You didn't know what you had expected when you walked into his mess of an apartment. More so than usual, enough for you to sense the abnormality of webs upon webs coating his furniture. Stepping into what seems to be a genuine crime scene, it's as if the culprit was one massive spider that decided to make its hive in Ned's apartment.

"Ned?" You call out, worry raised in your tone as you look around—catching no sight of him through the thick layers of webbing. His large monitor screens are all left online, files left unclosed on the window tab, with no sign of their user.

You're one step away from the monitor, tempted to call the cops when you catch sight of crumpled papers upon papers scattered on the wooden floors beneath the desk. Brows furrowed, you crouch down, brushing away the loosened cobwebs coating the papers. They are— letters.

Your first instinct as your fingers trace over his handwriting, paper crumpled at the edges, is to leave it alone as it's most definitely personal—before your eyes catch sight of your name. No—you weren't imagining it. The letters were most definitely, addressed to you.

Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.

Earlier was bad. Like, really bad. I can't believe I said 'Oh no!' to your face, like what kind of idiot does that as their first impression? Well, technically that wouldn't be our first meeting, though I doubt you'll remember me. I was anything but smooth on all the other occurences either.

Just talking with you in the hallway and carrying your boxes—I nearly forgot myself. I still can't decide if it's a curse or some cruel joke of a blessing that you moved into my apartment complex of all places. It's like the world's trying to tell me to just say the truth.

I should be going out there and telling you this instead of writing this stupid note or letter, but a letter should come in one of those fancy envelopes, so I guess I should call this a note? Anyways, I'm getting off track.

I miss being with you, and I’m so scared I’m starting to forget how it iswas between us, and talking to you again like everything was normal just—I had the urge to sit down and write to you, before I did anything stupid. So I could talk to you, in some way, without hiding behind 'Ned'. How stupid can I be, using Ned's name, like was that seriously all I could think of? I don’t know if this note will be worth anything by the end, but I think it’ll hurt worse if I just let what happened simmer in my brain.

I miss you so, so much. It feels like it's killing me sometimes, and I don't know what to do with myself now that you're here, so close to me, for what could be a really long time. I don't know what hurts worse, being apart from you or this, and I don't know what I'm going to do. You'd know what to say, and I wish you could tell me. I miss you ordering me around. I just miss you.

Love, Your Peter.

Your heart thumps painfully against your ribcage, fingers tightening over the crinkled edges, digging deeper into the forming lines. What kind of sick joke was this? Had he known you for longer—since before you moved into this apartment?

His strange reaction when he had bumped into you in the hallway for the first time reformed in your memory, the intensity of a stranger that came off as more than usual awkwardness.

"Sorry for bumping into you—" You huff, a cramped smile peeking through the many boxes you're carrying. "Not my best line of sight right now."

Past the boxes, is possibly the cutest potential neighbour you've ever seen. With wettened curls drooping over his forehead, a towel draped around his neck, in his grey sweats and baggy hoodie—this stranger looks like a dream. Or maybe you're just in desperate help to ease the load on your arms that carries your entire future life in this new apartment complex.

"What are you doing here?"

You blink, stunned by his sudden interrogation. That was—not what you expected. You run faces through your mind, anyone you may have accidentally pissed off in the last four years of your university life, but his doesn't come to mind at all. You would remember that face.

Especially if he's staring at you like the existence of you in this cramped hallway was a signal that the world was collapsing on him and his perfect curls.

"Uhm, I live here?" You answer, shuffling the boxes awkwardly between your two palms. "Well, starting today—I do."

Your words register slowly for him, and you feel it in the strain of your arms under the boxes, as the fact that you're his actual neighbour slowly kicks in to his senses.

"Oh." His lips part in genuine anguish. "Oh no."

"Yikes." You wince. "That's a warm welcome."

He's panicking. The cute stranger looks like he's one miscalculated breath away from passing out in the hallway, and you're in no position to assist him when you're clearly winded yourself.

"No—I didn't mean—" His voice stutters, catching at the tail-ends and running out of breath. "Oh, this is not how it's supposed to go."

"No, I don't think I've ever caused genuine pain to a neighbour just from my mere existence." You snort, offering a lighter tone. "Though Margeret may disagree."

His lips quirk up slightly, involuntary even if he has no idea who Margeret—your old neighbour, is supposed to be. "No, I'm sorry. That was rude of me." He tries again, voice sincerely apologetic. "Can I please help you with the boxes to make up for it?"

You open your mouth to brush off his request, but the boxes tilt right as you make another forward step. "Fine." You oblige. "Just don't start spreading rumours about me taking advantage of your kindness. I really need a new start here."

"Had personal experience with that?" He raises a brow, almost teasing—softer than he had been earlier in his initial shock. His hands come up under your boxes, brushing over your fingers almost tentatively.

The warmth of his touch lingers for a second longer than it should, but you're too focused on the relief of the heavy weight being lifted off your palms as he carries it into his own arms, clearly handling the boxes with more ease than you had.

"Ask Margeret." You shrug, rolling your shoulders to ease the cramping. "Thanks..."

His lips part and close, realising he's supposed to introduce himself. It takes him awhile to gather the syllables of his name, before he offers it. "..Ned."

"Thanks, Ned." Your smile deepens, and he stares at you long enough, gaze tracing over the curve of your lips for it to teeter towards awkward.

He keeps doing that, registering your presence as something otherworldly, as if it was the last thing he expected in his path. Maybe the complex has few new tenants to explain his abnormal reaction.

"Oh, my door's 13B."

"What—oh, right!" He blinks, still looking stunned and turning with such an abrupt motion towards the direction of your new studio—and somehow, you're fond of it immediately.

Fond of Ned, even if your arrival seems to have jumbled his senses into a frenzy, and you have only known him for approximately four minutes.

Hey, it's Peter again!

It's two in the morning, my ribs are aching from Scorpion, and talking with you in the laundry room was easily the best ten minutes of my life since everything changed. My smile refuses to be wiped and it's been nearly an hour, and I can't sleep cause I'm thinking about you. You genuinely work better than painkillers, and I love you. I love you so much that I have never wished so desperately...

I wish I wasn't Peter Parker. That I wasn't the person who took your love for granted, who reassured you that I'd always make it back to you and that I'd help you remember. I can't even protect the people I love, not without ruining their lives just by letting them in. Being able to keep you safe from me, is the only reason that's enough to keep me from barging in and fulfilling my promise. From reminding you of what I used to mean to you, and what we used to be. I am a coward, but I can only hope that I won't be a selfish one. I've created enough reasons for why I can't stand being me, but I refuse to list another which involves hurting you.

That's enough for tonight. I just wish that if the universe ever gives me the chance to make things right, without making everything else much much worse, I just want you to know that I would never take anything for granted ever again. Over anything. Over pineapple on pizza, or the supremacy of rock bands, or the Lego pieces I stuffed under my bed, or me being Spiderman. I miss you so much, and I hope you're having a better night that I am.

