of moans when he roughly pounds his fingers into you.

You’re squeezing around him, and he knows you can’t handle much longer of this.

“Shit, cum now. Cum right now.”

“Fuck, it’s so good. You fill me up s-so well.” Your voice quivers, bringing Peter’s face down into a kiss to stop yourself from making any more unnecessary sounds that’ll draw the stranger’s attention.

“Cumming all over my hand, that’s a good girl. Yeah, princess? Feel better?”

His tongue slips into your mouth, shutting you up. Your stomach tightens, and when the blonde pulls out to massage at your clit, you release all over him before the sink can even turn on.

Then, the bathroom door clicks shut, leaving the both of you all alone once more.

You let out a long groan, head resting back against the edge of the tub as you come down from your adrenaline-filled high.

You gulp aloud, breaths stuck in your throat as you touch your sweaty forehead to catch your bearings.

Your stomach feels wet.

“S-Shit, I’m sorry.”

You glance down at your body, then at Peter, whose face is flushed red. There’s a blush creeping up his neck, his ears tinted with embarrassment as he looks at the stringy white mess between his fingers and your belly.

Peter Parker just fucking came from eating you out.

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” You smile warmly, cupping his face. Suddenly, he looks shy, as if what he did wasn’t the hottest thing a boy has ever done to you. You make the effort to assure him, looking him right in the eye. “It’s cool. It happens. Just shows me that you enjoyed yourself a lot more than I thought.” He hisses when your leg brushes against his leaking cock. Shrugging dramatically, you teasingly run a nail up his shaft despite already knowing the answer. “Do you still wanna fuck?”

He smirks boyishly at the crude question. “Of course I do.”

“Good.”

“Good.” He restates, rolling your nipple between his fingers with a sincere chuckle. “M’gonna fuck you standing up, is that okay? Can’t really feel my legs right now.”

“Like I said,” You tug at his earlobe with your teeth, pupils darkening again. “However you want it.”

He helps you to your feet, careful that you don’t trip one another. You shove the curtain aside when he bends you over the tub. You grip at the porcelain, knuckles turning white when he spits into his hand and slaps it against your sensitive folds. A moan falls from you when he kneads at the flesh of your ass, pushing your thighs apart to get a better view of your cunt.

His cock pokes at your entrance, and you gaze over your shoulder at Peter to watch him guide his length into you.

Slowly, he pushes his tip in. He’s thick, pulsating from his unforeseen orgasm from earlier. Peter gauges your facial expression, taking your rapid nod as a step to go further.

“It’s so big.” You whimper, smiling in deep satisfaction when your folds grip around him. He studies the sight, gawking at how your skin erupts with goosebumps beneath his warm touch.

“Tell me you want this cock, pretty slut.”

“I want all of your cock.”

You inhale deeply when he buries himself entirely inside you, his pelvis pressing against the curve of your ass.

“I’ll go easy on you.” He whispers, gently kissing your cheek before a cruel laugh wrestles through him. “For now.”

He pins your arms behind your back, just above your tailbone where he can hold your wrists in place. He uses one hand to grab onto your shoulder for leverage, hips snapping into you vigorously as he utters a number of curse words into the room.

“Peter! Fuck, yes!”

“Your cunt is just milking my cock, princess. Look at this shit. Christ… Y/N, feels fucking amazing.” He trails his nose along your neck, biting your soft arms as he continues fucking into you. “I could destroy you. Destroy this cunt, make it all mine. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Y-Yes, please. Please.”

“Earlier, you fucking despised me.” Peter growls, his grip making red marks on your skin. “Now, you want every piece of me. Needy. So needy for me.”

“Oh, god. Fuck. I want you.”

“Want my cum? Want me to fill you up with this dick?”

“Yes, Peter. Fill me up — fill me up till I can’t walk, till I can’t think, till my insides are full with nothing but you.”

“Such a dirty fucking mouth, Y/N. Always knew you spoke like a slut.” Your thighs tremble around him, his handprints marking your ass from a harsh spank driven across your backside.

“Harder.”

He buzzes in enlightenment at that. “Like this?” You lurch forward, turning into putty in Peter’s arms. He holds you near to his chest, skin slapping against skin as he drills into you. “You’re close, aren’t you?” You nod, whimpering his name over and over again. “Aw, my little Y/N. Seems that I’ve already fucked you out.”

“I’m — I’m… fuck, baby. I’m cumming.”

“I know.” He smirks cockily when you turn your face up at him, pleading for his lips on yours. “I can feel you.” You force your mouth onto his, whimpering against his teeth when he pulls away. “No, I wanna see your face again when you cum. You look so gorgeous when you do. But you don’t know that, don’t you, Y/N? Has anyone told you how fucking hot it is when you fall apart?”

“You’re making a mess.” You gasp when you glance back at him, watching how his spill coats his own cock and your wet folds.

“Oh, you’re one to talk.” His hand wanders up your throat, fingers squeezing your pulse points.

You croak. “Cum inside me.”

“Fuck. Tell me again.”

He fills you up instantly once the phrase leaves your lips, his blonde hair falling in curls in front of his face. “Want you to cum inside me.” You kiss his face, features scrunching up in pleasure as he needily releases his load into you.

“God, Y/N.” He sighs breathily, mouth connecting to the crook of your shoulder as he suckles lazily at the flesh. “I think I need to lay down.”

You chuckle loudly, shuddering when he slips out of you.

“Yup, me too. Absolutely.”

The two of you settle back into the bathtub, sticky and disheveled as you tiredly lay your head on Peter’s chest.

His head hits the porcelain abruptly, a grunt vibrating through him when he rubs the painful spot. “Ow.”

You cover your mouth with a hand, laughing behind fingers that smelled of Peter. “Are you okay?”

“Dumb blonde things, you know.”

“Mhm, sure. That’s a thing for natural blondes.” You scratch his scalp.

He closes his eyes at the relaxing sensation. “You never answered my question, by the way.”

You smile softly. It’s genuine, judging by how the lines on your face deepen with pure fondness. “The blonde looks good on you, Peter.”

“You think so?”

You playfully ruffle the messy strands.

“You looked fuckable even when you were a brunette. But now, I think you look incredibly attractive.” You plant a kiss on his nose, touching your forehead against his before you pull away with a wink. “The douchebag look is kinda sexy.”

His eyes crinkle at the statement. You step out of the tub, collecting your underwear and your shirt off the floor.

“See you at the next party?”

You glance at him, pretending to tap your chin in thought.

“Hopefully we can fuck somewhere else. Maybe not a bathroom this time.”

“Don’t be a stranger, Y/N.” He watches you slip your shirt on, already missing the glow of your soft skin.

you know this is almost soothing for them. peter is making no effort to spread your legs apart, content to press his face in and keep licking you open in the muffle of your sensitive thighs. clark just nuzzles into your neck, thick arms twisting around your waist, drowning out the scents of the city with the musk of your skin.

it's torture. it's therapy. two and a half orgasms in, and neither of them seem to want to stop.

clark must know that you're teetering close to the edge. he just slides his hand down, nudging peter's nose out of the way—an unpleased grumble vibrates against your pussy, to which you whimper softly—and sinks two fingers from behind into your fluttering heat with little resistance.

"fuck," you gasp. mindless, helpless, you rock into both of them. feeling the insistent press of clark's knuckles against your g-spot, the hot swipe of peter's tongue over your folds and clit. "fuck, i'm—"

you don't even make it past the phrase before you arch, pleasure taking you by surprise. ears ringing, colors blooming behind your eyelids, tears squeezing out at the corners.

you paw at peter's soft, damp curls, his name on your breath like a prayer: "peter, peter, i can't—"

clark sounds so far off when he mumbles, strained, "gosh, i think she just..."

peter makes a sound that's half-groan, half-sob, settling for tiny kitten licks that don't stop you from twitching. "babe, you were gushing."

the sound of their voices is so strange, gnarled with pleasure, hoarse with restraint. so different to the gentle way they usually speak.

clark draws his fingers out, finally lifting his head from your shoulder. he looks at your fucked-out, teary face with a bleary smile and a sharp glimmer in his eyes. brings his hand to his lips, sucks the shine off his skin.

you can't help the pitched moan that escapes you then.

peter's thumbs tack themselves to your outer lips. spreads them in a way that makes you burn. his lips purse, and he's spitting onto your pussy, all messy and dripping. smears it over your folds, presses his thumb against your oversensitive clit again just because he likes the way your hips jump.

"c'mon," clark near grumbles, tugging on a strand of peter's hair. "switch out."

"fine, fine," peter concedes with a pout, that still-boyish side of him peeking through.

they maneuver you around, chest pressing to warm sheets, ass exposed to the air. clark sits on his heels behind you; peter gathers your head to rest against his stomach, cock twitching before your eyes.

you kiss the tip, pretty and flushed to a dusky pink. he's thinner and longer than clark, and a hell of a lot more sensitive, which is why this works.

(clark gets a little line in his forehead whenever peter's in you and cums first. he can't help it, but peter can't help it either. they get a little heated over it sometimes.)

peter shudders, cupping your cheek, trying not to twitch too much as you continue to lavish his cock. you've just begun to make slow, light strokes at his base when clark stretches you raw.

unintentionally, you squeeze peter a little hard, making him hiss.

"shit, that's good," he slurs, brows drawn tight as he gazes down at you with ruddy cheeks. you pant, open-mouthed, as you tap the head against your slightly lolled tongue, getting him all sticky.

from behind, clark's girth keeps a steady rhythm. veins drag, flush to your sensitive, slick walls; balls slap to your clit, making you jolt and your breath hitch around peter's cock.

you don't know how your arms and legs can keep you propped like this, only that you're hanging on by a thread, that you have to keep yourself up only so you can rock back and meet clark's slow movements.

he's so fucking deep. one particularly devastating thrust has you arching deeper, desperate to feel more. feel me in your stomach, he hums, fingers gripping your hips tight.

there's a ridge along the underside of him that he blames on alien biology. whatever it is, it's always dragging you back toward the edge they never let you stray too far from.

your head is too hazy to tell that you're close again, and it's only when you're wracked with shivers and can barely mouth at peter do you realize you've come again.

"she liked that?" clark coos, rhythm gradually becoming sloppy. your whine is garbled, hand moving too fast over the scorching, slick length of peter.

he's whining too, adam's apple bobbing, pitched sounds breaking the unsteady slap of clark's pelvis against your ass. tendon in his thigh draws taut, abdomen flexes. "so good, so good," he chants, then he's twitching, spilling over your fingers, dribbling onto your lips.

you barely have the time to work him through it before clark is pulling out, practically manhandling you onto your back and pushing your knees to your chest.

he thrusts back in so hard that you skid up the mattress, that your eyes roll back and you can feel every inch trying to hold back until he can make you cum again.

"last one, okay?"

(you doubt it.)

—

You had no idea that Spider-Man— Peter Parker— lived above you and had been so exhausted he climbed through the wrong window. He wouldn't tell you that, of course, but he also didn't mind the company. Ever since reconnecting with MJ and Ned, there was still a piece of him that knew they were all different now. Peter never got to grow up with them. He wasn't there for their first college party or even when Ned got a stick-and-poke despite being afraid of needles. A part of Peter wondered who he'd be if he had told MJ the truth when he wanted to. Maybe he'd be less afraid and lonely now. Hell, maybe he'd have some cheap tattoo he could call a drunken mistake— if his abilities didn't make it nearly impossible for him to get drunk.

The superhero was a great listener. He always sat and nodded along, or gave his own two cents when you complained about work or friends or family. Occasionally, he told stories about his aunt, but there was always a particular tone in his voice that made clear he didn't want you asking further questions.

Neither of you quite knew how it began. You knew it happened the second time he paid a visit, when touches became more prevalent. Maybe it's because when one lonely person meets another lonely person, sometimes there are no words for that loneliness— only a kiss. Spider-Man had his mask lifted above his lips, taking a sip of his beer, when you cupped his face and kissed him. He didn't stop you. The two of you stumbled back into your apartment and ended up face down, the mask laying right next to you while he took care of you both. You were so lost in it that you tried to look back at him, but he gently pushed your head back into the pillow without a word.

It happened over and over for about three months now. It doesn't shock you that he's here tonight. You close your laptop and sit up, looking him up and down. He makes his way to your kitchen— right there in the living room space— opens your refrigerator, and takes out two beers, easily popping the caps off both. Without saying anything he walks over to the couch and you lift your legs for him to sit, dropping them into his lap as he simultaneously hands you a beer.

You watch closely as he lifts the mask up— a little higher than usual. This time the point of his nose is exposed and his cheeks. Your eyes fall on his neck and the brown hair peeking from under the mask, curling slightly where it hugs his skin. He always looks more and more familiar, but you brush it off. You only think that because he's been over so much.

His skin is decorated in bruises, his upper lip split open. You sigh, lean forward, and tilt his chin so he's facing you. "What did you get into this time?" you tease lightly.

A small smile tugs at his lips, and recently, whenever he does that, you can't help but wonder if it reaches his eyes. You also wonder what his eyes look like. You tried asking him once what color they were, but he never answered. He shrugs, taking another sip of beer. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Right," you draw out, unconvinced. "That's why you keep flinching every time you move your right side?"

As if on cue he snorts, his hand shooting to grab at his side. "Ah, you know… it'll heal in no time."

You look at him again, into the goggles of his mask, feeling his eyes looking right back. Sometimes you wish you knew his name just so you could use it for moments like this. "I could always take a look?" you suggest softly. Another thing you've noticed recently— even after months of hooking up, you've started getting shy with him.

You were in no way a doctor or even a nurse. You had no paramedic experience, and sometimes when you nicked yourself with a knife you barely did anything about it. And to be fair, both of you knew there was no other reason you had him strip the suit so it pooled at his waist than to sit in his lap and trace the different cuts and bruises painted across his fair skin. Your fingers run down his stomach, feeling him flex under your soft touch. They graze upward, circling a bruise right on his rib.

Sometimes he'll tell you the play-by-play, guessing exactly when he got punched or kicked or thrown against a wall. But this time he just watches you closely, his breath hitching— either from pain or desire, and maybe with you there isn't much difference.

You lean down and press a soft kiss to the bruise, the tip of your tongue circling. You smile against his skin when you feel him shift beneath you. You move up to his chest, taking in the old and new purples and blues speckled across it. You reward his nobility with open-mouthed kisses, eyes looking up at him through your lashes. The white goggles shift slightly, like he's pointedly looking at you underneath the mask. Heat travels through you, and you feel the ache between your legs, lightly grinding against his lap.

Your mouth finds his pec and your tongue swirls around his nipple, teeth grazing it. You finally receive a hiss from him, his head tipping back, his hands flying to your hips for support. You feel the heat of him underneath you, pressing against the fabric of his suit and briefs. Your fingers brush the larger bruise on his right side and he winces. None of that stops him from helping strip off your hoodie, or from the way he still stares at your chest like it's the first time he's seen your tits. His large palms— still gloved— cup your breasts, and you've never been more grateful for opting out of a bra that evening. His thumbs roll over your hardened nipples, sending a current of pleasure through your nerves, a small whimper falling from your lips. The fabric is soft, but the texture of the webs adds an extra sensation. You roll your hips and grip his waist.

"I thought about you all day," Spider-Man admits, helping push down your sleep shorts.

You look at him with a blank stare, blinking, mouth parted, ready to ask a million questions— all of which are quickly replaced with a gasp as he slips two fingers into your mouth. "Suck, please."

He gives his light chuckle when you bite down on the fabric, dragging it off. His mask is back down but you can make out the smirk as the glove dangles from your mouth. You let it go, hearing the soft plop when it hits the floor. Spider-Man then offers his other hand and you do the same thing, biting the glove off, watching it roll down his arm. The muscles in his biceps and forearms stretch the material as he flexes, a soft groan from his lips the moment your mouth wraps around his fingers once the other glove hits the ground.

Your tongue swirls and your cheeks hollow as you suck on his fingers. Your eyes stay focused on the white part of his goggles, trying to see through the mesh— hoping for even just a glimmer. You hear his breathless grunts as you start to rock yourself, your wet panties dragging over him. The crotch of his suit is surely soaked by now, and most of the time he's particular about keeping it clean. But this time he looks down and comments on how wet you are. How hot you are. Your pussy drenching his suit while he fucks his fingers into your mouth— squelching smacks filling the room— his entire torso bare, wearing nothing but his mask. Drool gathers at the corners of your mouth as your spit runs down his fingers and hand. His wrist drips with your saliva as you take them deeper, letting yourself gag on his digits.

Spider-Man retracts his fingers and you chase after them— needy and high on him. He's already onto the next thing, slipping his fingers under the fabric of your panties, teasing.

"You feel so good… already so wet. It's like you're ready for me." He glides his middle finger right between your folds, barely grazing your clit, and it makes you roll your hips— aching for him. "How bad do you want it?"

You let out a whimper, trying to grind on his hand, but the grip on your hip holds you in place.

"Tell me," he commands gently.

That was the funny thing about Spider-Man— he really did live up to the friendly neighborhood title. He always told you what to do, but there was always an endearing politeness behind it. Please. Can you? His tone kind and soft. You might take it as a lack of confidence in what he's doing, but it was the opposite. Somehow it worked with him. He made it sexy.

"Really bad, Spidey," you say.

His fingers are already inside you by the time you finish your sentence. A sharp, whiny breath escapes and your hands fly to his biceps for support as he thrusts his fingers inside you. He leans forward and his mouth is on your neck, still covered by the mask. But you can feel his hot breath and the sounds of his lips kissing your skin through the fabric. At one point you even feel the small pinch of teeth poking through, grazing your pulse point.

Spider-Man curls his fingers and you push him back against the couch, your grip on his biceps concerningly tight, nails digging into his skin. You hear him wince but your mouth falls on his throat, sucking and kissing any part not covered by the mask. You feel his Adam's apple bob, and the sound at the back of his throat makes you wetter, clenching around his fingers.

You pant into his neck as he pulls an orgasm out of you. Your eyes struggle to stay open as your vision blurs while you ride his hand, his thumb pressing on your clit. He's breathing heavily too, your chest flush against his as he works you through another wave of electricity. "That… I think that was a new record," he mumbles.

You laugh— if you would call it that. It's mostly a choked scoff. "You're timing my orgasms?"

You can practically hear and see the blush creeping up his face even under the mask. He starts slipping his hand under the waistband of his black briefs, pulling himself out with the hand that had been inside you. You suspect it's to distract you from your question. It works.

It's rare you actually get to see his cock fully like this. Most of your hookups are quick and rushed— foreplay not really a feature. The whole secret identity thing makes it hard to experience everything. But you've always been okay with it because he consistently brings you over the edge. He has a sixth sense for pleasure and orgasms. He always knows it's about to happen before you can tell yourself.

You two are already pushing many boundaries tonight. Him letting you see more than usual, being dangerously close to slipping the mask off completely. And Peter Parker would never tell you this, but if you ever asked him to take it off— he would. He trusted you. Maybe even more than he trusted himself.

You want to press your thighs together at the sight of his cock, slick with precum, his thumb running over another bead as he pumps himself. Schlick. Schlick. Schlick. He spreads your arousal all over his cock, making it shinier, wetter. You knew he was big from how he felt inside you, but seeing it is a whole new awakening— your eyes going wide from the confounded realization that he's ever been able to fit inside you.

You knew you needed him. Like it was in your DNA. Like something in you was made specifically for him— to want him, to ache for him. Even with these walls and him hiding behind the mask, you knew whoever was underneath it. Even without knowing his name.

You're about to climb off his lap and get on all fours like you normally do, but Spider-Man's hand stays on your hip, making no motion to move. You let out a shaky breath, your hands squeezing his shoulders.

"Condom?" he asks, his free hand roaming your skin again. He squeezes your ass before slipping his fingers under the waistband of your panties, teasing, running his finger along the band. He always tries to take them off carefully. But a hungry man with super strength sometimes results in ripped lingerie. Or blouses. Once, your favorite jeans— and every time it happens, you come home to a package webbed to your window.

You let out a defeated sigh, laughing incredulously, your forehead falling on his shoulder. "They're all the way in my room…" you trail off, kissing his collarbone. You have no intention of getting up, and from his grip on your hip and the way he's groaning into your neck, he has no intention of moving either. "I'm on the pill," you mutter, and you know he hears you because he takes a moment to absorb it.

"Y-you sure?" His voice goes higher and it only makes you more curious about who he is. How can someone with such great power be so soft and careful?

You nod, leaning back to look at him. "Yeah… unless you have like superhuman sperm or something."

You remember the first time you hooked up, when you asked if he came webs, and he quickly assured you he didn't. But that didn't mean things couldn't be different or unusual.

He opens his mouth, goggle eyes widening at the remark. He shakes his head. "No! No… it's totally normal. At least I think so… I mean when I'm alone it's normal and—"

You grab him by the face and kiss him through the mask. "You gonna fuck me or not, Spider-Man?"

It's like the boy morphs into someone different. He's broader, his motions led with more purpose. He guides you up, hovering over his cock. A light chuckle leaves his lips as he gives your pussy a few light taps, then teases your clit. The two of you letting out a sound in unison as he enters you, stretching you open.

"It's okay. I've got you…" he whispers assuringly, rubbing circles on your hip. "You're doing so good." He praises you— or maybe your cunt, for taking him almost all the way. More. More. And more. He finally bottoms out and you waste no time starting to move.

You can feel all of him in a way you've never been able to before. Every single previous time, you'd been bent over so you couldn't see his face.

But there's a different kind of bareness between you tonight. Feeling the veins of his cock inside you, feeling his tip brush nerves this new angle offers. You're in blissful ecstasy, each thrust pulling wanton moans from your lips. You rock back and forth. His hand slips to your lower back, splaying wide, pushing you closer. His fingers grip the skin there and it's sure to leave a mark with how lost in you he seems.

You lift yourself nearly all the way off him, the chill of the air against your wet cunt, and Spider-Man pulls you back down, both of you crying out. He grows more relentless, no longer letting you take the lead. With one hand he lifts you and brings you back down, over and over. The wet, sticky slaps of your skin meeting, the damp thatch of pubic hair brushing your clit. You're already fucked stupid enough that you collapse your bare chest against his, wrapping your arms around him. You clutch the back of his mask, feeling strands of hair through the mesh, tugging lightly.

You hear his moan and it only encourages you to grip the hair at the nape of his neck peeking from under the mask. It's damp with sweat, but you still run your fingers through it and pull. He thrusts harder and faster, panting into your neck, his grip on your back tightening. Spider-Man moves his hand up into your own hair. He doesn't pull it, but he digs his fingers into your scalp. "You always make me feel so good," he whispers in your ear. "You're so beautiful, you know that?" He kisses your cheek— again, through the mask.

Your body responds in a multitude of ways. Your pussy tightens around him, your legs want to close, and he pushes them back apart. The pit of your stomach fizzing, ready to pop. And now your heart flips, butterflies spreading through you, and if you knew his real name you'd probably moan it loud and clear so he'd know he was yours and you were his.

All you can do is kiss him through the mask, the mesh rubbing against your lips as you tilt your head. He kisses you back and you have no idea how it's working, but the two of you are in sync—your tongues pressing through the fabric, running against one another.

Spider-Man's hands roam your back, squeezing everywhere, occasionally moving you up and down in rhythm with his thrusts. You need more. You kiss down his jawline, his throat, down to the seam of the mask. You bite down, dragging it up with your teeth, using your hands to roll it above his lips. Your palms on either side of his face, you look into the goggles intently, trying to see anything.

He's the one who hungrily pulls you into a kiss. Already open-mouthed and desperate. He's relentless as he fucks you and licks into your mouth. His hand moves back into your hair, the other squeezing your hip. You nip his bottom lip and he sucks on it, letting it go with a pop. He kisses and sucks and nips your neck, leaving small marks. His mouth finds your tits and it feels like worship—like he's denied himself this for too long and is making every second count. Saliva runs down your sternum, a string of spit stretching from his lips to your nipple before he comes back and kisses you again.

"I'm… shit—I'm so close, baby," he mutters into your mouth.

You rarely hear him swear. But you've never heard him call you baby before. You push his shoulders back so his head hits the back of the couch. His pink lips shiny and swollen, parted slightly as he watches you roll your hips and bounce on his cock. He reaches down and starts rubbing your clit with his thumb, his smile widening because he can already tell. "Come on, give it to me," he says, tilting his head, biting his lip, voice low and pleading. "Please cum for me baby, please."

Your pussy flutters, the feeling in your stomach popping open, and you cum— gasping, high-pitched, gripping his shoulders.

Almost immediately after, he follows, moaning your name. The veins in his neck standing out, sweat running down his chest. The muscles across his body flex as he releases inside you, hot and thick and a lot of it. You feel it dripping from your pussy onto his cock. Your body involuntarily locks your hips, rolling, soaking in it, as Spider-Man gives you a few lazy thrusts like he wants it inside you as badly as you do.

The two of you stay in silence, taking in each other's heavy breathing. Your hands rest on his chest, thumbs moving back and forth while he absentmindedly runs a hand up and down your hip and waist. You both laugh softly as you slip off him, still sitting in his lap.

Spider-Man brushes his knuckles against your cheek and you melt into the touch. "You're amazing, you know that, right?" you say to him. And you hope he knows you're not just talking about sex. You hope he knows— mask or no mask— he's a good guy.

He doesn't respond. But he doesn't push you away either. You turn your attention back to his right side, changing the subject. "How does it feel?"

He chuckles awkwardly. "Never better."

You swallow and look at him, the high of arousal fading, more sober thoughts settling in. You look down, then back up. "If we knew each other in real life, would we be doing this?"

His goggle eyes narrow like he's thinking. "Is this not real life?"

"No— I mean yes. I meant… would the guy behind the mask be doing this— never mind, I'm sorry. I know you have to keep the secret identity and I'm not supposed to ask questions… but can you blame me for being a little curious?"

He looks at you a moment. You wish you could see his eyes. His lip tugs up briefly. "Do you want to know?"

You furrow your brows. "Know what?"

"Who I am," he says. Casually.

You freeze. You're not sure if it's a test, because of course you want to know. You've wanted to know since the second he climbed through your window the first time. Spider-Man slowly takes your hands and places them on the mask, then lets go, setting them back on your thighs. "It's your call," he says.

Every time Peter has been found out by people important to him, it was always an accident. Always walked in on, or caught on surveillance, or guessed. But with you— not only could he trust you, it was through his own choice that made it mean something. He wanted you to know Peter Parker as much as you knew Spider-Man.

So he feels a small pang of disappointment when you slowly roll the mask back over his mouth. He assumes you never want to know— that you only want him as Spider-Man. But then he sees the playful smile on your face and his stomach flips the way it does when he's swinging between buildings.

You tilt your head, eyes gleaming. "How about this? If I meet you— like on the street, or at the market, or the subway— well, I guess maybe not the subway since you can swing around the city… whatever, not important. If I meet you, you have to ask me on a date. And if I think it's you, I'll say yes."

Spider-Man laughs. Your face doesn't change. You're looking at him with complete seriousness. And it's funnier to him because you two are much closer than you think. When he does see you in the building, he goes the other way— for exactly this reason, that you might recognize him. "And what if some random person asks you on a date and it's not me and you think it is them?"

He didn't know someone's smile could get bigger.

"Believe me. I'll know when it's you," you say confidently.

"But what if you don't?" he presses.

You kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear, "Trust me. I'll know."

You sigh heavily as you step out of the elevator onto the top floor of your apartment building. Your upstairs neighbor's mail found its way into your box again. Like all the times before, you head up to his apartment and leave it outside his door. You don't know anything about him, only that he lives above you and seems like a recluse.

He's also loud— thumping around at night and during the day. It doesn't bother you that much. You've started using it as background noise on your most irritable evenings. He probably doesn't even realize it.

You look around at the clutter on the floor, almost certainly from your landlord. You grimace at the spiderweb in the corner of the doorframe, a large brown spider resting there like it owns the place.

You shake your head and go to set the mail in the usual spot. The door swings open.

You jump back, eyes wide, looking up at the figure in front of you. "I'm so sorry!" The inside of his apartment is dim and it takes a few seconds for your eyes to adjust.

Your mouth falls open when you see him clearly. He's wearing an NYU hoodie and jeans, and even through them you can make out the muscles in his broad shoulders and thighs. Your eyes trail up to his chin, where a yellow bruise has settled. You glance up to his eyes— worried he can see you gawking— and nearly melt. They're brown, but right around the pupil the irises look almost amber. There's a butterfly band-aid on his eyebrow. His brown hair is mussed, curling at the ends.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he says softly, with a slight panic behind it— like he was the one in the wrong.

Your body reacts immediately, your brain working overtime at the sound of his voice. The gentleness of it, so distinct. Your heart starts thudding against your chest. "No— I mean… mail," you stutter, and sigh at your own nervousness. You shoot your hand out, holding the envelopes toward him. You look at him, then at your hand, then at the wall.

Peter looks at you endearingly. And in his own particular awkwardness, he stares at you while you stare at the wall, still holding the mail. It isn't until your eyes dart back to him and you clear your throat, motioning toward the envelopes, that it registers. "Oh! Yeah… thanks," he says. He takes the mail and your breath hitches when his fingers graze yours.

Another beat of silence. You standing there not entirely looking at him and him rocking back and forth on his heels, probably looking at you too long. "Right… I should go." You point back with your thumb.

"Oh, yeah, of course. Thanks for uh… the mail." He scratches the back of his neck. His hoodie rides up slightly, and underneath it he isn't wearing a shirt. A sliver of his stomach shows— his bellybutton, and a faint bruise on his right side. Your eyes flick to his. Your throat goes dry.

It would be insane to think that all this time—

Your gaze falls slowly to his lips, and you realize you've been avoiding looking at them until now.

You were being delusional. There was no way.

"Uh… hey." His voice cracks.

"Yes?" you ask, a little too eagerly.

His mouth opens and closes a few times, nervous sounds that aren't quite words falling out. He finally sighs. "I really like your shoes."

Your face falls. Right. Silly to think it was him. You give him a half-hearted smile, nod, turn away, and walk back toward the elevator. You feel lucky you don't have to wait long for it to ding, the doors sliding open for you.

It's been a week since you last saw Spider-Man anyway. Maybe you scared him off with the whole date thing. Or maybe he didn't want you to know who he was. Or—

"Wait!"

The elevator doors stop closing, sliding back open. Peter Parker stands there, eyes dancing frantically, chest heaving in a way that has nothing to do with sprinting down the hall. Both hands grip the sides of the elevator doors and he looks at you with purpose.

Then, softly, he says your name. "I know you don't know me… but I kind of know you. Not in a weird way. I just see you around the building. Not because I'm stalking you or anything like—I just wanted to know if you'd like to go out sometime? Like… like a date, you know?"

The more he rambles, the more your lips curl. You're not even sure you hear all of it properly, too caught up watching his eyes dart nervously everywhere.

You giggle.

"Yeah. I'd like that, Peter." His name sounds foreign but like it was made for you to say it.

Peter's entire body relaxes. Even as the elevator starts buzzing from the doors being held open too long, he has a dopey smile on his face and looks two seconds away from pumping his fist in the air. Maybe once the doors close he'll actually do a celebratory backflip.