Love, Your Peter.

“Ned, are you okay?” You ask, watching as he limped forward towards the washing machine, one hand gripped right at his ribcage.

Your own batch is tumbling along, and you're seated cross-legged across your machine as he slumps forward to sit right next to you, hand going towards the cover of the conjoined machine beside yours.

“Peachy.” The crinkles of his eyes deepen, tossing you a wayward smile with a barely concealed wince. “Tripped and slammed into the washing machine yesterday.”

“That’s like the third time this month.” You raise a brow, expression contorting in concern.

“Is it?” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Must be really off my game.”

“Of making amends with the washing machine?” You tease.

“Yeah, I suppose.” His smile softens, gazing up at you.

He does that a lot, go soft at the edges, as if he’s peeling back something fuzzy over his expression—and revealing something honest.

"My advice is to make an offer." You whisper conspiratorially. "Throw in your most favourite shirt or something, and the laundry gods will be kinder on you."

He snorts, and it feels strangely familiar to talk to him this way, under the dim lighting of the flickering lamp, surrounded by the scent of detergent. You barely get to see Ned as is, not like you're expecting a practical stranger to make up much of your socialising hours, aside from the quick friendly nods and occasional 'how's your day's' when brushing past each other in the hallway.

He's a busy guy, and the laundry mat has become a sacred space where the two of you existed in each other's worlds for just a few minutes, till the timer runs out.

"I don't really have anything of mine that'll please the gods." He whispers back.

"I could give you something." You shrug non-comittally.

His gaze widens, staring at you as you dig around in your inner pocket, before tugging something out. One of your favourite scrunchies in hand, you offer it to him.

"Here." You gesture. "Just toss it in with the pile, I guarantee you that the gods will leave you alone."

His gaze flickers between the scrunchie in your hand to you. He's about to say something, brows furrowing together in brief conflict, but chooses not to divulge as his hand reaches for the scrunchie. You note the bruises forming along his knuckles as his fingers loop around the silk, and your lips press together further in concern.

By the time your gaze meets his, he's already turned his head and placed the scrunchie gently on top of his pile of clothes. When he sets the settings and presses the button, the machine runs smoothly, beeping along with yours as his clothes begin to turn and tumble without fault.

"Wow, you really do make everything better." He mutters to himself.

Your smile softens. "It's just a scrunchie."

He shakes his head loosely, his curls falling to his forehead before he turns back to face you. His gaze pours over your features, the crinkles in the corner of his hazel eyes so soft in the dimmed lighting. "No, I think it’s you."

Peter here!

I just wanted to say happy birthday to the smartest, beautiful, kindest, most awesome human to ever exist! I ran out of other big words, but you make up the whole dictionary of synonyms for amazing in every language possible. I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there, you have no idea how sorry. I have many other things to be sorry for, but this week, that’s definitely going top of the list. I should really stop with these letters, but I really wanted to give you a proper wish just this once.

It kills me that I can’t celebrate with you, and I know you’d end me yourself if you remembered my promise with the camera. You always did like the grain. You still look absolutely beautiful even without it. I’m so proud of you—for being you, and existing, and just killing it out there in the world. I did something a little sad, and not even close to what you deserve, but I bought a cupcake from Delmar's earlier, and I even have the candle right in front of me.

I wish for you to live the most happiest, fulfilling life, and that danger will never come close to you. I wish that you will achieve everything you've ever dreamed of, and that you'll have people who will look after you and love you just as much as I do. I wish—that you'll live a life worth remembering.

I love you, and I think this will be my last letter. I think it'll be nearly impossible for me to let you go, but I think it's time I accepted that for you to live the life I wished for, I have to try.

I love you, Your Peter.

P.S. Sorry, just had to add this in one last time. You're always beautiful, and I'm not saying this because I only get to see you from a distance, but because I don't think I ever got to tell you that enough.

"Ned?" Your voice croaked out. "Is that you?"

You hear shuffling, before his left shoulder peeks out from the doorframe, slowly entering into view as he takes the lower step into the laundry room. He's staring down at you as if you've handed him an atomic bomb, and you're a sure mess, nose stuffy and eyebags swollen from crying.

"Hey." His soft call is close to making you lose it. "I didn't know if you wanted me intruding on your—"

"Date with the washing machine?" You huff, amusement dry as you turn back to look at your tumbling laundry. "By all means, join in. This current option isn't really doing it for me."

You spot the turn of his lips into a smile in your peripheral vision, before he eventually drops his weight beside you. His knee brushes against yours, and that contact registers like lightning to your senses, before he pulls back to that appropriate distance he always sets between the two of you.

You have no idea why it frustrates you so, even if you have nothing you should expect from him. Your gaze drops to his hand resting over his knee, bouncing slightly with a restless energy—and you spot your scrunchie over his wrist.

Your breath shortens, pulling your attention to his face only to find him already looking at you with unbridled concern.

"You okay?" He asks gently.

Your lip trembles, and you steady yourself as much as you are able. "Fine, just a real shit week."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." He's honest, you can hear it even without really looking him in the eye. "If you want, you can rant to me. I'm a real good listening ear. No mouthing off, just a still statue for your needs."

Your lips quirk up slightly at his attempt at minimising his presence, without even knowing how much it mattered to you that he came in here—or that he stood by the door for a solid ten minutes before you called him out. That he didn't leave, even if any normal stranger would.

"It's my birthday." You shrug, wiping at the tearstain at your cheeks. "And I just lost my job."

His lips part, brows pulling together—but he doesn't interrupt you.

"I was supposed to have a party today, and my college friends cancelled last minute." You mutter weakly. "Not that we were super close, but close enough that it mattered, y'know? I wasn't their first pick, or anyone's for the matter, so it really shouldn't have come as a surprise."

"No, you're—" His voice raises almost in frustration, and you meet his gaze. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, and his tone softens into an admission. "You're definitely my first pick."

Your laugh bubbles out of you, finding his statement absurd. "For what? You barely know me."

"I know you're extremely kind." He starts. "That you'd offer your favourite scrunchie to a stranger just to please the laundry gods. That you're funny, and beautiful—and my first pick for who I'd always want to run into."

You stare at him, unable to suppress your shock. He just called you kind, and funny, and beautiful—things people who've known you for longer hasn't thought to mention in years.

"That's—the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me in awhile." You confess, licking at your lips. "Thank you, Ned."

"It's only the truth." He presses. "I shouldn't be the only person to see that, and I know I'm not the only one who does."

"I don't know." You shrug uselessly. "My birthday hasn't even ended, and I feel completely unseen in my own life. I know it's a stupid thing, but I wish I had someone to take my picture, at least to comemorate that I've completed another spin around the Earth or something."