"Cool. Yeah, cool. How's tomorrow night at seven?" He steps back so the doors can close again.

"Sounds great," you answer. "I'll leave the window open."

His eyes soften, and he grins wider, something warm and private moving across his face— like a secret finally finding its way home.

you look over at your lover. the bored stare of annoyance across his face and curled into the soft lips you had kissed just moments before. he's cleaned up now, you had been sent for by daeron with great urgency from oldtown to tumbleton when news of your beloved was to return. it had been months since you had seen him, the words etched with ink and desperation has held your life by snagging threads. but when you had finally laid eyes on him, mud-stained, dishevelled to the core and worse of all, hopeless, you really started to feel yourself unravel completely.

he had all but collapsed in your arms, his body slammed against yours with the pure desire to be held and loved and even as the tiredness from the journey had begun to set in your bones, you held up strong for him.

gwayne hightower was a man of pure strength. a man amongst men. his bravery and reputation would stretch across kingdoms but in the presence of his wife would he let himself not be weak, but only then would he let himself fall and be fussed for. he let you lead him quietly to the bathing chamber, your heart lurching at the small whimpers he made when he rested his weight on his feet for too long and you ignored them, letting him lean his weight into your side, sharing and carrying the burdens of this war between the two of you.

he sat there patiently in the warm waters as you made slow careful work of the washcloths. minutes folded into each other till quite possibly an hour had passed, but what is an hour to what has felt like an eternity in your absence. he bit back the hiss when you had scrubbed a little harder, breaking free the mud and dirt in the crevices and when you let the dirty wash cloth sit in the bucket, you hoped the grime of this tiresome fight would cleanse away too.

"hey," you murmured, your lips pressed between his shoulder blades, the water tickling down his back and he closed his eyes in sweet relief, "you came back," and where your lips parted the distance, your forehead rested deeper into the curve of his spine.

"i told you i would," his voice was gruff, harsher at the edges and he tried to clear it, become softer. your gwayne, the unguarded weightless version of him reserved only for you.

"i know," you hummed, and your fingers make work rinsing the grey from his copper hair. a moan slipped from his lips when you tug just too right and you had teased him, "there'd be plenty of time for that later, lord husband," and his hand had come to catch your wrist. he brings it to his lips, placing a feathered kiss to your pulse, the taste of orange perfumed oils and your heartbeat in his mouth. momentarily, you're brought to standstill. completely at the behold of gywane hightower, consumed by his attentiveness.

"do not tease a broken man," he whispered into your skin and the butterflies in your stomach had been sent roaring.

"you are not broken," his body was wet but you wrapped yourself around him fiercely. skirts could be changed, self-doubt however was hard to shift for someone like gwayne who holds himself to the highest of standards. "you fought valiantly, you have travelled long and far in the name of your family, and despite the exhaustion and fear you still stand. we may not be in oldtown, my heart but you have made it back home to me. you are strong, my love. the strongest man i have ever known. you need rest, time to heal what wounds lay open but you are not broken," and like honey your words had stuck to him, glued together the pieces that were falling free and it warms him inside. "you are not yourself right now and that is fair," your words of love still hold an edge of threat to them, "but i will not let you insult my husband." and he grants you the smallest of smiles but its enough to stretch and expand your heart with more room to love for him, "my protector," you whisper, you kissed away the hard lines between his brows, down to the length of his nose and before you landed at his lips, "my life."

he's mustered some strength since his time in the bath and whilst he misses the feeling of your fleeting touch roaming his body and hair, he's glad he looks sharper. more like himself and feels it so.

his hand is interlocked with one of yours, firmly in his lap. his thumb constantly caressing your own as if its a constant reminder that you're there. you're not leaving. he is safe.

you are loading bites of meat onto a fork, a satsified hum serves as music when he opens his mouth without force and takes a bite. you're patient with him, the way your hand steadies as he drinks some water, your finger catching the falling droplets and wiping them away tenderly. daeron watches on, grateful the two of you are here with him. it's been lonely and tiresome with ormund and though he holds some resentment for his uncle leaving, the overwhelming feeling of missing the two of you replaces it in a heartbeat.

you sip from gwayne's cup, it's only natural to steal a secret kiss from the print of his lips on the rim and he exhales slowly. "it has been so long since we have shared a meal together, i have missed moments like this," daeron's voice draws you to him. you send him a saccharine smile and reach out, gently covering his palm with your own. he feels the warmth of it and returns the contentment.

"it has been hasn't it?" you muse, "as much as i love the air in oldtown, it will never compare to how it feels by your sides," you look at each of your family. your gaze skims over ormund, focusing on daeron and then back at your husband. gwayne murmurs in agreement, your interlocked hands raise from his lap and to his lips, lingering for a moment longer as he breathes you in.

"i've missed you," his admission tickles against your knuckles and you feel your blood pool to the surface.

"and oldtown too?" you tease.

"yes," he grins, "but you so much more," and he decides the distance between the two of you is the most grating thing in existence and his hands find your hips, lifting you with grace and into his lap. your laughter rings in his ears at the sudden closeness and he can feel is you. you've been the missing puzzle piece he's been incomplete the last few months on the road and only now he can finally let himself rest.

"spare us," ormund scoffs at the pair of you and six eyes are already rolling in his direction. "send me to an early death if you must," and he shoves another forkful in his mouth.

"i must," you gasp, "truly?" and it's comical how hopeful you beam his direction and ormund hits you back with a sneer. "careful, cousin, it might be the first wisest decision you've made during this attempt at reign."

"my apologies, lady, but who exactly called you to tumbleton?" he presses in annoyance.

"easy now cousin, play nice," gwayne warns and you fold your arms defensively, leaning back into your husband's hold, his chest firm and solid beneath your melting form.

"yes well, it's truly a marvel as to how you are still without marriage ormund. a man of such charm and great intellect would surely have the women of the cities lined up for leagues," you pick up gwayne's cup, half full with water and guide it gently to his lips, "or men if that's your cup of tea, whoever is unlucky enough to snag you first," and gwayne tries to smother his laughter in your neck.

"or shag," you feel the graze of his teeth just before your jaw.

"gwayne, your wife is cruel," ormund hisses at his cousin in retaliation and shoots at you, flicking a small carrot in your direction. its childish and lazilly aimed that gwayne blocks it with his fist and a scrunch in his brows. he then flips over his palm and uses the force from his middle finger and thumb to direct it back in ormunds direction, knocking him directly in the corner of his mouth.

ormund lets out a cough, a wheeze of incredulity and disgust as he stares down at the vegetable in betrayal.

"my wife speaks of her mind and for the both of us," gwayne mindlessly shrugs, rocking your body alongside his in a slow sway. you lean down to press a kiss to his cheek, your finger sliding where his dimple accentuates and he grins harder, the indent poking deeper.

"for the three of us," daeron joins in, his smile small and a tad bit unsure. you nod your head in encouragement.

"you've picked the winning side," you laugh and daeron reciprocates the sentiment.

"i should send the two of you back to oldtown," ormund mutters to himself and but you catch it. to the naked eye, your falter is so brief it gets carried in the breeze and out the windows of the city. the way your heart momentatily flutters could be accidental, the way you don't freeze but just slow down for a second. but gwayne catches it all in the palms of his hands and he softens.

"soon," comes his whisper as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, "i swear it, my heart." your lips turn in a half smile, lopsided and the best you can manage. "for the three of us," he shoots a wink at daeron, who is more grateful for you two as the minutes swing to hours as his words echo.

gwayne's hands rest in your lap as you continue to eat and feed your husband. you're busy engaging with daeron and plans for his upcoming name day celebration with excitement. you had plans to gift him an animal, a pet as a companion- one that would likely irritate ormund further. or even a small trip to the north with your husband, you could show him your side of history, you have a feeling he'd also love cold. a bite suddenly goes down the wrong way and it has you wheezing, oxygen squeezing through your lungs and tightening that you almost dont realise that when you pick up the goblet, it's wine and not your water.

it feels thicker as it runs down your throat, relieving some of the tension as gwayne pats your back firmly, "easy, my love. slowly," and you feel the force of it die down. you take another swig of the wine and it numbs part of your oseophagus and you try to cough.

"water," you croak, using whatever energy you can muster to shake your head, "water, please," and he's there with his cup, the rim resting gently on your lips as he tips your head back letting you sip at your own pace.

"better?" he murmurs.

"a little, though perhaps the wine is past its prime?" you push away the goblet, "do not drink, daeron. it's," you pause thinking of the right words, "like chalk." gwayne inspects the cup immediately, sniffing it, swirling it around its and immediately setting it down. ormund does the same, the scent tickling at his nostrils that he almost gags and reaches into his pocket for a small tube of salt.

the suspicion is heightened however when the smell of horse shit, mud and weeded plants rings through his nose and into the room, you try and pay it no mind. it's not as strong to you as it is to ormund and hardly to gwayne who has seen and smelt far worse. but there's something else in the air, something that's shifted and then you feel the grip of your palm tighten under the table.

gwayne squeezes it twice in warning and shoots you a look in daeron's direction and your heart drops to your stomach as you all make a move to stand in front of your guests. "be discreet," he whispers his order and you stand from his hold and move to your chair next to daeron subtlely, pretending to dust off your gown. it's nothing to draw attention to you.

ormund is talking but you cannot hear, the voices sound muffled as if your head is underwater and your limbs feel a step too behind than your mind can master.

"arrion baratheon," comes the name and you see the moment something passes over your husband's face, he's careful not to let it show suspecting. his eyes harden as they roam the room, counting the swords, the men, the eyes watching his family. he counts the steps he thinks it'll take for you and daeron leave and reach safety, how many throats he'll have to slit to give you enough time to flee.

you see him carefully make his way around the table, pretending to divert his focus downwards and sneaks a reassuring smile to daeron. you can see the downward curl of his lip and your pulse shatters inside your body, loud and begging to start moving but you still wait for gwayne's confirmation. the sliver of a second before he picks up the knife, he nods to you and you turn at the same time the blade slashes against the intruder's throat. you don't catch sight of the blood that leaks down like a river, splashing back on his porcelain skin as he throws the dead weight off of him and reaches for his sword. your flinch is enough as you reach for your son.

his shout of desperation and in the haziness you can't tell whether he shouts for your name or daeron's but the two of you are already on your feet, clutching at each others sides as you make a shift in the direction of the exit.

"stop him!" ormund screeches but daeron grabs your guard firmly.

"assassins," gwayne hisses as his sword slices through another body, "sent for you and daeron," he lands a punch, a jab of the elbow and another cut through before his eyes try to find yours, "go!" his voice cracks at scream, "now!"

the bodies fall one by one till only gwayne and ormund stand at the center of the room, "follow them, do not stop till they are in their chambers, now." he grits out. throwing his sword to the side and your guards turn in the direction of where you and daeron have departed, escorting you safely on route to the chambers.

"arrion baratheon has hair of light chestnut, is about a foot taller" he growls out, his hand tugging on the dark haired scalp, rising its half decapitated head for ormund's view, "and as it happens, is far more comely."

"i will cut her," ormund heaves, "from crown to cunt," the edges of his hands grip the table to steady himself. gwayne opens his mouth but the words die incredulously as his eyes settle on the goblet. its further amplified by the voice gasping from the floor.

"you speak of our queen when you should be worried of your own lady," it croaks and gwayne hightower sees pure read. his forearms grip the bleeding body and throws it against the table looming over it.

"you bastard," he seethes, "what have you done?" and the soldier refuses to reveal anymore information, the lazy smirk taunting gwayne that he reaches for a dagger and lunges it straight into his heart. in then out. in again and out. four swift stabbing motions till the bodies strung lifeless and he kicks it to the floor.

"ormund," he breathes, "the wine, my girl-"

"fuck!" ormund shouts and he reaches for your cup, throws it with great strength as it shatters, the liquid staining the walls as he stares at gwayne in horror. he attempts to let the apologies fall in panic from his tongue but gwayne's too quick, his legs are carrying him into a full sprint to where your body was left. his heart is in his throat as it pounds and swallows him whole, the tears are fresh but he just needs to get to you.

a few metres away, you can still feel yourself being lulled down, your body weight growing heavier by the minute as you reach to daeron's arms, "something doesn't feel so good," you drool, everything just feels so hazy.

"aunt?" comes daeron's worried call, his lips wobbling as he tries to steady you. "hey, hey, please, aunt?" and your eyes are closing in, you just feel so tired. a firm hand grips your side and a flash of auburn holds you tight as the voice screams, ringing in your ears, "gwayne! somebody get gwayne!"

it's bloodcurdling how his nephew's screams pierce his heart and travels across the kingdom as he dives just in time to catch your falling form, to brace the weight daeron's struggling to hold and he presses his head to yours. "i'm here sweet girl, i'm here," he murmurs, his hand at the back of your head and cradling you into his chest. he swings your body into his hold and breaks the distance in half to the chambers. he needs to lie you down, let the maestars work on you but he's so afraid that if he lets go, he'll lose you forever.

you'e heating up, feverish as beads of sweat pool at your hairline and burn into his skin. "gwayne," you mumble, "i don't feel so good," and bile rises in his throat, closing up.

"honey, keep your eyes open for me. look at me," he directs your chin upwards and into his panicked orbs, "just look at me," he begs.

"i feel so tired," you almost whine through the gasps, "i need to just," and your eyes close halfway before he's shaking you awake again.

"darling girl," his palms cup your face, and he tries to slow his thundering heart beat down to hear yours pulse softly. "we can sleep later, right now i need you to just focus on me. don't focus on them," he shakes his head at the shouting of ormund, the stress of daeron as he calls for the maestar and your lady that has pooled at the doors in distress, "focus on me, you're fine, i promise."

"sweetheart," your finger is heavy and you lazily land it on his cheek in an attempt to carress his face. it almost slips but he catches it and holds your palm to his cheek, grasping on as he leans his forehead into yours. his hold on you tightens as concotions are mixed at the table side and your body falls limper in his hands. "daeron? is he-"

"he is safe, my love. just as you will be," and his heart aches at how even at what feels like your final breaths your first thought is still your son. "i love you," you use your last breaths to sweeten his soul before you close your eyes and gwayne's chest heaves, struggling for air. "no, no, no," he shouts and looks to the maestar, "you fix her and you fix her now!" he roars, your body lies beneath him, your chest weakly rising and lifting before deflating every few moments. gwayne has your breathing burned into memory, its far too slow than usual, he doesn't know what to do.

"sweetsleeper" the maestar speaks, thawing his frozen panic. "a thick pasted sedative," he lands a hand on gwayne's shoulder in comfort.

"like chalk," daeron echoes in horror, "she drank from my cup, i did this," his eyes widen and spill with tears, "please uncle, please no i did not mean for this to happen," gwayne doesn't take his eyes off of your body, his hand is still holding yours firmly on your chest as he feels for your heartbeat. he's silent, tucking you into the covers and pressing a kiss to your lips. its longer than he's done in months, he can taste the cherry from the sauce you had eaten earlier and its now bitter. he inhales you in, and a small whimper leaves him.

"i just got you back," he whispers, his voice cracking at the edges with sorrow and desperation, "i cannot let you go, please my heart, please awake and return to me."

"she shall be in this slumber for a while, i am unsure of how long or the strength at which the wine might have diluted its properties so, but i have hopes she will live," the elder speaks to gwayne but he can hear nothing, so ormund nods.

"thank you," he offers and the maestar nods tightly with a promise to return in the next few hours for regular check ups and ormund dismisses everyone but the four of you. "this could have happened to any of us," he starts but gwayne hasn't moved a muscle from your side. the blood has dried from his face and in bis fingernails as the copper strands stick out unruly and wild, he looks terrible.

"they almost killed her," and when he speaks its devoid of its usual emotion as his gaze is stuck on you. they could have killed you, taken him from you and cast him to a life of loneliness far worse than death, one without you. his wife, his greatest companion and sweetest oath.

"they could have killed daeron," ormund attempts but it's the wrong words that rips gwayne from your held hands and straight at his cousin's throat up against the wall. ormund tries to thrash against him, kick him down but gwayne in his fury and rage holds him beneath him. the reds creep up his neck in claw marks until its all he can see.

"cousin," ormund tries to get out. his head bobs as he thrashes but gwayne doubles down, baring his teeth and for a second, gwayne doesn't see his cousin beneath him. he sees the face of the false baratheons, the sly soldier who taunted him before and he almost reaches for his dagger.

"uncle, please," a smaller voice desperately pleads and claws at his back. pale hands reach around him and to his elbows to pull him back, "uncle gwayne please stop, she wouldn't want this" and gwayne reluctantly lets go. ormund scurries away, eager to put some distance between him and tries to regulate his breaths, gather enough air to bring him back to the surface. his oxygen supply may have been temporarily cut off but the scars around his neck will bruise for weeks.

"she is my wife," gwayne's voice is ragged, rough at the edges with a wrenching desperation, "my wife, and they almost murdered her," he feels the rage gnawing at him again as his heart bleeds and bleeds, "do you understand the gravity of this ormund?" he takes a thundering step forwards and ormund has the decency to look ashamed, flinching from the hurt, "my wife."

"i am sorry," ormund apologises. he was the one to pour the wine, to not check the contents, to blindly trust the hope of a high house finally falling into allegiance. admist his excitement, the prospect of treason never ocurred to him. ormund hightower may be a strategist, but he's not perfect.

"sorry will not bring her back to me right now," gwayne's tone is lethally low, rings with a little pity and heartache as he looks back at you sleeping so soundly, so peacefully and blissfully unaware of the torment he is suffering from now. "she was safer in oldtown, she never should have left," he admits in defeat.

"i called for her," daeron lowers his gaze to the floor, "it is my fault. and it was my cup she drank from, i am to blame," and gwayne shakes his head softly. he motions for daeron to draw nearer and holds his arms out tiredly. daeron steps in his hold and can feel the exhaustion of his uncle seeping through his hug.

"you are not to blame," he sighs, "i am, i should have never left."

"you are protecting our house, gwayne," ormund scoffs, "do not forget the cause of your duty, who we are here for," and gwayne's bones tighten. surely the rings of red around ormund's neck are squeezing his one functional brain cell dry.

"what good is it ormund when i could not protect my wife?" he shouts in irritation, annoyance at rhaenrya targaryen, annoyance at aemond for deserting them, for criston cole for leading him to an almost death march, to his damn cousin for plotting this whole hightower parade, "my cause is my love for her, my duty is to her for i am bound, ormund. she is who i am here for, who i live for, sworn to her first and her alone. so do not stand there and lecture me about cause ormund because like those soldiers who you stood squeamishly before, i will kill you," he promises, "another word and i will slice your throat too, or at the very least your tongue," he hisses and ormund sighs, accepting defeat.

"i am sorry," he tries again.

"yes, you appear to be very sorry today," he rolls his eyes and takes a seat at the edge of the bed. "stop being so sorry and start disappearing, you are blocking the light. my lady wife likes to see the light of the sun as it sets," and the dismissal reeks in the air. ormund opens his mouth to say something further but its daeron's warning glance that decides otherwise.

daeron makes a move to your bed and presses a soft featherlike kiss to your cheek, bidding you a goodnight not a goodbye and does the same to gwayne. he'll most likely visit again and longer when gwayne's had a chance to rest, they'll take it in turns to watch guard and take care of you. but gwayne doesn't move a muscle. he wants nothing more to climb into bed next to you and hold you, hold you for life as he nurses you back to health but he's bloodied and rotten and does not want to dirty your sheets or you in the slightest. the last thing he wants to do is ail you further so he removes himself from the edge and sits on the floor next to your bed post, his back against the wall as you sleep soundly on his left, inches above. he presses a kiss to your lips and watches.

he won't sleep. not whilst he knows who did this is is still out there. his legs will most likely ache from stiffness of being outstretched but he sits firm, hand on his blade and eyes fixed on you.

he's only just gotten you back, he'd be damned if he has to let you go once more.

you're out for six days.

it isn't long but for gwayne it might have been six separate lifetimes.

the maestars had deduced that the concentration of the poison and the amount of ingested was not enough to kill you but enough to relax your body and mind that when you awake, your limbs would be likened to a slight paralysis, and you would need aid.

gwayne had not left your room once.

he abandoned his post at meetings, refused to join for meals with servants having to bring his dish to your chamber. and when they had taken it away hours later it may have very well been untouched.

the blood has gone from his nails and face thankfully, a change of clothes but not of heart so he could lie next to you. he cradles you close, he tells you of his time away on the road. the stories of comradarie with criston cole and the worst of it all; the filthy bog that had almost come close to breaking him. he's still restless though he lies in your feather bed, he plays with your fingers and sings your favourite songs.

there was one point where he thought you would wake, he had hummed a melody that had played on your wedding day and for a second you stirred, a small groan released from your lips that had gwayne's heart soaring and mouth screaming for the maestar.

you had slept for two more whole days after that and it added an additional weight to his chest. if you could see the state of him now, so helpless and afraid, you wouldn't know what to do with yourself. he doesn't even know what to do with himself.

as unfair as it seems, he has been avoiding both daeron and ormund. his mind is far too busy occupied with you, he needs to be here when you wake, when you return to him so he can tell you that he loves you back, loves you more. your eyes had closed in on him before you could catch the words but he kisses them into your temples every hour of the day.

he presses cool linen to soothe your fevers, he changes your sheets and nightgowns when the sweat had unconsciously drowned you and he lets in as much light as he can. he thinks of the sunrise of oldtown, the last time he had seen it from the beacon with you and his heart aches to go back home. to be done with this campaign and go back with you. as it sets in the sky now, it reminds him of you as everything does.

ormund has visited daily, regret and pity on his tongue and gwayne lets him wallow in it. he's had plenty to share and daeron visits too. they both had tried to plead with gwayne to get him to leave, to eat, to just live but the knight had refused. it didnt feel right for him to exist without you by his side, not when his purpose is you.

when you awake, he wants to go for a trip. just the two of you tangled in each others limbs, love and laughter that can echo across cities. he wants to show you just as much as he's missed you and he beats himself up for having just a few hours of your love again before it has disappeared on him.

you finally wake just as he draws the curtains with night falling, he's lit a few candle around the room and sweetens it with your favourite lemon fragrance you wear. it engulfs him and surrounds him and its the closest he'll get to you whilst he waits in this torture. part of him no longer longs for revenge, he just misses you and wants you to return to him again. it had been more wretched on the road where at least back then he knew you were safe in oldtown and out of danger's sight.

he hears you stir and immediately turns, his fingers are frozen between the last two buttons of his shirt he had been in the midst of shrugging it off, ready for his slumber watch. you groan, your breath uneven as you attempt to sit up. you've not gathered the strength and will of your limbs yet so the weight crushes downwards and you fall back to the mattress.

"easy," he whispers, tears glistening in his eyes, "easy, my love."

"gwayne?" you call out, "i can't feel my legs properly, or even my arms," you blink on confusion, "am i?" you pause, "am i dead?" and your jaw drops lightly with dread. "no," you breathe not even giving him the chance to respond. he's still starstruck on your voice, music to his ears and he feels himself floating, "if i am dead then why are you here? oh seven hells, are you also dead? which evilness murdered us, husband?"

in a gentle launch he wraps his form around yours tenderly, melting his body like wax into yours that when you seperate itll surely burn and sting him. "you came back," he cries into your hold, broken and bare. "oh my darling girl, we are alive, you are alive" and you pull away slightly.

"gwayne? whatever is the matter?" and the innocence shadowing your face has him stopped clean, "good heavens, what have you done to yourself?" your fingers come to trace the darkness under his eyes and the shadow of stubble streaking his jaw.

"what have i done?" he whispers incredulously, the smile fights at his lips as he beams at you, "my love what have you done to me?" and it stretches into the midnight air. "you have consumed me, completely. i am unravelled at your will and in your absence i am destroyed."

"honey," you start and he quietens you with a kiss, you melt into his touch as your lips part for his, making room for his breath that becomes your air as he swallows you whole. he kisses you like its the first and last time, unspoken with all the words that six days of silence has cost him and he pulls apart just to breathe before sinking in again.

"i thought i lost you," his voice cracks and you still look clueless, "the poison- it was laced in daeron's wine you drank from and it sentenced you to this slumber. i knew you'd fight it but the moment you dropped in my arms, god i was so scared," and you bite down your lip in anguish. he runs his thumb over the spot where your teeth have left a small indent and presses into it gently to soothe "i should've been more careful, i, i should've been watching what was put on the table, i shouldn't have left you i-" and you muster enough energy to push your index finger into his lips.

you kiss your teeth in disapproval and push on his bottom lip playfully, you know exactly how to put a pause on his blaming thoughts, you have to redirect him to an easier task. and when he's distracted enough you can lay down the assurance, "my love," you start, "if we're talking about things that we should do, i think we should for one start with a bath. i have not moved in days and i need a good soak, and i think you should carry me," you tell him sternly, cutting off his starting rant of self-doubt. "i think with whatever time we have been blessed with we should love and live without regret," you lift your finger from his silenced lips and they curl at the edges in a small smile, "are we in agreement ser hightower?"

he bends his back to hook his arms under your knees and one stretches across your back as you're lifted from the bed. he does it with such ease that you hardly feel the weight of it, you're airborne and full of feathers as he pads to the bath chambers. you sigh in his arms, with your own hands hooked around his neck as he rumbles with a "i think we are, lady hightower."

he sets you to the edge of the tub as he prepares the water, he had called for it a while ago just as he has been doing every day in hopes of you waking from your poison-induced sleep. you sit patiently, the coolness of the tumb a nice refreshment against your skin as gwayne makes work of fragranced oils and suds.

"may i?" he asks and you raise your arms above your head, its a struggle and he helps hold them up so tenderly as he pulls the nightgown from over your head and tosses it to an empty basket. the chill of the night bites at your bare skin but as you sit beneath him, his gaze warms you slowly. "come on, petal," he coaxes and lifts you up from under your arms, "in you go," and he lays you down so gently. the warmth of the water welcomes you home and you let out a moan of bliss as your muscles soak it up.

"incredible," you murmur, sloshing around in the water and gwayne watches with a careful fondness, marvelling at how beautiful and serene you are.

"yes," he breathes, and you look up at him, craning your neck slightly, "you are." you smile up at him and then move forwards a few inches.

"husband?" you ask as he waits.

"yes, wife?" he matches your inquisitive tone with a tease.

"what are you waiting for?" you tilt your head to the side in confusion, "get in."

he hesitates for a moment, "i don't think i should," he begins and you scoff immediately.

"i wasn't asking, gwayne," your bare ankle dips out from the water as you splash him with your feet. its a harmless tease but he reaches out and catches your leg, his thumb just above your heel and he clears his throat, "please?" you try, "i'm asking really nicely," you stick your bottom lip out in a pout and he laughs.

it's the first time he's allowed himself to relax in days and he takes his time stripping out of his clothes and into the bath behind you. you feel the water slosh and rise as you make room for him and then he groans.

"what is it?" you ask.

"i forgot the washcloth," he mutters and tries to make a stand, using the edge of the tub to steady himself. it'll take him no more than ten seconds to grab it and return to you but it's not a risk you're willing to take. you almost tug him back down into the tub at such a speed he almost slips.

"you have hands husband," you shake your head, "don't get all shy on me now," and you place your own hands on his to guide them on your body. the suds gently scraping alongside your skin as he helps wash you. you know in moments to come, you'll attempt to do the same for him if you can muster enough strength to move. though youre likely to just give up and let your husband do all the heavy work for tonight.

"you've gotten bolder, wife." the whispers of the water breaks the silence "i've missed you, gorgeous," he murmurs into your hair, and you lean back into him, his hands now come to settle on your stomach and you close your eyes.

"it could be the months apart or the near death," you try and land it as a joke but it lingers stiffly in the air, an uncomfortable ugly truth.

"i am sorry," he apologises to you.

"it is not your fault," you shake your head, "i drank from the cup, though not given the choice i am glad it was me who suffered and not daeron, how is our little dove?" you ask, you make a mental note to visit him when you feel more of yourself and gwayne's fingers drum along your abdomen.

"well," he nods, "misses you terribly, he's been visiting often, leaves just before he's about to cry," and your heart breaks.

"he is precious, our boy. i shall comfort him in the morrow," you plan and gwayne presses a kiss to your temple.

"only if you feel well enough to do so," he warns gently.

"sweetling, a little poison is not going to break me," you chuckle, "nothing could keep me from you, perhaps they did me favour, the journey from oldtown was tiresome and now i feel well rested," you hum and you feel the scowl before you can even see it.

"you jest but it was serious, you almost died," he stresses.

"i heard you, you know. bits of your voice when i was asleep. you were always there and i think it kept me going," you admit, "i don't think you left this room once?"

"i didn't," he confirms, "how could i leave you?"

"i love you, gwayne," he encloses your palm with his, "i don't think i've ever loved someone so much," and it leaves him purely defenseless.

"thank the seven," he closes his eyes, "because you're the only one for me, i mean it, truly. these six days have been pure agony, my heart has been broken in ways that only you can heal, my love."

you close your eyes, feeling the warmth of the water, your husband and his love engulf you at once. it's oddly healing and despite sleeping the past six days you feel the rest calling you once more. you snuggle into your husband, humming as he slips his fingers through your hair and rinsing the suds. your soft snores fill the air that it almost pains him to gently wake you.

it's endearing as he wraps you up in the towel, taking his upmost care and patience to dry the water droplets off of you, stealing kisses to keep you awake whenever he senses your eyes drooping a little longer. you sit and wait for him to wrap you up in one of his shirts, the smell thick of him that you beam at him, pure sunshine setting his heart alight and he ruffles your hair.

"almost, sweet pea," and he carries you for a final time, when he lays to rest next to you this time he still watches over for a few moments. your chest rises and falls in the normal even steady beats he could recite for years.

"gwayne," you murmur, one of your legs is swung over his hip as you're curled tightly into his side. your face plastered across his bare chest, "i can feel you awake, go to sleep," its an incoherent slur of mumbles as you swat him gently in annoyance, pressing your face further into him till he flinches in tickles.

"i am!" he moans and draws the covers over the two of you, "goodnight sweetheart."

"goodnight, honey."

it's silent for a few beats and you can still feel a pair of eyes burn holes into your head

"gwayne! i can still feel you staring!"

"just checking you're still alive." you groan and grab his palm and place it on your chest, just where it beats gently

"there," you complain, "still alive."

and for the first time in months, gwayne finally lets himself fall asleep. its soft and sound and all he's ever wanted. you by his side. he'll hold you forever, and even when forever falls apart, he'll build a new dimension, timeline or earth where you and him co-exist no matter who, when or what could ever try to tear you apart.

Peter had been avoiding you. 

Had been for days now, though it wasn’t ever anything direct enough to make it obvious to anyone who didn’t know him the way you did. There was always some excuse ready when you asked him to come over, some patrol running late or something he had picked up, his answers coming quickly before he disappeared again. You knew it had something to do with his senses. Everything had been heightened lately, sounds and smells and every slight touch reaching him stronger than they should, and Peter had already begun keeping his distance whenever it became too much.

A few nights ago, whatever had been building finally came to a head.