"You could use my camera." He offers almost instinctively.

"You have a camera?" You blink, before a slow smile spreads across your lips. "Of course you do. Do I need to be a tech-savvy to use those too, secret hacker?"

You're no stranger to the many monitors that crowd his apartment, courtesy to the many curious glances past the few times he's left his door ajar, into the premises of his own studio of what looked to be a completely different realm.

His smile deepens. "No, you just need to press two buttons. I could teach you how to work it out."

"You're into photography?" You ask.

His expression stiffens, thoughts trailing off. "Yeah, something like that. My aunt used to love taking physical photos, and I sorta inherited that trait. There was someone—who used to love using my film camera too. So, yeah—I guess I have some experience."

"You could teach me photography." You offer, almost tentatively. "Not just for the sad, lone birthday picture, I mean."

"Oh." He stares at you, and you see it then. Conflict—a pure, unmasked internal battle. "I—I don't know if I'm the right person."

You shrink slightly, less confident than you had been a few seconds ago. This really wasn't your day. "Right, sorry. I know you're a really busy person."

"No, I—" He winces, jaw clenching tight. "I would really love to. It's just that I'm—"

He pauses, staring at you with a nearly broken expression. Your brows furrow together, waiting for his answer—heart thumping in what could only be anticipation. Rejection is close at hand, and you hate that you find yourself waiting still, for something different. For him to fulfill something even you couldn't quite understand.

"Busy." He eventually settles on, voice trailing off in defeat.

You can't take it to heart. You don't allow yourself to, because disappointment is the last thing you wanted a taste of on a day like this. Ned was still nice enough to sit down here with you while you moped, and you shouldn't expect anything more. Even if you liked him, and the crinkles in the corners of his warm, brown eyes, and the sweet sound of his voice—more than you'd ever admit to yourself.

"That's not very creative." You mumble, presenting him with a weakened attempt of a smile. "I gave you that excuse, thief."

His own softened smile rises to meet yours, equally shattered. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you."

You know he means it, you just don't know why your heart churns so painfully when you hear those words coming out of his mouth. You don't know if you have faith in promises lately. You haven't believed in those for a really long time.

You don't know how many letters you've gone through, flipping through confessions scribbled in secrecy, of mind-spells, and magic, and vigilantes—a life you don't even remember to be a fraction of your world.

A loud crash resounds behind you and you instinctively rise, tripping over your feet—almost frightened, lashes wet at the corner of your eyes when you turn and see Ned. No, Peter—dressed in a black tank-top much too short for his defined torso and… Juicy Couture pants?

He’s clearly disoriented, and you’re not sure if it’s the chronic migraines he usually gets—or something heavier he keeps hidden past the pile of letters that’s just spilled everything. You can barely look at him without feeling like you’re going to burst at the seams, and he hasn’t even noticed your presence in his apartment.

“What is this?” Your voice eventually breaks through.

His head snaps up, expression scrunched in tension—and he freezes. That same tentative smile he always tossed to you, always sweet and somehow all-too-knowing, locks in place as his lips part—assuming you’re talking about his outfit. Or the state of his apartment, there’s just too much about him that you could never quite put a finger on.

“Wrong laundry basket.” He huffs, churning out an attempt of a laugh to play it off. “Fell asleep in the laundry room, and I didn't even think to take a look at what's inside. I promise I'm not a thief.”

“Stop.” Your stern expression is caught by him immediately, and his attempt of a smile falters. Slowly, your hand raises the letters to his line of vision. "Peter."

His gaze snaps to the letters creased between your shaking fingers. You can't remember what breathing looks like, especially not when his own chest stutters visibly beneath the tank top, as if all the oxygen's been sucked out of him.

He knows, that you know.

"Oh—no." He whispers weakly, because that is the only appropriate thing to say. You’re struck with déjà vu, back to the first time you ever crossed paths with him in the hallway, when he had looked you with so much pain—one you couldn’t decipher.

He takes a step forward towards you, both hands raised with his lips parting to come up with an explanation. You instinctively take a step back, not on purpose, but the distance you've created lands all the same.

He flinches as if you've struck him, his expression shattered to pieces of that raw agony you've felt slip up from him once or twice. That same gaping sadness beneath his gaze, that he always covered up with a bandaged smile meant more for show.

"I'm sorry." His voice breaks weakly, hands clenching into a fist before dragging back down to his sides. "I didn't mean to scare you. Oh god, this was not how this was supposed to go."

"How was this supposed to go?" You echo back to him. "From your letters, it didn't seem like you were ever going to tell me."

It didn't mean to sound accusatory, but you're high on the precipice of a reality broken to pieces, and you're unsure if you're left alone in apartment with an actual lunatic, or with a truth you weren't suppose to discover.

"No, I—" He sucks in a breath, desperation seeping into his tone. "I swear I was going to, but then I found you and you looked so—"

His hands that have begun to brush through his curls fall flatly to the sides, defeated. "So peaceful—and safe. I felt so selfish to take that away from you. To drag you back into my world, knowing that all you'd face was danger or worse."

"And the truth is that hurt the people I love." He admits, his eyes squinting together as something wet flickers over his lashes, and you can tell he believes it. This so-called truth he tells himself. "Nothing good comes out of being close to me, and I couldn't lose you."

"I had to be okay with it." His gaze meets yours, broken. "Not being in your life will always be better than a world without you in it. I had to protect you, somehow—even if it meant leaving you alone."

"It was easier before you came." He huffs out, pained. "To keep a distance before I saw you everyday, just out of reach. I can't count the amount of times I nearly told you. I was just afraid, that if you didn't remember me, I don't think I can—live with hearing it. I'm a coward, and I took the only path I knew, which was to pretend. Like everything was fine, and that seeing you from a distance was enough."

You see it, the way his brain registers his actions as protection, but you don't feel protected. You feel isolated, locked out of your own memories and faced with a man you're supposed to know, someone your body is pleading for you to recognise past the fog in your brain.

“Listen—whatever worked worked, and I can’t remember.” You breathe out, exhale shaky from your lips. “I can’t remember what we had, but I know myself. I don't let people make promises to me, not unless I trust them so much that I—If you promised you’d find me, that you’d help me remember.” Your fist clenches tighter around the letters. "You should've known that I'd never be okay with leaving you alone to deal with this—"

"How could you know that?" He snaps.

You blink, stunned.

"I mean—you never had a normal life from the moment you met me." He goes on. "You never experienced a life without hoping I'd make it back home safe, without looking over your shoulder when I became the world's public enemy, or having to deal with stitches and blood and worrying about survival—instead of school!"

"You don't see the difference but I do." He confesses. "You're living a good life now, and I already screwed it up by entering it again."

"Peter." You cut him off, nearly pleading. "Stop it."