Peter had stopped by late at night, landing on the fire escape outside your bedroom window the way he always did after patrol. The familiar scrape of metal pulled your attention from the television, followed by the muted thud of his feet meeting the platform. Usually, he tapped on the glass even though you both knew you left it unlocked for him. Sometimes he would crouch there with his mask pushed halfway up, waiting until you noticed him, wearing that tired, crooked smile that always made it impossible to stay annoyed about the hour.

This time, he didn’t knock.

Instead, he threw the window open hard enough to rattle the frame, climbing inside with none of his usual care, one hand hooked over the ledge while the other held his side. His mask was crushed in his fist, his suit torn near his ribs and across one thigh, the dark fabric slick where blood had soaked through. More streaked across his mouth and jaw, already drying along his upper lip, while a fresher line ran from somewhere near his hairline and into his curls.

From the look of him, it had been a very long night. His chest rose and fell too quickly, each breath pulled in through parted lips before leaving him rough and uneven. Even after he straightened, his shoulders stayed tense, his mask still clenched in one hand while his eyes moved around your room without settling anywhere for long, passing over the bed, the desk, the window behind him, then finally landing on you.

“Peter—”

“I’m fine,” he said before you could ask, though the blood running down the side of his face and the hand pressed tightly against his ribs said otherwise.

You looked him over for another second, taking in the bruising already beginning to darken along his cheek and the slight tremble in his fingers, then turned toward your nightstand. You kept everything he needed in the bottom drawer now—the gauze, antiseptic, butterfly bandages and the painkillers he always claimed didn’t do anything, yet took anyway.

But before you could reach it, Peter started talking, drawing your attention back to him. He paced back and forth in front of the window, his movements restless as though standing still would only make whatever was happening worse.

“Something’s wrong.”

You stopped near the nightstand, watching him make another pass across the room. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head, answering while the question was still leaving your mouth. “I don’t know, I just… something’s wrong.” The words poured from him jagged and loosely connected, each thought giving way to another. Scorpion. The fight. The cop. Peter stumbled over every piece as he tried to explain what happened, his breathing still too rough, his pacing growing quicker whenever a detail caught in his throat.

“I almost killed a cop.”

Peter stopped near your desk farther along the same wall as the window, staring down at his gloved hands, like he could still feel the force of what he had done sitting there.

“I almost killed a cop,” he repeated, softer this time, disbelief thinning his voice.

You tried to catch his eye, still struggling to piece together everything he had thrown at you. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Peter.”

“Just…” His face tightened before the rest could follow, a low grunt catching in his throat as his senses opened wider without warning.

The city crashed into him. Sirens several streets over, one set fading while another drew closer. Voices carried through the walls of the buildings surrounding yours, some clear enough to separate into words, others reduced to murmurs that still crowded together inside his skull. A couple argued half a block away. Pipes knocked behind the plaster while your neighbors shifted in bed, sheets dragging and old springs creaking beneath their weight.

All of it arrived with the same sharpness, every sound layered over another until there was nowhere for him to place any of it, including you. 

Especially you.

Your heartbeat pulsed above everything else, each beat carrying through the few feet between you as clearly as though his ear were pressed to your chest. He could hear your breathing change while you watched him, the slight catch at the start of every inhale, the softer release through your nose. The clean scent of your shower still lingered on your skin, soap and warmth clinging close, but underneath it was something sharper, sweeter, something his body recognized before his mind could force itself away from it.

Peter pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, fingers spread across his forehead as pressure gathered behind them. He knew the feeling now, the warning that came just before they changed, before the world sharpened past what he could stand.

You called to him as you rounded the foot of your bed and moved into the narrow space beside the desk, but your voice folded into everything else instead of reaching him. Sirens swallowed the first syllable, pipes struck behind the wall, someone laughed in the apartment below, and your heartbeat climbed faster with every step that brought you closer.

He wanted to answer you, to tell you to wait, not to come any closer, but each attempt was swallowed by the next sensation tearing through him.

You lifted a hand toward his arm, trying to steady him, but Peter’s fingers closed around your wrist while yours were still inches from touching him. He moved so quickly that the sudden stop nearly pulled you off balance, your body tipping toward him until you caught yourself with a short stumble. 

The grip wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but his fingers had already closed completely around your wrist, holding you there while every part of him strained against whatever had taken over.

“Don’t.”

His voice came out scraped thin and low, and when his gaze lifted to yours, black had already taken his eyes completely.

“Peter,” you said softly, his name carrying none of the fear he seemed to expect, only the worry that had brought you across the room in the first place.

The black pulled back almost as quickly as it had appeared, his eyes shifting into themselves until brown broke through again, followed by the whites around them. His gaze dropped immediately to where his hand was still wrapped around your wrist, and the sight of it seemed to cut through whatever had a hold of him. His fingers opened at once, releasing you so abruptly that your hand fell between you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t…” His breathing stayed rough, the apology doing nothing to ease the panic moving through him as he backed away from you and struck the edge of your desk. The impact rattled it behind him, but Peter barely reacted, already trying to put more space between you. “I have to go. I should go. You need to stay away from me, okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”

You stepped closer anyway, refusing the distance he had just fought to put between you. “You won’t.”

Peter looked at you, his brows drawing together as if he couldn’t understand how you could say it with that much certainty after what had just happened. His mouth opened, but his answer took a second to come, the words falling lower when they finally did.

“I almost killed someone tonight.”

“I know.”

“No, I…” He shook his head, the movement sharp with frustration as he tried to reach for an explanation that still wasn’t there. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what happened.”

“It was an accident, Peter.”

“You weren’t there.” His hand went back to his side as he moved closer to the open window, fingers twisting into the torn fabric there while he struggled to pull in a full breath. “I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t even realize what I was doing until it was already done, and what if that happens again?” His voice thinned, the fear in it coming through. “I’m dangerous right now. I can’t control any of this. I don’t even understand what this is.”

You moved to close the space, reaching for him again, but Peter slipped through the open window and stepped backward onto the fire escape with another shake of his head. “No, stay back.”

The warning was still hanging between you when his face tightened, another rush of noise tearing through him from every direction. Peter covered his ears, his eyes screwing shut again as sirens, voices and passing engines crashed together inside his head, each one too sharp to ignore.

“Peter, wait.” You moved toward the window to follow him, one hand lifting toward the frame, but his wrist snapped forward as you started to climb through. A strand of webbing caught against the glass and pulled the window shut between you, the frame slamming down, followed by a second shot along the edge that sealed it in place.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice strained beneath the noise still ripping through him as he pulled the mask back over his head.

You called after him through the glass, your voice rising as you pushed against the window, but Peter was already moving. He stepped onto the ledge and threw himself away from the building, a web catching somewhere above and sweeping him into the night, carrying him farther from you with every swing.

The first night, you barely slept. Every siren that passed beneath your window had you reaching for your phone, checking for a call you knew hadn’t come, then opening the news instead. You searched through every alert and half-written post that mentioned Spider-Man, watching clips long enough to make sure none of them showed him falling, bleeding or failing to get back up. Between each one, you called him again, listening to the line ring until his voicemail answered in his place.

“Please just tell me you’re okay.”

You left the message softly, worry still outweighing everything else as you stared toward the window he had sealed shut. The webbing still clung to the frame, the strands stretched white against the glass, and the longer you looked at it, the more the image of his face returned. His eyes turning black. The fear in his voice. The way he had backed away from you as though you were the one thing he couldn’t risk being near.

By morning, he still hadn’t answered.

You called again before you got out of bed, then later while you were getting dressed, then once more when most of the afternoon had passed without a word from him.

“Peter, answer me.”

Your voice came out firmer that time, the worry still there but starting to wear thinner with every call he ignored. You tried telling yourself his phone was dead, or he was asleep somewhere, or maybe he had found somewhere safe to wait until whatever was happening with his senses passed, but none of those excuses held up for very long when hours kept passing and he still didn’t say anything.

Sometime that night, he finally answered one of your texts.

I’m okay.

That was all he gave you.

No explanation. No apology. Nothing about where he was, whether he was hurt or when he planned on coming back. Just two words dropped into the middle of everything he had left you carrying, like knowing his heart was still beating should’ve been enough to settle yours. It didn’t. 

You called the second you read it, only for the phone to ring until voicemail again. The confusion that had kept you worried began wearing thin after that, scraped away a little more each time your name lit up his screen without convincing him to answer. By the next day, you were no longer asking gently.

“One text, Peter? That’s seriously all you’re giving me after everything that happened? You know, I’m trying really hard not to be pissed at you right now, but you’re making that impossible.”

You ended the voicemail before you could say anything else, tossing your phone onto the bed only to grab it again a few minutes later when another notification came through.

Spider-Man. 

It was blurry footage someone had posted online, red and blue streaking across the screen as Peter dropped between two parked cars, then launched himself after someone farther down the street. Another video surfaced a few hours later, then another after that. Spider-Man swinging between buildings, stopping a robbery, throwing himself into the path of danger while strangers stood close enough to film it.

You should’ve been relieved. He was alive, still doing what he always did. Yet, every clip made your anger climb higher because he was still out there. Still fighting. Still putting himself near criminals, cops and crowds while insisting that you were the one who needed to stay away from him.

You made up your mind in a matter of minutes. The few days you had already given him were more than enough. You tried calling. Tried giving him time to calm down and figure out whatever was going on without pushing him, but that clearly wasn’t working, and watching him swing around the city while he ignored you had burned through whatever patience you had left.

So you went to him.

You didn’t care how late it was tonight or whether he wanted to see you, only pulled on your shoes and walked the few blocks to his apartment with your phone still clutched in your hand. If Peter refused to answer your calls, then you would make him face you another way.

Your knuckles met the wood of his apartment door once, then twice, the second knock harder than the first. You had already raised your fist again, his name halfway out of your mouth as you started to tell him to open the door, when it swung inward.

Peter stood on the other side, looking like absolute hell. The bruising along his face had darkened, a cut split one eyebrow and was held together by butterfly closures, and exhaustion sat heavy around his eyes. His hair looked like he had been dragging his hands through it one too many times. He seemed irritated before either of you even spoke, though it didn’t sit naturally on him. It was too tangled with the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the door and his eyes moved over you once before quickly finding somewhere else to land.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Not hello. Not an explanation or an apology for ignoring you. Just immediate resistance, as though he had spent every hour since leaving your fire escape repeating the same rule until he had convinced himself it was the only one that mattered. Stay away. Stay safe. Don’t let you close enough to make him want to let you in.

“Yeah. Well, I am,” you said, unable to keep the bite from your voice. You were done debating whether you were allowed to care about your own boyfriend. “You scared the shit out of me, Peter. You showed up bleeding, told me you almost killed someone, then left me standing behind a window you webbed shut. Which was a dick move, by the way.”

His eyes stayed on you, tired and guarded, and with the way he was looking at you, you expected him to say something back. To argue, apologize, tell you that you didn’t understand, anything, but he only stood there with one hand still wrapped around the edge of the door.

“I gave you space. I called you, I texted you, and you responded once like that was supposed to be enough before ignoring me again.”

Peter still didn’t answer, and after another second, you realized he wasn’t going to. Whatever he was holding behind that look, he had no intention of saying it out here.

You let out a short breath, your frustration pressing tighter beneath your ribs. “Are you going to let me in?”

Peter’s hand shifted along the edge of the door, his fingers tightening while the rest of him remained planted in the opening. For a moment, it looked like he might refuse, like he was still trying to convince himself that keeping you in the hallway was somehow different from shutting you out everywhere else. His eyes moved over your face, tense and unreadable, before he swung the door wider with more force than necessary and stepped aside.

He kept himself rigid near the door as you passed, leaving enough space between you to make the distance feel intentional, every part of him held back from even the slightest brush of your body against his. It didn’t matter. The second you crossed the threshold, his senses found you anyway.

Your presence cut through the stale apartment, every breath and small shift of your body reaching him like you were standing much closer than you were. Having you there made everything worse in a way he still couldn’t explain. The rest of the apartment seemed to drop back as his senses locked onto you so hard there was barely room for anything else—which was exactly why he had been dodging you. Whenever they narrowed in like this, someone ended up hurt before he knew what his body was reacting to, and he wasn’t willing to find out what happened if the person standing closest to him was you.

You stepped farther inside, looking around as Peter shut the door behind you. The living room curtains were pulled tight even though it was already dark outside, blocking the streetlights and whatever movement passed below. Nearly every appliance had been unplugged, cords hanging loose near the outlets, and a few lightbulbs had been unscrewed and set together on a nearby table. He had been taking the apartment apart piece by piece, trying to get rid of anything that made noise or gave off too much light.

He was struggling. That much was obvious, and he had still decided to sit here and deal with it alone.

You turned back toward him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. No, I’m fine.” Peter shifted near the door, barely looking at you as he corrected himself. “I’m fine.”

You knew he was lying as soon as he finished saying it. Reaching toward the counter, you moved to set your phone and keys down, but the second the metal touched the surface with a small clink, Peter winced.

His face tightened, one eye squeezing shut like the sound had struck somewhere directly behind it, and your hand stopped beside the keys. It had hardly been loud enough for you to think about, just metal touching a counter, something normal and forgettable, but it had bothered him.

That one little movement told you everything his lie didn’t.

Your anger didn’t disappear, but it changed as you looked at him, losing some of its heat beneath the sudden weight of how bad this actually was. You were still pissed that he had shut you out, still wanted to yell at him for deciding by himself that you were better off worried and ignored, but standing there inside the apartment he had practically taken apart to make bearable, all you wanted was to give him one second where everything didn’t hurt.

You moved closer, slow enough that he could stop you, and Peter’s attention caught on you immediately, the tension drawing tighter through his shoulders even though he didn’t step away. That surprised you more than it should have. He had been fighting this since he left your fire escape, and now he looked too worn down to truly keep doing it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said again, his voice lower now, strained by everything still crowding through him. “I told you to stay away.”

His brows pulled together, but he didn’t argue when you came close enough to touch him. Your hand settled on his arm first, nothing more than the warmth of your skin through his shirt. The breath that left him was uneven, but looser than the last, his body tipping almost imperceptibly toward your touch until he caught himself.

It wasn’t enough to fix whatever was happening, but you felt the change and followed it. Your palm moved along his arm and across the tight line of his shoulders until your fingers found the back of his neck. The tension there gave in small pieces, the muscles slowly loosening as your hand slid higher and found his face.

Peter fully leaned into it then, his cheek pressing into you as though his body had made the decision before he could talk himself out of it. His shoulders dropped by half an inch, some of the strain finally leaving them as you gave his senses one clear place to land instead of the thousands still fighting for his attention.

You kept going, one hand holding his face while the other returned to his arm, tracing back over his shoulder and up toward his neck. You touched him slowly, mapping him back into his own body one piece at a time while Peter stood there trying not to collapse into you.

He still wouldn’t look at you, eyes lowered somewhere between you as his forehead came down to yours, the contact light at first, then heavier when his body folded toward you by the smallest amount. It felt like he was split between two separate instincts, one still trying to put distance between you and the other pulling toward every place your hands touched him.

“You are everywhere,” he said, the words so low they nearly disappeared between you.

Your hand stilled at the side of his neck. “What do you mean?”

Peter didn’t answer right away. His forehead stayed pressed to yours while his breathing moved warm across your skin, something working through him that you couldn’t see, his mouth parting once, then closing again.

“I can feel you…” His words stalled as another sound dragged at his attention, his jaw tightening while he fought his way back to you. “Everywhere.” His breath left him rough against your skin. “All the time now.”

Your fingers traced a fraction higher along his neck, and Peter’s breath snagged at the motion, his body following before he forced himself still.

“Even when everything else is…” He swallowed, his eyes squeezing shut as the noise pressed in again. “Even when I can hear all of it, you’re still…” His forehead pressed harder to yours. “You’re louder.”

The meaning settled between you slowly, carrying a different weight now that you understood. It wasn’t only that every sound, movement and touch had become too much for him. His senses had fixed themselves on you through all that noise, following you inside it, pulling every part of you forward until nothing else could drown you out. He was already overloaded, and on top of that, his body had tuned itself to you so completely that being close made it harder for him to tell where the overwhelm ended and you began.

“I have an idea,” you said, your voice dropping between you as your thumb moved once along his cheek. “Let’s give you one thing to focus on.”

Peter didn’t fight you this time. He stayed there with his skin pressed to yours, breathing through the closeness while your hands held him in place. He nodded once, small and almost unconscious, the movement more instinct than anything he had thought through.

You closed what little space remained, both hands sliding fully around his face as you pulled him into a kiss. For a second, he only took it, his mouth warm but motionless while his fingers flexed once at his side. Then his lips parted slightly, and the restraint holding him there gave just enough for him to kiss you back. It was soft at first, almost hesitant, but it didn’t stay that way for long. His head tipped into yours, his mouth fitting more firmly with your own as a low sound worked its way from his throat.

The kiss pulled at him quickly after that. His breathing changed, each exhale heavier than the last, while the tension held between your palms shifted into something harder to contain. He leaned closer, chasing your lips when you moved against his, and for a few seconds he let himself have it, let everything narrow down to the pressure of your mouth and the warmth of your hands holding his face.

Then you felt him catch himself again.

His lips slowed against yours before they stopped, not all at once, but like he was forcing himself out of the kiss piece by piece. He stayed close when he broke it, his mouth still brushing yours with every uneven breath, forehead lowering to yours again while his body remained pulled toward you despite the restraint tightening back through him.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” The words came out strained, carrying the same fear he had been trying to keep between you. 

“I know,” you said, your thumbs moving along the bruised edges of his face. “You won’t.”

Peter moved restlessly beneath your touch, angling his face away from the certainty in yours without putting any real distance between you. His mouth opened, voice turning rougher as your fingers held him there. “I don’t. I don’t trust myself.”

Your hand shifted along his jaw, tilting his face until he had no choice but to look at you. Peter resisted only in the slight tension that met your fingers, his eyes lifting to yours, dark and uncertain as they searched your face for some trace of hesitation. You held his gaze, letting him see there wasn’t any.

“I do.”

The words stayed between you while your hand slipped from his face and found his hand hanging stiffly at his side. His fingers twitched when yours closed around them, but he let you guide him forward, let you bring his palm to your hip and press it against the curve there. The contact pulled something taut through him, his fingers spreading, then tightening by degrees when you leaned into his hand.

Your lips found his again, slower this time, and Peter matched it before the kiss turned heavier. The restraint was still there in every measured kiss, in the way his hand stayed fixed at your hip even as his fingers flexed there, but when yours slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck, something in him gave. His breath caught, rough and startled, and the hand at your hip tightened hard enough to drag you flush against him.

He moved like leaving any part of you untouched had become impossible, his palm sliding over your waist, tracing your side before moving higher across your back, with no direction beyond the need to keep finding more of you beneath his hands.

Every movement seemed to send the city another mile away. Traffic blurred beyond the windows, voices in the building thinned into something far off, and even the low sound of the building’s elevator moving through its shaft lost its edge as his attention fixed entirely on you. Your mouth. Your breath catching between one kiss and the next. The heat of your body pressing into his while his grip slipped from careful to possessive without him seeming to notice the difference.

Peter kissed you like he had been starving with your name in his mouth—like every day he had spent keeping himself away had only sharpened the need until it hurt—and you let him. Your hands twisted into his hair as his mouth left yours and moved along your jaw, his kisses growing messier by the time he reached your neck. He hardly seemed to care where they landed, his lips pressing just below your ear, then dragging lower while his breath spread hot across the skin he had already left damp. His grip tightened around your waist when your head tipped back for him, pulling you closer as his mouth found the quick beat of your pulse.

His senses zeroed in on something specific in your scent, something he still didn’t have a name for. You smelled good, but it wasn’t only the perfume fading from your clothes or the fragrance left in your hair. Something warmer rose beneath both, coming straight from your skin, the same thing he’d picked up the other night, only stronger now with your body pressed to his and his mouth open over your throat.

Whatever arachnid instinct had sharpened alongside his senses recognized it without asking him to understand. Peter wasn’t just kissing you anymore; he was drinking you in. His nose brushed along the side of your neck while his mouth returned to the quick pulse there, lips parting as every beat struck hot and frantic against them.

He could feel every reaction before you gave it sound, the flutter that moved through you when his teeth grazed your skin, the warmth rising where his hand spread across your back, the small shift of your body that pressed you more firmly into him. Each one found him cleanly now, stripped of the noise that had been tormenting him for days, giving him a stronger signal to follow. 

Peter’s palm dug deeper into your waist as his mouth closed over that sensitive point, rougher this time, and the breath that hitched in your throat went through him like a command, pushing him further.

Without warning, his hands swept behind your thighs and hauled you off the floor in one effortless motion. Your legs wrapped around his waist on reflex, arms winding over his shoulders to keep your chest pressed to his as he carried you toward the bed. His mouth stayed on your skin, working down your throat in hot, open-mouthed kisses and breathing you in between them while every hurried step pressed the hard rise of him between your legs.

Your back hit the mattress hard enough to bounce you once as Peter followed you down, already tugging at the clothes between his hands and your skin. You tried to help, lifting into him as he dragged your shirt upward, but Peter was moving too fast for either of you to make it graceful. Fabric tangled around your arms, your hands knocked into his, and his breathing sharpened as he fought it free, throwing it aside so he could get his mouth back on you. His lips moved from yours to your jaw, then the bare stretch of your shoulder while his hands kept working, rough and impatient as they stripped away everything still covering you.

His own clothes went just as quickly. You reached for the hem of his shirt, but Peter was already wrenching it over his head, barely giving the rest time to hit the floor as he came back to you. There was none of his usual awkward fumbling, no nervous laugh when your limbs got in each other’s way, only the desperate need to get closer. He kissed you again the second there was nothing left between you, his mouth opening hot over yours while his hands finally met skin. They swept over your waist, closed around your thigh, dragged you farther down the mattress as though having you naked against him still somehow wasn’t close enough. His breath broke harshly across your lips as he lined himself up, then pressed inside.

There was nothing slow about it. Peter sank into you in one hard movement that pulled the air from your lungs and forced a low, strained sound from his throat. His forehead dropped to yours, fingers digging harder into your hip while the sudden stretch split through you, raw and immediate, making your body lock around him. The reaction went straight through Peter, his mouth finding yours again to swallow the sound you made as his hips started rutting into you. 

He fucked you like he was trying to drown in the one sensation that didn’t hurt, each thrust driving him deeper while his mouth stayed pressed to yours and his hands kept you pulled tight against him. He had denied himself this until the distance became another kind of pain, listening to your voice through unanswered calls and imagining the touch he had forced himself to avoid while every nerve in his body burned too hot inside him. Now your lips were under his, your fingers twisted in his hair, your body wrapped around every place that had ached for you, and the relief was already turning sharp at the edges.

The overload still threaded through him, coiled and electric, but now every sound that hit too loudly was dulled almost as soon as it reached him. A horn blared somewhere below, only to vanish into the broken way you said his name. The pipes knocked inside the wall, but your nails dragged down his back hard enough to leave heat behind, giving his senses something closer to hold onto. He could hear every shift in your breathing, every wet pull of his body moving inside yours, every small sound you tried to swallow into his mouth, and each one cut cleaner through the noise than anything else had. He even felt the smallest rise in your temperature where your skin met his, warmth gathering a fraction at a time across your chest, your stomach, the inside of your arms where they held him close, each change so slight you never would’ve noticed it yourself, but Peter caught all of it. 

It became too much and still somehow wasn’t enough. Peter answered every change in your body without thinking, pounding into you faster like he could keep coaxing more from you—more warmth, more sound, more of those filthy little reactions whenever he struck deep enough. Feeling all of you at once wore through what remained of his control, every tremor, every shiver, every breath sweeping across his face, until he stopped trying to escape the overload and gave himself to it instead, sinking further because now every part of it tasted like you.

The second your body started to settle into the rough pace, Peter slowed. One last deep stroke left you stretched around him, then he withdrew so abruptly the loss barely registered before his hand closed around your hip and turned you over. Your stomach hit the mattress, sheets twisting around you as he rolled you onto it, one palm pinning you in place while the other hauled your hips back to him. You’d hardly caught your breath when his weight covered you and he sank inside again, the angle wrenching a broken sound from your mouth as your back arched on instinct, your ass meeting his hips while he started fucking you all over again.

Peter leaned forward until his chest covered your back, skin hot and slick where it sealed to yours, then hooked one arm around you and drew you into him. His bicep locked across the front of your throat, thick at the hollow just below your chin, holding you exactly where he wanted while his mouth hovered near your ear. The position left you trapped between his body and the mattress, your back pulled flush to his chest as he drove into you harder, each thrust landing deeper from the way he’d folded himself around you. His grunts broke low beside your head while your moans spilled out underneath them, his breath hitting the shell of your ear in short, ragged bursts whenever your body clenched and dragged another sound from him.

God, you felt good. The thought tore through him somewhere between the sound of his cock fucking back into you and the way you cried his name in those thin, ruined breaths, your voice breaking each time his hips snapped forward. With your body wrapped hot and tight around him and your pulse hammering against his arm, the thing inside him that kept scratching for release finally had somewhere to go. It settled lower, meaner, turning relief into a hunger that cinched his arm tighter and drove his rhythm toward something brutal, his mouth grazing your ear while he fucked you like he needed to hear exactly how much of him you could take.

His free arm circled you next, crossing over the first until both locked you to him, closing your body into his while his hips kept driving forward with nowhere left for you to move. The pressure forced your back tighter to his chest and kept him buried along the same swollen place over and over, each thrust striking it so cleanly that your cries started breaking apart. You said his name once, then again, louder when the tension finally split through you, your legs locking straight before they broke into short, uneven kicks across the sheets. The orgasm flooded through you hard enough to make your whole body seize inside his arms, thighs trembling, hips jerking, your pussy clenching around him in pulsing waves while Peter held you there and kept fucking you through every second of it.

Even with your body shaking around him, he still wasn’t done. The release moving through you gave him more to feel, every tight pulse dragging over him, every fractured sound falling from your mouth landing right against his senses. The sensation turned his breathing rougher near your ear, but he finally dragged himself out, the loss drawing a wrecked sound from your throat as his arms loosened around you. One hand stayed at your hip while the other caught your shoulder, flipping you onto your back so quickly the room tipped around you. The mattress sank with his weight as he followed, settling between your legs and driving back inside while you were still catching your breath, the stretch tearing another ruined sound from you when your body took him again so soon.

Peter braced himself over you with both arms framing your head, his chest dropping close enough that each rough exhale reached your face. Then his hips started moving, driving into you with a pace that made the bed shift with each stroke, the headboard knocking softly into the wall while your body slid higher over the sheets. His mouth found yours in the middle of it, but even the kiss came apart under the force of how he was fucking you, teeth catching your lip, breath spilling between you, his mouth missing yours for half a second when a harder thrust jolted you both before dragging back over it.

Your hands landed on his shoulders, nails pressing into skin already marked from you, and Peter answered by dropping more of his weight over you. One forearm stayed planted beside your head while the other slid down your body, palm dragging over your waist until his fingers closed behind your knee. He pulled your leg higher along his side and hooked it over his hip, opening you wider for him without slowing, the shift changing the angle enough that the next thrust struck somewhere that made your whole body jerk. Your mouth broke from his on a sharp cry, and his face tightened at the sound, eyes dropping between you as he felt the way you closed around him.

That was all the encouragement his body needed. He rolled his hips lower on the next drive, grinding into you instead of pulling back as far, keeping himself buried while he worked over that same sensitive place from inside. The motion was slower for half a second, deeper in a way that made the pressure build instead of break, his pelvis dragging against you while his hand held your leg tight to his side. Then he pulled back only enough to do it again, each stroke forcing you open around him before ending in a rough grind that pressed every inch of him inside you.

He kept changing the rhythm by fractions, listening to what each adjustment did to your breathing, watching your lips part when he angled his hips slightly higher, feeling your leg tighten around him when he drove down and forward. Every stronger reaction pulled another one from him, a low grunt breaking near your mouth as he chased the spots that made your body seize beneath his.

You could feel how close he was in the tension running through his body, in the way his stomach drew taut over yours and his breath kept catching between clenched teeth, but he still wouldn’t let himself fall into it. Even like this, with sweat slick between you and that rougher edge cutting through every movement, Peter still had a hold on himself. You knew him well enough to see it. 

His rhythm would stutter for half a second, one broken thrust landing harder than the rest, then he’d drag it back under control and force himself into something steadier. His jaw stayed locked, the muscles along his shoulders trembling beneath your hands while his eyes squeezed shut, and you knew what he was hiding from when his lashes pressed tighter against his cheeks. The black was threatening to rise again. One side of him was clawing for more while the other kept every part of his body pulled painfully tight, terrified of what would happen if he stopped controlling each breath, each muscle, each filthy drive into you.

You reached for his face, palms sliding over the heat in his skin until your fingers curled along his jaw and pulled him down toward you. “Peter.” His eyes stayed shut, his hips still moving with that strained, measured force, so you said his name again and made him look at you. Brown showed first when his eyes opened, darkened around the edges by something deeper trying to surface, and the fear there was sharp enough to cut through the hunger twisting across his face. 

You held him there anyway, thumbs braced high along his cheeks while his body kept moving between your thighs. “It’s okay.”

He shook his head once, barely enough to count, like even that small movement might loosen something he couldn’t put back. His mouth brushed yours as he breathed, each exhale hot and uneven, his forehead dropping close while his grip tightened around your leg.

“You don’t know that,” he managed, though the words broke apart when you clenched around him and his hips jerked hard into you. You nodded against him, refusing to let him turn away, your hands keeping his face close while your lips moved softly over his. “It’s okay,” you told him, the words landing between one kiss and the next. “Let go.”

You were looking straight at him while you said it, your body spread wide for him, your mouth still touching his as you asked for the thing he’d been fighting to keep from you. Peter searched your face for hesitation and found none, only your fingers tightening along his jaw and the quiet nod you gave him when his breathing caught. His brows pulled together for half a second, something strained and almost disbelieving passing through his expression, and then everything changed.

His palm struck the headboard above you, fingers spreading hard over the wood as his hips drove forward with enough force to shove you higher across the mattress. The next thrust came faster, then another, whatever restraint he’d been holding finally splitting apart as he fucked into you with the strength he’d spent the entire night trying to keep buried. Your mouth fell open, each breath spilling into helpless sounds while your hands slid from his face to his shoulders, nails digging in as each snap of his body buried him as deep as you could take him.

The bed slammed under you, its wooden frame knocking against the wall in a violent rhythm that matched the pounding of his hips. The headboard struck once, twice, then kept hitting until the plaster cracked behind it and dust sifted loose along the edge, but Peter didn’t slow enough to notice. His arm stayed locked above your head, every muscle drawn taut as he fucked you harder, each impact traveling through your body until your breasts shook and your legs cinched around his waist just to keep yourself anchored.

You felt all of it, every brutal glide as he pulled back and every deep, punishing thrust that filled you again, his hips grinding into yours at the end of each one as though even that last inch mattered. The mattress shifted at your back, sheets dragging over your skin while Peter’s mouth found yours between ragged breaths, the kiss missing at first when another hard stroke knocked your head back, then met it again with teeth and tongue and the rough sound he made when you squeezed around him. He was finally letting everything through, all that impossible strength turning each movement sharper, fuller, until there was nothing in the room except the bed striking the wall and the wet, filthy rhythm of his body driving into yours.