His jaw locks, lips clamping shut before he lets out a huff, one closer to a panic attack than frustration. "I'm sorry." He mutters, clenching his jaw. Something wet pries behind his lashes, and he runs his palms over them, covering his face. "I don't want to fight."

Your heart cracks a little, because there's something so heartbreakingly earnest in the way he says it, as if he's beating himself up over a million thoughts you can't uncover. Your steps inch closer, almost instinctively your body knowing the rhythm at the sight of a distraught Peter before you even have the chance to piece together the 'why'.

"We're not fighting, Peter." You reassure him, your hands tentatively lifting to rest atop his palm.

He freezes, unable to comprehend your touch. You peer through the gaps of his fingers, and find his gaze staring back at you, fractured and pained.

"I knew something wasn't right." You sigh. "I felt it this whole time. Like there was an absence of something—someone important. It gnawed at me, that emptiness, and it nearly drives me insane some nights."

He recognises the feeling, you know he does with the way his expression draws tighter—in understanding, in regret.

"I wish you came to me." You whisper. "I wish you told me, so you wouldn't have to go through this alone."

His lip trembles, as if he never expected you to hear the truth and stay. As if you'd pick the exit over him, when he clearly needs you now.

"If I had promised I'd be there for you, you should've let me keep that promise." You scold gently. "Even if it meant starting over. You’re not meant to deal with life alone, much less one as heavy as yours.”

His gaze is shaken, staring at you with his pupils blown wide. Waiting for reality to hit, or for you to take back your words—but you remain. You stand there, close enough for him to feel you. You don't falter.

Something in Peter gives—shatters completely, and it’s a mere blink before his arms are completely wrapped around you, squashing you into his chest. His fingers are shaking, trembling—a relieved exhale pressed against your shoulder blade before he buries himself deep into the crook above your collarbone.

“I missed you.” Wet tears pool at your skin. “So, so much. It felt like I was dying a little inside every single day, knowing I wasn't keeping your promise. I couldn't—I really tried letting go and it didn't work, not when you mean everything to me."

"I know you don't remember me or what happened between us but—" His voice shakes, muffled from his tight hold. "I love you and I’m sorry—I’m so sorry for everything.”

You can't answer him, not with the words he wants or deserves to hear with full honesty backing it, not without the memories you used to share. Yet, the hold of him is familiar, the way you run your fingers through his curls like memory work. His entire body caves in deeper to your touch, as if he’d been waiting this whole time since your arrival to let himself fall into you.

"From the first day I saw you." You admit. "I felt like I was meant to know you, Peter. I wouldn't have given you my scrunchie if it didn't mean something, if I didn't want to tie myself to you in some way."

Pulling back slightly so he meets your gaze, you find yourself mesmerised by the familiarity of him, the way his gaze pours over you automatically as if memorising you is all he wishes to do.

"I want to get to know you, Peter." You confess. "And I want to do it without you pushing me away, pretending like my life is happier without you when laundry nights are what I look forward to the most, because of you."

His breath halts, short-circuiting with your words. Something bright and warm bleeds into his face, and you recognise it to be happiness. Genuine, unconditional relief—before his forehead presses against yours, his lashes fluttering to a close as he embraces you.

"I can do that." He mutters softly. "I'll do anything you ask me to."

It's nice, to be held so tightly and finally feel whole. To have that gap in your chest you've never truly stitched up fade into something mind-numbingly warm and fuzzy, in the arms of the one person your body still commits to memory, past even some stupid mind spell.

“Also.." You murmur, still wrapped in his embrace. "Seriously, what is this outfit?"

A surprised chuckle escapes his lips, a little wet-sounding as he clears his throat. "I wasn't lying about the laundry mishap. I swear I don't dress like this normally."

You hum. "I don't know, I kind of like it."

The silence stretches for a brief second. "I'll buy more if you want me to."

when you asked your boyfriend if he could fuck you with the mask on after he came back from a late night swing, peter was a bit skeptical.

but one velvety look, a flutter of your lashes, and a “pretty please, peter-baby? i’ve been working soooo hard” with a vague gesture toward your laptop screen in your darkened dorm, wearing one of his oversized shirts with one side slipping off your shoulder, and peter was game.

he loves having a smart girlfriend, after all.

now, your boyfriend’s hands grip your naked thighs in a secure hold, as opposed to his jumbled, messy life. “oh my god, peter, yes—“ your nails scratch lightly over his shoulders, your fingertips digging deep into his mole-scattered back.

“feel good, baby?” peter asks, voice laden with tension and depth like a dark swimming pool you could drown in for eternity. his mask is a little dirty from the countless scaffles he gets into on the daily, but he smells like home and familiarity.

his cock fills you up perfectly, the juices you’re producing leaking out onto your cheap bed sheets as you feel your thighs shake. “yeah— yeah, perfect—” you nod your head vigourously.

you pull your boyfriend down for a kiss, only to feel the mere shape of his lips through the thin fabric as his body rolls against yours. you try to kiss him through the spandex, but when you poke your tongue out to trace his bottom lip, peter pulls back.

“fuck— can’t kiss you,” peter breathes out, momentarily stopping mid-thrust, pausing the squelching sound of your pussy, hanging like dust in the air. “gotta be able to kiss my smart girl.”

without wasting another word, he pulls the mask from under his chin, up to the middle of his nose bridge, revealing his slightly bloody lip, all puffy from biting and kissing you through the mask. his dick inside you twitches as you clench around him at the sight of just the lower-half of his face.

“peter—” you whine, almost noiselessly.

peter also doesn’t waste another second to dip his head back to yours, slotting his mouth over yours as his tongue tangles with yours, spreading spit all over your chin from the nastiness and messiness.

“should wear my mask more often, huh?”

He was extremely hesitant at first, understandably so given what you knew now about the whole spiderman and everyone forgetting him thing, but after getting to know you and hearing about the barrage of troubles the universe had thrusted your way, he figured if there was anyone he could trust, it was you.

A year later, not much had changed in your lives. You were still two struggling adults in your twenties just trying to get by on the day-to-day, except now, at least you had each other to cope. At least you were able to find some reprieve and light, though the pain from your lives remained a low hum in the background. 

You weren't exactly sure when it began happening—maybe a few months in—but you noticed it randomly one day. Your heart started beating faster around him. Then, he began taking up extra space in your mind until eventually, the thoughts became too loud to ignore.

You chalked the feelings up to all the trauma bonding and hours you’d spent together trying to shut out and disappear from the real world. You tried to ignore the rush of joy you felt when he laughed, or the dizziness of your head whenever you caught a glimpse of him changing out of his suit, until you were drowning in a pool of affection that you weren't sure you could surface from. 

There’d been a few times the confession almost slipped from your tongue. The intimate nights sitting out on the fire escape with food and the sound of the city in the distance, or the times where he sat a little too close to you on the couch during movie nights.

But then he’d sigh, his gaze going foggy as he zoned out on some far off point, murmuring, “MJ would have hated this movie,” or “Ned used to love this burger place.”

And just like that the words would die on your tongue. How could you ever compete with the monument of love he carried for his past relationships? No, it was easier to suppress the feelings and toss them atop the mountain of other struggles you carried. You’d learn to manage with the extra weight simple because the alternative—a life absent of his presence—wasn’t something you could fathom.

Then things started changing.

First, he was suddenly busy on your sacred days off, days you would always spend together exploring new restaurants and coffee shops around the city. Then, he started turning you away on his patrol nights, nights where you’d kept him company and even helped patch up the nastier cuts he couldn't reach. Excuse after excuse came and the fear that he’d figured out your feelings twisted your gut with nerves.

It didn't take long for you to come to the conclusion that he was building a wall to preserve the sanctity of his memory with MJ. There could be no other reason for the sudden distance. You tried convincing yourself it was for the best. The perfect solution to help you cope with losing him, because if it wasn’t now, it would be later.

You lasted exactly three days. Three days of radio silence was what it took for you to realize that no, you couldn’t do this. You couldn’t stay away from him. Maybe it was the return to a forgotten loneliness, a deep, screaming void, that had you knocking on his door frantically that night, your fist nearly pounding through the paint-chipped wood.

The door cracked open an inch and before he could get the opportunity to reject you, you pushed your way through, bursting into his apartment with a temper he’d never seen.

“Hey, stranger,” you said with a hint of venom in your voice. You turned to face him, your eyes widening slightly at the sight of his pale, flushed skin, a fine sheen of sweat settled on his temples. His eyes looked unusually dark; you blinked your own a few times to clear them and make sure you weren’t seeing something that wasn’t there. 

He said your name through the rasp of his shaky voice. “I-I’m sorry, I’m busy right now… you should go.”

“Like hell I should,” you scoffed, any anxious thoughts replaced by an unwavering surge of protectiveness. “Is this why you’ve been ghosting me? Are you sick or something?”

His face suddenly scrunched up, his hand raising to hold his head as he whimpered in pain. “I’m n-not ghosting you… I just…”

You took a step closer to him, freezing when he flinched back and held out a hand to stop you. Your heart fell to your stomach as you watched his eyes darken further. “Pete, I don’t know what’s going on but, please, let me help you… Stop pushing me away.” 

You attempted another careful step forward until he pushed himself back against the wall.

“S-stop, stop! Please just… don’t come closer.”

You swallowed down the thick lump in your throat that had risen, clenching your hands into fists to stop them from shaking. You waited patiently for him to speak, scared that the next words that left him were going to be the ones to shatter your world.

“I,” he paused, breathing in a deep breath before continuing. “I can’t… trust myself to be around you right now.”

Your brows pressed together in confusion. “Why not?”

His eyes bore into the ground as he tried to gather his thoughts over the multitude of senses that surged the moment you approached his door, but everything was fuzzy and melted together until all he could feel was you. Your presence, and it was driving him crazy.

“My systems are detecting an abnormally high heart rate, Peter,” Evie’s robotic voice rang out. “System overload is approaching.”

“Not now, Evie,” Peter choked out.

You shook your head in disbelief. “You can trust me, Peter. Please. Haven’t I proven that to you? After everything?”

“I-It’s not that—”

“Then what?” You approached him despite his protests, not stopping until you were a step away from touching.

His brain nearly short-circuited, any lasting restraint vanishing as he allowed you to fully flood his senses. The shampoo you used this morning, the perfume you’d applied a few hours ago, the fast thump thump of your heart, a beautiful rhythm that drowned out all rational thought to disarm him completely.

“Something is happening to me,” he gasped, the words tearing from his chest. “My arachnid DNA is… it’s evolving. Mutating. Everything is turned up to ten thousand a-and my impulses—” he cut himself off, slamming his head back against the door hard enough to make it rattle on its hinges. 

You shook your head, your hands reaching for him again. “If you’re scared you’ll hurt me, you won’t—”

“No!” he spat out desperately. “It’s not that I—I c-can’t—” He was practically shaking now, violent tremors racking his body.

Your heart ached as you watched him. Unable to control yourself, you lifted your hands to cup his flushed cheeks, his skin burning under your palms. “Peter,” you whispered softly, your voice reaching him over the storm raging within.

He stared at you, his pupils dilated so wide, only a thin ring of the soft brown you loved so much was present. Your lips parted with a pant at the hunger displayed in them as you got lost in their depths, a raw need you’d never seen before. “Woah…”

A low, tormented whimper escaped him when your thumbs rubbed along his skin, the sound shooting straight to pool low in your stomach, spreading a heat you scolded yourself for internally. Now was not the time.

“I can’t think straight when you’re near,” he confessed through a strained voice. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I can’t act normal. I can’t pretend like I usually do… not when all I want to do is—”

He groaned, tipping his head back against the door, a final sliver of restrain returning before he crossed the line.

“What, Peter?” you pressed, leaning closer to eliminate the last inch of space between your bodies, your chests brushing. You looked at him with such care, your gaze so gentle and understanding and comforting. “What do you want to do?”

In the split second before he moved you were able to catch the black swallowing the last fragment of brown, followed quickly by the entirety of the whites of his eyes. Then his lips were on yours.

It was all consuming as his mouth moved over yours, desperately kissing as if you were the very air that filled his lungs and it was being threatened away from him.

His hands dug into your sides, fisting your skin to pull you flush against his body until you could feel the taught muscle hidden beneath his shirt. You gasped into his mouth when he lifted you to wrap your legs around his waist, moaning when he took the opportunity to slide his tongue along yours.

He fell back onto the couch behind him, keeping you close as he continued to devour your lips, whimpering when your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging to pull him back so you could take a breath.

He fought against your grip, his eyes opening to lock onto yours when you pulled harder. Your chest heaved as you stared into the black pools with awe.

“I-I’m sorry,” he managed to say through clenched teeth, barely suppressing the desire to ravage you whole. “I tried to hide my feelings but it's harder like this.”

The smile that graced your lips had his head spinning all over again, his eyes burning as they turned glassy.

“Feelings?” you mumbled, leaning down to ghost your lips over his, the heat in your belly spreading further when he tried to chase them. You curve into him just enough to feel something poking you as he let out another strangled gasp. “You like me, Peter?”

A tear slips down his cheek when you say his name, the sound falling so beautifully from your lips, making his cock pulse harder in his sweatpants. The grip he has on you tightens, subconsciously pressing you down over his throbbing boner.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats with a shake of his head. “I don’t want to ruin what we have, I just… can’t lose you, too.”