His pace broke without warning, one deep thrust holding him against you while his whole body went rigid above yours. A wrecked sound tore from his throat as he came, hips jerking hard into you again while his fingers pressed deep enough into the frame to splinter the wood under his palm. His face tightened through it, mouth falling open near yours, and when his eyes lifted they were already changing, the brown disappearing into black until the darkness swallowed them completely.

Peter realized it almost immediately. You saw the exact second pleasure gave way to fear, his body still trembling over yours while those blackened eyes searched your face for the reaction he’d been expecting since the first night. He waited for you to tense, to recoil from what he’d finally let you see, to understand why he’d begged you to stay away, but you only tightened your hands behind his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. Your mouth met his without hesitation, soft for half a breath before opening wider, catching the rough exhale that left him while your fingers pushed into his hair and kept him close.

This was what he’d tried to outrun, and he’d been wrong.

You saw the black in his eyes, saw the change he feared would make you look at him differently, and you didn’t treat him like a monster. You kissed him like he was still Peter because he was. Your arms drew him closer as his weight settled over you and his hips kept grinding through the last uneven pulses of his release. The slow pressure dragged over the place he’d already worked raw until your second orgasm spilled through you, your body closing hard around him as his name slipped from your mouth and into the kiss.

Peter felt every part of it. The sudden heat spreading through you, the sharp tremor running down your legs, the helpless way your nails caught at his shoulders while your body tightened around him in wet, pulsing waves. He held you through it with his forehead pressed to yours, those dark eyes fixed on your face as the terror he’d carried for days found nowhere left to stand. You weren’t scared. You weren’t enduring him or trying to calm him down. You wanted him exactly like this, still wrapped around him while your breath shook against his lips and your body kept drawing him deeper whenever the aftershocks moved through you.

The realization met every sharpened sense at once, cleaner than the noise outside or the damaged headboard creaking beneath his hand. Your pulse wasn’t racing with fear. Your scent had only grown warmer, richer, threaded through with the same desire that had pulled him to your throat in the first place, and the arms around his neck weren’t trying to hold him back. They were pulling him closer.

His body had been trying to tell him that from the beginning. Every time his senses cut through the rest of the city to find you, every time your voice rose above thousands of others or your touch gave all that noise one place to settle, it hadn’t been choosing a target. It had been reaching for an anchor. He had spent all this time afraid to touch you, forcing himself to stay away while every part of him remained painfully aware of what he was denying himself, never realizing he had been running from the one thing trying to bring him back.

Something in him settled around that truth while something else rose to meet it. His mouth found yours as his hips began to move, slowly at first, then with a gathering force that filled the room with heat, the creak of splintered wood, and his name breaking apart in your mouth again and again.

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It's debilitating. He feels so familiar. Like a memory so strong that you can smell the fresh crayons from elementary school without having touched a box of them in the last several years. Or maybe it's more of a muted blur trying restlessly to revive itself. Watching your younger self in the mirror, head bobbing side to side as you feel that humming in your chest even all these years later. When did being seven happen fifteen years ago?

Didn't you know him then? At seven? It's so convincing to go along with the idea that you did. If your brain didn't scream otherwise, you'd go along with the thought. But why is your mind so against it?

His confession is crumpled in your hands, thumb smoothing over the wrinkles and regrets folded into the pages. It stings, or burns, or… ignites something in your person.

"I'm so sorry…" His cheeks are pink, but his eyes can't leave yours. Do you remember? He can't commit to that risk. 

He's fully masked, fully guarded, standing across from you and trying his best to come up with something to say. He's had years to consider this conversation. He's replayed it countless times, but it always ends the same. Now that it's happening, now that it's not just a show of puppetry with the strings tied to the ends of hisfingers, there's something more real at stake. 

"No, don't apologize." Your reassurance is quick but comes out in a whisper. 

Maybe Peter's a fool for letting hope wash in, for focusing on your immediate response rather than the lack of conviction behind it, but he can't help himself. How many times had he passed your place, hoping you'd lock eyes like some clandestine meeting and just… know? And now you're here, just a few feet away and looking right past the Spider-Man mask and straight into his soul. It almost feels like fate. 

He's a fool that can't look away, but you're just as much a fool that can't stop seeking.

It's beyond niceties. Confrontation of the letter says something. You didn't awkwardly pretend to never have read it, or offer up a pitiful apology and wish him a good day as you backed out. You're here. Eyes turning glassy, head tilting in some faint recognition—he knows it. 

His middle finger taps rhythmically against his thumb, taking the invitation to a conversation. "I should have told you."

It's a hidden apology, an admission of doing something wrong. And it is wrong. Him pulling a trigger that you didn't even know existed, making a call that you had no clue was on the table of possibilities. Entirely unpredictable, and completely unfair. And it just aches.

You swallow, trying to solve the puzzle. "Why didn't you?"

He watches you for a moment. The temptation to run is faint, the need to curl up into a ball and cry is overwhelming. This isn't how it was supposed to be but it's been his own hands making this bed. Avoid the moon all you want, but he'd end up lying in that bed in the end. 

"I didn't know how," he admits.

"You wrote a letter," you hold the paper up. "You could've read it to me. You could've reintroduced yourself, or mailed it, or… or sent a fucking carrier pigeon, I don't know!"

Frustration cracks your ribs open, lungs shaking in a broken breath. Are you mad? It doesn't feel like anger. It's almost indescribable, an adjective on the tip of your tongue but you just can't spit it out. It tastes aged and ruined.

Whatever it is, he lets you feel it. He lets himself falter, taking a step back to shadow himself in his shame. Sinking into a depth within his mind where he knows that he'd be digging his own grave the same way he'd made his bed. Where he thinks he deserves to be, but you aren't so sure.

"I'm sorry," you murmur and set his confession letter on the table. "I'm just trying to understand this."

"No, please say whatever you feel." His voice is stronger when defending you than it was for himself. "It was wrong— it is wrong. I shouldn't have kept it from you, and I can't imagine how it must feel."

In theory, you know that his words should anger you. That you didn't owe him any utterance of an apology and that he should be groveling at your feet. In practice, you can tell he's already paid every price imaginable for his actions. You don't want revenge, you just want to fill in that blank page in your memories. 

The memories scrawled on those pages are meant to be yours, but he can tell that you don't own them anymore. He sees the desperate search that your mind has been on to somehow plug these memories back into your hard drive. It's exhausting. Something is always wrong about it. 

Peter wonders what it was like for you. If he was standing here, face revealed, would it bring back any memory? Right now, even with the mask on, are your memories of him gone entirely? Or filled in with something that never really happened? Stress is written so plainly on your face, he doesn't pry. You rub your fingers into your temples to try and self soothe, but it's a failed attempt. 

His fingers twitch, wanting reach out and try to do it for you. He knows better. His palm flattens against his thigh.

For whatever reason, you recognize his distress too. Without a face, without words, without reason. You know him. Of course, all of New York thinks they know Spider-Man. 

His attempts to put himself in your shoes, to encourage you to call him out with a vengeance. It's a little ironic after having kept the secret for four years, but he still welcomes you with open arms even if it means accepting harsh words. You see the way he has to keep his hand to himself, the way that he wants to take care of you because it's just in his nature. 

"Take off the mask." You say it more like a demand than request.

"I can't—" he pauses. 

Can't what? You already knew his name, it's in the first line of his letter to you. But his face is much different. What if it brings light to the shaded parts of your past? Both fear and excitement feast on the idea of that. 

"I think I deserve to see the face that wrote me this." Your finger taps the pages on the table. Body feeling weighted like when emerging from water, you force yourself to stand. "To see who would deny me my own memories, who would make such a huge decision for me."

"I wasn't trying to…" Peter's defense falls flat. How can he keep denying? "Does it matter? What I look like?"

"Matters enough for you to hide it." You take a small step forward, hand still on those pages.

His chest falls. You're right. Thinking on it, this is part of why he has avoided you. He has a way of intertwining right into whatever string of reasons you sent his way. Always has.

"It was magic, even if you see me you won't remember." He tries to defend his cause anyway.

You shake your head, "I never said I want to remember, I said I want to see who did this." 

"Right." His voice is hardly audible.

You deserve the dignity of knowing, he knows it. Of having a face to pin to the hole inside your head. A visual of who to blame, who to point fingers to. And he deserves the consequence of secrecy. Doesn't mean it didn't sting when you rejected the idea of remembering.

Just as he knows the sun will rise in the east each morning, he knows he will reveal himself to you again. Hesitance feels like some form of self pity. The thing is, he hasn't been the only victim to the avoidance and he can't fathom hurting you any more than he already has.

Gloved fingers rise to his neck, peeling up the fabric of his mask with a movement that he'll label as caution instead of reluctance. It'll meaning nothing, his mind offers. It will change nothing.

Your eyes are carefully kept on his form, capturing each bit of evidence possible. A freckle on his neck, short brown hair poking out from the back, a nose that looked like it had been broken one times too many. Brown eyes filled with worry. With fear. With love. With tears.

Breathing in, your spine slowly straightens. Had you expected some crashing wave? Maybe a visceral feeling that screamed, how could you forget? It just feels blank. But there is curiosity in the unknown.

"Peter Parker," you whisper to yourself. 

He feels like he himself has somehow become some personification of a fever. He melts, eyes softening into a brand of resignation he hasn't known for the last four years. Hearing you say his name encourages his heart to be excited. Maybe it's wrong, or selfish, or maybe just morally ambiguous, but he wants to hear it over and over and over.

Of course, he knows you're just tasting it. Trying his name out, or maybe committing his face and name to memory so you know who to avoid from here on out. But at least your eyes are on him again. He didn't know how badly he missed being seen by you.

His hands, unsure of what to do, both hold onto his Spider-Man mask. It somehow makes him feel less vulnerable. How is it possible to feel so naked with 90% of your body covered?

"Why didn't you just tell me?" You ask it again, and answering has become unavoidable. 

Saying the wrong thing would be incredibly easy right now. He really, really doesn't want to make you run, but also knows you're halfway out the door. He can't blame you.

"Because I was afraid," he says the truth. He swallows the lump in his throat, teary eyed but refusing to let them fall. "I lost someone very important, and it was my fault. I've been afraid of letting you know me because…"

The holes in his argument are massive, he's just as aware of that as you are. But you let him go on anyway. You offer him a level of patience that doesn't feel deserved. 

He continues, "Because knowing me is a risk. And if I lost you, I wouldn't know how to live. I couldn't." 

"A risk for me to decide on," you point out.

"I know," he nods, entirely agreeing. "I've been selfish."

"Is you acknowledging that supposed to make it okay?" Your arms cross over, hugging yourself through this uncharted territory.

"No," he says quickly. "No, it just… You wanted to know why, and that's it. It was because I can't lose someone else so important to me. I love you, that's my reason."

His knuckles are nearly white, gripping his mask with an intense concern that he's losing you anyway. Just as the prophecy read, it would be his own fault.

"I love you." He repeats. What if this is the last time he gets to say it?

You're unsure how the new confession hits you. You don't even know what else you could've expected having read the letter. Of course that's his reason or he never would've written the letter in the first place. Some part of you knows that you just wanted to hear him say it.

Those three words ring through you with a vague familiarity. You'd heard them before, you heard them just yesterday when saying goodbye to Ned before his weekend trip. But that was between friends. This just… lingers. Has been lingering. Festering. Eating your brain as you cry for the loss of something you didn't recognize. 

Your foot lifts from the metal floor, taking two steps closer to the man standing on trial. He stays planted, like a deer staring into the headlights of a crashing car. He's accepting of his fate.

The proximity feels comforting. Now that you're closer, you see the color of his eyes is brown. That somehow perfectly fits the vision you had of him. A color that is warm and gentle, fitting the persona Spider-Man had to have in order to help civilians feel safe.

His name had been perfect too. An alliteration that scratched every itch when you spoke it. It soaks into your mind, firing off neurons that tell you you aren't supposed to know that. You aren't supposed to know him. 

But how can you ignore the simultaneous tug of your heart that is begging you to step closer? Muscle memory takes over, guiding your hand to his face. His eyes watch as you near and he stays still.

You quietly ask, hand frozen less than an inch away from its destination, "Can I?" 

"Please." He whispers back. It's all it takes. 

Your fingers finally land, brushing backwards on his cheek as your hand simply knows how to find its place there. His jaw unclenches beneath your touch as if his body is allowing him to relax for the first time in ages. 

Peter feels sure that he is about to burn up as crashes back into your atmosphere. His eyes are still set straight ahead, locked with yours. But your eyes are still scanning and determining how close you'll let him get. 

First, your eyes land on the freckle to the left of his nose. Something that you figure past you had memorized away as a place to put casual kisses. Then, you look at the curls that laid messily against his forehead and can assume your fingers used to coil around them with ease. Last, you see the absolute exhaustion in his eyes that likely always ratted him out for pushing himself too hard.

Thumb smoothing the skin beneath his eyes, you connect your gaze with his again. You see it now. Really, truly see it.

"You look so lonely," you murmur the concern. 

Accuracy can be presumed by the way he leans into your touch, head guiding him to press his face flat against your hand. The tips of your fingers brush into the brown curls by his ear. Your fingers know just what to do to hold him properly, relaxing and parting around his ear. 

This is his punishment, he imagines. To feel the touch of your skin again, and immediate relief of being back in your orbit. To feel the physical acceptance that your muscles just know you used to give him, but with that reminder that your brain wasn't going to allow it. To know that, eventually, you would push him away and he'd be aimlessly floating. 

"Ah, you know… hard to feel alone when I stay busy as Spider-Man." Peter tries to shake it. It's in him to try keeping it light. 

You shake your head, thumb moving across his cheek bone now. "Lonely, not alone."

He knows the difference well. Admittedly, though, the call out is right but slightly off. Those tears that had refused to budge before let loose now. No point in avoiding it anymore.

"I think I've been both." He confesses and his chest sputters a breath. "I know I have."

Pulling him in for a hug is careful and smooth, bodies pressing together with ease. Your hand wrapped around, resting on the back of his head to cradle him through this pain. The other hand goes to his back and presses him closer to your heart. 

You could tell yourself that it's just kindness. That you are simply comforting another human in a time of need. It's so much more, though.

The beating of his heart makes it feel like it's trying to break through just to be held in the palm of your hand. The hold that surrounds you as his arms wrap around brings a desperate comfort that you recognize as one of those things you knew you were somehow missing. His fingers splay across your back, frantically gripping the fabric of your shirt and pulling you in with a fervor that begged you to stay.

Sobbing tears roll from his eyes before he squeezes them shut, desperate to focus absolutely everything on this feeling of holding you again just in case he never gets to do it after this. Trying his hardest to calm down, to not entirely fall apart in the arms of this person that hardly knows who he is, he takes in slow, staggered breaths that only stab his heart again as he breathes in your perfume. At least it's something else to hold on to.

"I'm so sorry," he cries into your neck. "I'm so sorry, I should've told you. I should've—I'm sorry."

"It's okay," you coo. 

"It was so selfish, I'm sorry." He repeats himself, not really sure what else to do. "I love you, and I've been so afraid."

Your eyes close, deciding to be fully present in the feeling of being held and holding him. "It's okay, Pete. I'm here."

There is some sense of overwhelm that is beginning to wash over you. You almost let it scare you, but it's right. It's fucked up, and it's dirty, but it's truth. 

You've felt his arms around you before, and not just on the absolutely, mind blowing-ly terrifying web swinging ride here. No. You've felt this desperate claw for comfort. You've held him through tears, and sobbing, and failures to self soothe. 