Your heart clenches when his voice cracks with agony. You want to scream at him and the world the depths of your feelings for him, how he could never lose you and how the same fear had been tormenting you for weeks. But words felt small, too insufficient. So you showed him by capturing his lips with yours once more.

He met them with relief, his arms wrapping fully around your torso to cage you against him in an attempt to get as close to fusing your bodies together as possible. You arched into him, fully dragging your core against his cock, the friction a sweet torture that had his mouth falling open in a broken moan. 

“Please,” he gasped against your cheek.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your lips latching onto the sensitive skin as you rocked your hips faster. You could feel every inch of his cock pressing against your heat, your aching clit pulsating in your soaked panties. His grip on you turned bruising, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as he guided your movements to match how much he needed you.

“So g-good… you feel so—mngh—” he whined.

Just then a sharp blaring came from the other side of the room, a sound you recognized as his police scanner. You stilled your movements and removed your head from his neck. Before you could say anything, Peter’s arm flung out. A web whipped through the air and a second later it connected with the phone, striking it hard enough for a loud crack to sound out, silencing the alarm.

His black eyes shot back to find your surprised ones. He’d never, ever, ignored the call. But tonight he didn’t care. Tonight, all he wanted was you.

You could practically see the possession in his eyes as he stood up, holding you against him. Seconds later, your back met the soft mattress of his bed as he laid you down, quickly pressing himself back between your legs, his mouth finding your neck, kissing and nipping a trail of fire. Your mind, however, was still trying to comprehend what you’d just seen.

He intertwined his fingers with yours, pinning your hands beside your head, his hips rutting shamelessly into you with a pressure that stole your breath. You turned to stare at his wrist, bare of the bulky web shooters.

“Peter,” you panted, arching into his thrust. “How did you… the web?”

His lips trailed up your cheek, messily kissing over your lips with a desperate fervor. 

“Arachnid DNA,” is all he mumbled.

“O-Oh.. cool,” you managed to say before he swallowed the word with his tongue.

He parted to sit back on his heels, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal his sweat slicked torso. Your mouth went dry when he pulled down his sweats and underwear in one go, kicking them off the rest of the way.

Your gaze dropped, a heady moan slipping at the sight of his thick cock flushed a deep red as it pulsed against his stomach, streams of precum dripping down the sides.

He climbed back over you, pressing his cock into your clothed heat to resume his rutting, panting little sounds of pleasure into your ear.

“Mnmh—ah! I can—fuck… I can feel how warm you are, can smell you." His hands slipped beneath your shirt, running up until they grazed the soft skin of your breasts.

Something new in him snapped when he realized you weren't wearing a bra. He started snapping his hips harder into you until your body was climbing up the bed. “I’m sorry—oh god… fuck, I’m so sorry—I can't stop—”

“It’s okay, Peter.”

“No,” he pleaded, his lips brushing your throat. “I can’t hold back anymore. Fuck—I need you to tell me—”

“I’m here for you, Peter,” you whispered, cupping his face to force his dazed eyes back to yours. His lids were blotchy with tears, his lips red and kiss-swollen. You could see the struggle in them, the fight against his depraved thoughts to make sure you were okay with this. It only made you want him more. “Use me.”

Any remaining tension in his face melted. His brows relaxed, the cute crinkles by his eyes smoothing over at your permission.

He shoved your shirt over your head, moaning at the sight of your chest, your nipples peaked and begging for his touch. He captured one in his mouth, laving it with his tongue before sucking hard. His other hand rolled the other between his fingers, flicking and pinching the sensitive bud, drawing out high pitched cries from your lips.

“Mmm, so pretty, taste so sweet.”

His free hand fumbled with your pants in an attempt to push them down, a frustrated, almost animalistic groan escaping him when they caught on your hips. He gave a small tug and tore the fabric away from your body, discarding it without a second thought.

“Hey!” you yelped, the protest dying when he pressed the hot head of his cock through your sodden folds, rubbing it through the slick mess. 

The slick sounds of your wet heat were enough to make his consciousness slip as he failed to suppress a sob.

He could hear every microscopic hitch of your breath in his heightened ears, every pulse at your clit against his shaft a divine torment, the rush of your blood beneath your skin. You watched, enamored, as his eyes fluttered weakly when his tip caught at your hole, and then he was pushing in.

“O-Oh fuu—” his eyes fluttered as your tight cunt clenched around the invasion.

“I’m sorry, so sorry—so tight, fuck, ‘M sorry—” he apologized in a continuous stream as he sank in, forcing himself deeper until he was fully bottomed out. Tears slipped from his eyes, cascading down his flushed cheeks, your walls clamping down to draw out more small cries from him, basking in the sight.

You sucked in a sharp breath at the stretch. It had been a while for you and Peter was so thick. You could feel every vein, every ridge of his cock dragging against your velvety walls as his hips met yours.

Before you could fully adjust and let the sting subside, he was pulling out and driving back into you with a punctured breath, stealing the air from your lungs. You dug your nails into the muscles of his back, biting your lip to suppress a yelp as he set a brutal pace, each thrust burying him just as deep.

The head of his cock kissed your cervix with an overwhelming, euphoric pressure. 

“Cunt feels so fucking good, squeezing me so tight.”

The pain began to fade, replaced by a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles, pushing him deeper inside you. “'M so full, Peter.”

He collapsed onto you, his lips leaving wet, sloppy kisses wherever he could reach as he fucked you mercilessly, his cock pistoning in and out of you.

The pressure in your belly snuck up on you, building and coiling tight like a live wire trapped beneath your skin.

“P-Peter—!” you cried out, your cunt fluttering around his cock. You bowed off the bed, your back arching as he fucked the orgasm out of you, wave after wave of white-hot ecstasy flowing through your nerves.

The foreign scent of your cum invaded his senses, something he could only describe as overwhelmingly you and all-consuming, causing his eyes to screw shut with a sob.

The violent constrictions of your walls around his cock only edged him on further. He fucked you through your climax with ragged, desperate bucks, his movements dissolving into a frenzy, the filthy sounds of wet skin slapping together filling the room.

You latched onto his wrists beside your head, feeling an intense heat radiating from the hypersensitive skin over his organic webbing. Before you were even aware of your actions, your head was turning, your lips pressing a soft kiss to his wrist.

Words were beyond him as your touch reduced him to incoherent, whimpering babbles. “Feels… s’good—mphm. C-Can’t… ‘M yours… all yours—”

His thrusts turned erratic, his gut tightening as he rested his forehead on your chest, nuzzling into your skin in an attempt to sink into you, to become one.

"It h- it hurts—can't stop... 'M sorry—"

You could feel his cock swelling inside you, his thrust faltering to shallow, uncoordinated thrusts. A sob wretched from him, wanton and broken, hot tears spilling from his clenched eyes, dripping onto your skin.

"Come for me, Peter."

He sank all the way in one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go as his body tensed.

Then his mind blanked.

His vision went black, speckled with stars. With a guttural cry, he came, his release a torrent, spilling deep into your cunt in thick, hot pulsing waves. He whined into your chest, his body spasming through each powerful jet.

You panted through each hard twitch of his cock, overwhelmed with the sheer volume of cum as he continued to fill you, the sensation so intense you struggled to catch your breath. It just kept going as he shook above you, his cum leaking out around the base of his cock still stuffed deep inside you.

He stayed there as your cunt milked every drop, creating a home for himself, content with living inside you for as long as you'd let him.

You carded a hand through his hair as tremors continued to wrack his oversensitive body. “Shh, you’re okay,” you whispered into his ear, your voice hoarse. “You did so good.”

He went boneless above you, a dead, spent weight. Eventually, his softened cock slipped from your used cunt, followed by a stream of his release dripping down to soak the sheets as you whimpered through it all.

A few moments later, the silence in the room was broken by Evie’s voice. “Heart rate regulated. Vitals have returned to baseline levels.”

It seemed to bring Peter back to earth. He lifted his head from your chest with a groggy moan, blinking blearily down at you. His eyes were back to their normal, warm brown, the black reduced to his pupils, though still glazed with wonder.

You guided him to his back, leaning over to wipe the tears from his cheek before pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

He sniffled, fresh tears welling in his bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I didn’t… I didn’t want it to happen like that. I wanted to be… better for you.”

You shushed him gently, kissing his cheek. “We’re okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he insisted, the vulnerability clear in his tone. “I am.”

You shook your head, a small smile playing at your lips. “Then never ignore me like that again.”

He sniffled with a nod, his lips squirking up into that boyish smile that made your heart ache. “Okay.”

“Do you feel better?” you asked, your hands smoothing down his chest.

He nodded, a dark blush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. “I didn’t know I could feel that good,” he admitted with awe. 

“Has it been a while for you, too?”

He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking away for a second before meeting yours again anxiously. ‘I’ve never, um…” he took a shaky, deep breath. “That was my uh, first time.”

Your hands froze on his chest. “What?”

He winced. “I told you I couldn’t control myself.”

You laughed at the surprising confession, leaning down to brush your nose against his. “Well, at least it was memorable.”

He smiled, all shy and genuine and so Peter-like, you couldn’t resist kissing him, tender and slow. Your hand continued rubbing, your thumb brushing over a nipple, circling it to a peak when he whimpered, his whole body jolting back away at your touch.

“Tsk, so sensitive.” Your hand trailed lower, grazing over the dips of muscle to rest just above where his cock was stirring back to life. “So how easy is it for that side of you to come out?”

His breath caught as your finger dug into the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. When you flicked your eyes back up to his, you saw it again.

The inky blackness had started to expand, swallowing the warm brown, once again drawn out by you. 

Don't be shy to leave a like comment or reblog, truly means the world to me :D

He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.

“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now. 

You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”

“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”

“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back. 

He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual. 

The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could. 

It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong. 

“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.” 

The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours. 

The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him. 

His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face. 

That had been one year ago. 

After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account. 

So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)

Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought. 

Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine. 

When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.

Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend. 

Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero. 

He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.

Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night. 

A promise was a promise. 

Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.

“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.

He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that. 

He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully. 

“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?” 

He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable. 

“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”

You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer. 

“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.” 

The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.

“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused. 

“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes. 

“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”

“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.” 

“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”

“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully. 

You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him. 

“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement. 

The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions. 

Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday. 

Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.

Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room. 

Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins. 

And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out. 

“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…” 

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”

“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”

“Message already sent.”  

He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am. 

He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you? 

Oh fuck. 

You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–

“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.

The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now. 

He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and– 

“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him. 

You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful. 

“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?” 

You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.” 

The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch. 

He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.

You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams. 

This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago. 

It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it. 

“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?” 

“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment. 

“EV?” 

The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light. 

“Online.”

“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.” 

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye. 

Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe. 

This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him. 

But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head. 

There was only you. 

Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor. 

Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment. 

The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again. 

That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes. 

He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly. 

This was wrong. So wrong. 

His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.

He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you. 

What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.” 

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was. 

The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.

He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead. 

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–

“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.” 

“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier. 

It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything. 

“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants. 

That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer. 

“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”

He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.  

Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.

You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual. 

“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment. 

His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.

Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse? 

“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.” 

He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed. 

“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.  

You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat. 

The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin. 

“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.

White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth. 

“No.”

His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up. 

“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.” 

His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that. 

The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable. 

His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions. 

Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.

His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric. 

Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.

He hated it.

He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain. 

“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side. 

“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”

“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”

“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely. 

“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?” 

“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”

“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”

“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles. 

The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second. 

One second enough. 

“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”

The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”

He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be. 

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.

He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.

You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs. 

His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly. 

You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals. 

He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence. 

Too hard. 

Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure. 

It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out. 

“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.” 

He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it. 

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’

Fucking hell. 

“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”

You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him. 

His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with. 

“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide. 

“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?” 

You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed. 

His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation. 

Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.

It wanted more.

His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you. 

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly. 

“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm. 

“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”

“Breathe,” you reminded.

His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Just take her, man, she’s right there–

Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life. 

“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”

See? She wants it. She needs it so bad. 

He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.

Fuck it.

In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core. 

His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses. 

“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”

You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw. 

“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”

You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you. 

“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”

His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand. 

“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” He whispered.

You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air. 

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you. 

“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air. 

You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away. 

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”

Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours. 

“Can–can I–?”

You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs. 

Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert. 

His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life. 

“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”

He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound. 

“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”

His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right. 

“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”

Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers. 

“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“Not stopping, baby.” 

He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts. 

“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”

“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–

“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”

The plea undid you.

You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there. 

It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him. 

You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you. 

Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up. 

He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him. 

You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact. 

The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you. 

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger. 

You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first. 

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.  

Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand. 

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately. 

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”

You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.

He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him. 

When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver. 

He could feel it coming. The change. 

You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away. 

His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal. 

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.

That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out. 

“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.” 

He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”

A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–

“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused. 

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”

That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face. 

Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now. 

Good. 

He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room. 

His bed.

He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”

You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth. 

Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets. 

“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you? 

Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him. 

He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it. 

“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”

Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk. 

“Peter…” 

“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”

Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so. 

God. He was never going back. 

“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.” 

He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again. 

“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”

“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”

“Need what?”

“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”

He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up. 

“Yeah?” 

Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him. 

He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine. 

But something made him stop. 

“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”

The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through. 

“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”

You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again. 

He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands. 

The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”

“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow. 

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”

He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect. 

Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper. 

He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back. 

“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”

He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again. 

What? What is–

The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back. 

“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“

“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”

The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again. 