"May," you utter the name. "It was May that you lost, wasn't it?"

Peter freezes, and you do too. The names were spoken before you had even actually processed them. Pete is excused, too common of a nickname to read in to. But May? You don't even know where it came from, you just trusted your heart that it was right.

Pulling back but keeping his hands on your upper arms, he looks at you through his reddened eyes. "Where did you…"

"I don't know." You feel almost guilty for knowing the name. "Your letter must've mentioned her."

"No," he shakes his head. "No, I didn't write her name. I… I wasn't ready to write her name, I've not even been able to say it."

He's not anything but sorrowful, seeking for answers just the same as you. Hoping that he'll find the answer to it all by looking into your eyes, just like you had hoped seeing his face would unlock floodgates. What catches you off guard is that it's not a flood, but a stream. 

"It was May, I just remember." Your gaze turns itself away, realizing tears were streaming from your eyes too. Were you ready to remember?

"It was, but…" Peter's chest rises and falls with exaggerated flow. He doesn't want to get his hopes too high. "Did I say her name? Is it because of the name Parker? You helped put at F.E.A.S.T. sometimes, do you just remember her from that?"

He doesn't mean to overwhelm, he really doesn't. 

"I don't know," your voice is quiet again. 

Gripping his arms, your eyes squeeze shut like trying to regain balance just to find out that your footing is stable. Your brain feels fogged. Which… isn't anything new for these last four years. It's just that now the fog is turning acidic, biting at you and making itself known rather than concealing something's existence. 

He reacts, cupping your cheeks and ducking his head to follow your avoidance and be sure that you're okay. Again, meant to comfort you. Physically, you feel his gloved hands brushing over your skin with a tenderness that was well practiced. Muscle memory steps in again, leaning yourself into his touch because your body simply knows that you belong in his hands. 

Emotionally, you're coming undone into a million pieces. Working overtime, your brain is scrambling to build up a dam to stop a crashing wave that ends up coming out more like a trickle regardless. Why does it feel like something grand is supposed to happen?

"I just knew," you helplessly repeat. Your brain is throbbing. 

"Okay." Peter gently accepts, seeing that it's overwhelming. 

Excitement came over him. He wants you to remember, he needs you to remember. But he can't force it. 

He's glad to see your acceptance of his touch. He thought that he'd surely never get to hold you again. It's so much sweeter than he remembered, and the memory had been one dipped in honey. 

"It's okay." He speaks softly. "I'm not trying to push, I'm sorry. It's just…"

"No, I know." You slowly exhale and opt to keep your eyes shut. It feels nice to just float in his hold. 

You're grounding yourself, same method that Peter recognizes from four years ago. Slow, deep breaths, controlling your senses so you can recenter. Letting his hands be a guiding force. 

Taking the chance, his eyes scan your face. The way it looks in his touch. The way it looks when standing so close. He's missed you so terribly. 

Focus shifts, your hand coming up to press his hand closer into your cheek. The warmth feels just like returning to bed in the middle of the night. His fingertips pressing into the plush apples of your cheeks feels exactly like sipping a hot cup of tea after being showered in a relentless rain. His patient silence fills you with that same exact excitement of clicking the last piece of a thousand count puzzle into place. 

"Peter." You say it another time. This time it hurts. 

He never stopped crying. Taking one step closer, coming when called upon, the edge of his boot brushes your shoe. He almost lets his forehead rest on yours but that's your call not his. 

"Yeah?" His voice is broken, though there's a faint glow of hope. 

A laugh breaks through your overwhelming crisis. It's bitter, aimed at your own heart and memory. You want to tear yourself to shreds. 

"I've known you," you cry, gripping onto his wrist because you need to his hands to stay there. "I've known you this whole time, haven't I? You've been that void in my head?"

Is it sick to say he hopes so? 

Instead he says, "You read the letter." It allows you to process however you need. 

You shake your head, sniffling and leaning your forehead against his chest. "But I've known, in some way. I've known something was missing. I know something is missing. I know you, I knew Aunt May."

His hand cradles the back of your head. There's some sort of peace in the fact that him holding you is bringing comfort. You'd feel the pounding of his heart, but he didn't mind the way he used to. He needs to be seen by you, held by you, absorbed by you. 

Trying to brush everything off with a quick lash of doubt was becoming increasingly difficult. He had never said May's name to you, and he certainly never told you she was his aunt. How could he keep denying hope entry when the walls were being torn apart brick by brick?

Chin resting ontop of your head, he whispers, "You did. You do."

"Oh my god, I've missed you." You speak as a deep sighed cry comes out, your arms wrapping around him again but this time with a deathly grip. 

It would be more lethal… were Peter not genetically enhanced, and if he wasn't so desperate for you to never let go. Weld yourself into his ribs for all he cared, he'd bring the flame if you brought the torch. 

"I've missed you so much, this entire time. I knew." You're spewing anything just to talk to him again. 

You can't even remember each and every detail of why you missed him, it's just a sense of knowing. You love this man. You have loved this man, prior to these last four years of separation. It's the reason your life feels stalled. The explanation for why things just never felt complete. He has been missing. 

"I missed you, I love you." Your heart just lets it all out. 

Peter's brain feels nearly as thrown as yours. He can't believe the words he's hearing. It feels like a dream, or a nightmare, or one of Mysterio's cruel trick visions. It feels surreal. 

But it's you. You, in his arms, on his chest. You telling him you love him, and remembering May on your own. If it was a dream it would be immediate, and if it was Mysterio it would be over the top. It's real, and it's you. Taking time to mend the broken pieces, but that connection between the two of you letting itself be known. 

Still. He has been tricked so many times before. You read him plainly, you called out his loneliness. Was this just a stranger trying to offer someone kindness in their time of grief?

"You don't have to say that." Peter regrets feeling the need to say it. "Please don't say it unless you really mean it."

"Pete, I mean it." You pull your head from his chest, though it longs to stay. "I wish I'd known it months ago, years ago. I wish I'd seen you sooner, or read that letter, or— it doesn't matter. I've missed you."

The more you say it, the more you feel how true it is. It's a fact. You know him, and there is a giant mass of empty space in the life you've been pretending to live while he has been gone. You may not remember his favorite bodega, or how he takes his coffee, but you're absolutely certain that…

"I love you." You say it with a heavenly sigh because you get to say it at all. 

Your hands cup his face, coming in for a soft and tender kiss. Peter thinks he's dying. But your lips feel exactly how he remembers. Precisely how they've felt when he has imagined feeling it again. Even if his heart was giving out, the connection of your lips sends a spark to revive him. 

"Say it again." He says it almost silently. "Please, say it again."

You do. "I love you." Followed with another magnetic kiss. 

It isn't a crashing wave. There are no fireworks, and there is no flash of every single memory that you'd lost in this unfair story. Sure, you could make it something dramatic and theatrical, but at its core it's so simple. 

It's just you with him. It's what is right. A blissful, all consuming, lasting love that will take its sweet time to reconnect you. How thrilling, to fall in love again. 

"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.

You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.

The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.

What has he done?

"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.

Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.

"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"

Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?

“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”

Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.

Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.

"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."

"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."

Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?

He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.

His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.

“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.

He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.

He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.

There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.

“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.

Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.

“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”

His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.

“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.

Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.

“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”

His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.

“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”

Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."

A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.

"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.

Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.

Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.

"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.

He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.

He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.

You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?

Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.

You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.

"Don't go." He whispers.

Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.

"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.

He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."

You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.

He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.

"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."

His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.

"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."

He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.

"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."

The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.

"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.

"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."

You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.

You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.

Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.

You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.

Apparently, today was its much-needed day.

Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.

Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.

"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"

He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.

Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.

Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.

Okay, sure. You could work with that.

He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.

Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.

He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.

You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.

"Spidey." You whisper.

He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.

"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.

His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.

"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."

His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."

"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."

His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.

"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."

It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.

You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.

It gets demolished within seconds.

As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.

You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.

Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.

"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.

His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."

You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.

"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."

His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.

"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.

If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.

"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.

Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.

“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”

It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.

"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.

If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.

You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."

Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"

His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”

Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.

He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.

He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.

"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."

His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.

You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.

"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.

He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.

The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.

It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"

"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."

The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.

You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"

"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"

"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."

You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."

"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."

"That's not true." You hum.

He blinks slowly, processing your words.

"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."

He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.

"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.

The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"

"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”

He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.

It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.

“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”

"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."

Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."

"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."

"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."

His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.

"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."

Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.

It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.

"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.

You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.

"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."

His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."

"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"

He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."

His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."

Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."

"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."

You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.

He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.

"Spidey." You call out.

He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.

"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."

He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."

Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.

You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.

You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?

Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.

You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.

"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."

"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."

Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."

"Why?"

"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.

You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."

His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"

"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.

"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.

"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."

You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?

You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.

Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.

Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.

"Peter. Peter Parker."

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“thought you said you’d never come back here.”

he didn’t even have to look up to know that you were on his campsite, and that’s one of the many things you hated about shane.

“i did.” you cross your arms, suddenly feeling exposed standing in front of him.

“then why the fuck are you here?” he refused to look at you as he lit his joint, taking a long drag before exhaling the smoke into the night sky, the light from the campfire and his lantern illuminating the immediate surroundings.

“maybe you can explain why my date from the other night has a broken nose and is suddenly backing out of a second date.” there was venom to your voice and it only made him scoff and chuckle, taking another long drag of his joint.

“maybe you just weren’t interesting enough to keep him locked down.”

“fuck you, shane.”

“if i recall correctly, i believe you’re the one on my campsite, sweetheart.” he finally turns his head to look at you and for a split second you swear you can see a pang of guilt in his eyes. it’s one of those blink and you miss it scenarios, as shane’s just quick to piss you off just as quick as you pick up on his sense of humanity, if he’s even lucky enough to have been blessed with one.

“you don’t have to constantly treat me like shit because you’re the one with commitment issues.”

it was the same cycle with shane every single time. he starts arguments that get under your skin and he’ll push your buttons until you end up under him or bent over, you try and move on from him out of pure spite. the curse of a small town is that word eventually gets back to him and it’s not hard to find the pathetic loser who thought he was bold enough to take you on a date, and you always find yourself back at square one: arguing with shane until it ends in a hate fuck.

it’s how you found yourself in his tent; face down, ass up with his grip so tight on your hips that you’re convinced he’ll bruise the bone, pulling you back against him as he pounds into you. shane leans down to press his chest against your back and level his lips with your ear, taking pride in how you fall to the mercy of his cock every. single. time.

“nah, don’t run from it now.” shane picks up the pace of his thrusts as he holds your hips still, smirking to himself as you start to whimper uncontrollably under him, his mushroom tip brushing against that sweet spot with every snap of his hips. “talkin’ all that shit but now you don’t wanna cum for me.”

“please shane, m’so close.” you whine, desperately reaching your arms behind you to grab him. to feel him. he just grabs your wrists with one hand and pins them to your lower back, leaning down to level his lips with your ear.

“you wanna keep going on dates with random assholes?” shane taunts, slowing his pace to a drag that stretches your cunt inch by inch, tears brimming at your eyes. “or do i have to keep reminding you who this pussy belongs to?”

“fuck you, shane, i was so close to cumming.” you manage to whine out, clenching around his thick cock each time he bottoms out, the groan that leaves his lips betraying his tough demeanor. he refused to give you the satisfaction, still digging his dick into your soaked cunt. he pauses when his hips are flush with your ass, hand sliding from your hip to your clit as he circled his middle fingers around your sensitive nub with a smirk.

“then you lay here and cum until you’re milkin’ my cock dry.” shane’s orders are followed by another groan as you clench around him again, crying from the stretch as you wiggle your hips as much as you can against his hold. your eyes roll to the back of your head as you feel that snap in your lower belly, voice hoarse as you cry out for shane. he ignores you in favor of picking up the pace of his hips again, fucking you through your orgasm as he chases his own, thrusts getting sloppy as he pulls out, ropes of cum landing on your lower back.

it’s like clockwork the way you two fall into an awkward silence. an unspoken conversation in the aftermath, but the two of you understand every word the other wants to say but doesn’t.

shane steps away long enough to grab a random shirt nearby before cleaning you off. you hear the familiar jingling of his truck keys as you pull your shirt over your head, giving him a look as you stood to pull up your jeans. “you gonna leave me to walk home in the woods by myself? shocker.”

“so you don’t want a ride home then?” shane matches your sarcastic tone before making his way out of the tent, earning an eye roll from you. “the longer you wait, the quicker my offer runs out.”

the drive to your house was silent.

shane couldn’t say anything that wouldn’t circle back to your date or it’d give off the impression that he’s jealous, even though he made it perfectly clear that it was just sex. you couldn’t say anything that wouldn’t circle back to the fact that he refuses to commit or show any inkling that you actually meant something to him, but you could really only be mad at yourself for going back to him knowing the outcome was always gonna be the same.

it’s dark by the time shane pulls into your driveway. neither of you realized how the hum of the engine was a buffer to the silence that settles long after he shuts off the engine, neither of you rushing to make the next move or break the silence. it was almost as if you two were constantly stuck in limbo; knowing deep down that there would always be a next time but not knowing when, or the anxiety of not knowing if the next time would be the last time.

“why’d you do it?” you finally break the silence.

shane sucks in a breath and runs a hand over his face, a part of him knowing that you wouldn’t immediately drop the issue. you watch his throat bob as he swallows, his jaw clenching slightly before clearing his throat.

“i don’t like it when people touch things that belong to me.” he keeps his gaze trained straight ahead, the guilt keeping him from looking you directly in the eyes.

it wasn’t intentional for shane to run into you at the bar cozied up with a guy that wasn’t him. in his mind, it was a practical joke from the universe on his behalf. he stayed long enough to slip in, have a beer, memorize your date’s face, and slip out long before you even realize he was in the building. he’s slightly thankful for that night because when he goes back to the same bar later that week, it’s easier to point him out so he can pick a fight with him out of the blue. shane didn’t do enough damage to get banned, but your date got the memo that your first date was now your last.

because if he told you the real story you’d want nothing to do with him ever again, even though he knows that you know it’s not the answer you want to hear. shane’s just banking on the fact that it’s too late for you to care about details.

you just simply nod once before turning to open the passenger side door, sliding out of his truck as he finally turns his head to watch you leave.

but you don’t rush to slam the door nor do you crash out on him. you just stand there leaning against the door, eyes trained on the pattern on the seats as you chew on your bottom lip. “can i ask you one more thing?”

shane doesn’t respond, instead turning his head to meet your eyes again.

“do you really want to spend the night in that tent?” you ask. he raises an eyebrow in confusion as a response.

“come inside before i change my mind.”

“fuck, shane.” your back arches off the mattress as his tongue flicks against your clit, thighs squeezing his head as your fingers tangle in his hair.

he was on you as soon as the lock on the front door clicked, memorizing the walk to your bedroom as he carried you without breaking the kiss, easing you onto the mattress as he settled between your legs.

“i know baby, i know.” he muttered against your folds, his hand seeking out yours to interlace your fingers together as he kept his eyes trained on you. “m’not going anywhere.”

and he doesn’t.

shane takes you in missionary and litters kisses and marks all over your neck, picking up his pace before waiting until the last minute to pull out and roll you onto your stomach, slipping his cock past your folds and pinning you to the mattress with his body. he sneaks his bicep around your throat as his tip drags against your gummy walls, eyes fluttering closed as your eyes roll at the new angle.

“can feel how close you are from how he’s grippin’ me.” his voice is low in your ear as his hand slips between you and the mattress, fingers circling your clit. “let go for me, m’right here.”

shane presses kisses against your jaw as you clench around him, cumming with a shudder and a cry of his name as he holds you close and talks you through it, but this time when he pulls out he opts to hold you against him.