“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again. 

“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”

His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.

“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”

“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…” 

He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up. 

You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you. 

“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”

The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you. 

When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin. 

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths. 

You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–

“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.” 

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened. 

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”

“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath. 

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking. 

“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.” 

“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead. 

“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”

He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet. 

“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”

There it was. He said it. No turning back now. 

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you. 

“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”

“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation. 

You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again. 

Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did. 

There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth. 

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

Pippin, Merry and yourself had decided to relax down by the Brandywine River, tranquil, peaceful and private. It was a section the Brandybucks had reserved. And seeing Merry was now the man of the household, he had to fill the big empty space, that's where you and Pippin come into it. Yes, merry had staff but it didn't feel the same to him. He needed his 2 best friends.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the banks of the Brandywine River, turning the slow-moving water near Brandy Hall into a sheet of liquid copper. A gentle breeze carried the scent of late summer flowers, and the air was thick with the happy, playful tension that defined the friendship between Meriadoc, Peregrin, and yourself.

Merry had ensured the picnic spot was secluded and comfortable, overlooking the river. Upon the blanket, the simple meal was nearly done, save for one crucial, contested item: a solitary, perfect slice of Berry and cream pie.

​"I’m telling you, Pip, I had barely a morsel!" Merry’s voice was high with theatrical outrage. "You, however, had the majority, which means the last piece is rightfully—"

​"That is outrageous, Meriadoc!" Pippin countered, his eyes bright with competitive glee. "I need my fuel for the mischief I'm going to get up to later!"

​You watched them bicker, your heart warming at their familiar, loving silliness. They were so wonderfully predictable.

​Before either of them could act, your hand shot out with a surprising swiftness, snatching the solitary slice of Berry and Cream Pie and its fork from the plate.

​Merry and Pippin froze, their jaws slack as they stared first at the empty plate, then at the prize in your hand.

​You brought the piece to your lips, closing your eyes to fully savor the sweet, tart burst of flavor. You took a second, decisive bite, then offered them your most serene, innocent smile.

​"Problem solved," you declared simply.

​The stunned silence lasted only a moment before they broke into shared, helpless laughter.

​"You are absolutely cruel!" Pippin gasped, but he was already leaning in, his gaze full of adoration.

​"And utterly brilliant," Merry conceded, shaking his head with a wide grin.

​You finished the piece and set the empty plate aside. You shifted, settling your back against Merrys chest. The three of you were always so very close. Intimate things like this didn't really bother either of you.

​"Now that all distractions are gone," you said, raising a playful eyebrow to the empty plate "what ever shall we get up to now?"

"I have an idea" Merry's fingers began to sift through your hair, then moved to your neck and shoulders, finding the precise spot where tension always settles. Applying gentle pressure, you leaned back and looked up at him smiling. You'd never noticed how good he smells. Pipeweed, sweet pastry and just something utterly Merry.

"I know just the mischief" Merry murmured, his breath warm against your ear. He paused his massage to press a slow, sweet kiss just behind your ear. His touch is such a steady comfort.

Pippin watched curious, he met Merry's gaze who gave him a knowing look. This made Pippin come before you.

He gently took your foot in his lap. "How about a foot massage?" His thumbs began working into the arch of your foot with focused concentration. It feels heavenly.

The boys stayed tending to you for a good few minutes, in a comfortable silence, other than you humming in approval. Though, you wondered when the mischief was happening and what it would be. Would they tickle you, wrestle you, they had to get back at you for stealing that pie somehow!

​Pippin looked up from his task, his face glowing with open affection. He leaned down and planted a soft, quick kiss on the soft skin of your shin before resuming his massage. "We share everything, don't we Merry?" He looked up at his older friend.

You turned your head slightly to await his answer, meeting Merry's gaze, and he leaned in for a long, kiss—a deep expression of your gratitude and joy. When you drew back "We do indeed Pippin" His voice seemed darker somehow, your hand instinctively reached for Pippin’s fingers on your ankle. He immediately paused his work to lace your fingers together.

​You settled back, feeling perfectly cherished and protected. Merry’s lips were pressing soft, repetitive kisses into your hair, while Pippin’s dedicated hands continued their blissful work on your tired feet. The last golden rays of the sun wrapped around the three of you, catching the flow of the Brandywine. You were caught blissfully between your two friends.

​"It’s getting awfully dark out here," Pippin suggests, his voice a low drawl that seems designed to heat the air around you. "The Brandybucks have such a warm, comfortable house, and the fire in the drawing-room is always kept roaring"

​Merry trails his fingers down your arm, reaching for your hand and intertwining your fingers with his. His eyes hold a silent, eager question. "We could move this… activity indoors."

You feel the delicious tension pulling between them—the tender eagerness of Pippin, the steady, commanding desire of Merry. You squeeze both their hands.

​"I think," you reply, your voice barely a husky whisper, "that sounds like the most sensible plan I’ve heard all evening."

​As they both rise smoothly, Merry keeps his arm securely around your waist, pulling you close to his side. Pippin reaches out, gently taking your other hand to draw you to your feet.

They pause, looking down at you in the dim light, their faces etched with equal measures of adoration and desire.

​"Come along then," Merry says, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction.

​Pippin leans closer, kisses you lightly on the forehead, while Merry gives your waist an intimate squeeze.

The walk back to Brandy Hall is short, but the darkness of the path heightens your awareness of them both. You are held snugly between them, your hand laced with Pippin’s as he leads the way, your waist secure beneath Merry's arm as he keeps you pressed close to his side. The combined scent of river air and pipe-weed is intoxicating.

Pippin, ever the spontaneous spirit, lifts your hand as you near the back entrance. He doesn't just kiss your knuckles; he turns your hand over and presses a deep, fervent kiss into your palm, his eyes meeting yours with a dark, promising intensity before he pushes open the heavy wooden door.

​The transition from the cool night air to the warmth inside is immediate. The hall is mostly quiet, lit by the comforting glow of several large lamps.

​"Drawing room," Merry murmurs in your ear, his breath tickling your neck. He steers you away from the main hallways and toward a quieter wing of the house.

​The drawing room is exactly as Pippin described: cozy, well-appointed, and blessedly private. A cheerful fire burns low in the grate, casting dancing light on the dark wooden paneling and the deep, comfortable armchairs.

​Merry guides you straight to the largest hearth rug, which is piled high with thick, embroidered pillows. He gently pushes you down onto the soft cushions, his hands lingering on your shoulders.

​"There you are, Princess," he says, his voice a low, possessive rumble. He kneels immediately in front of you, looking straight into your eyes.

​Pippin closes the door with a soft, decisive click, sealing the three of you in. He crosses the room in three quick steps, his eyes never leaving yours. He sheds his outdoor jacket, tossing it carelessly over an armchair.

​"You look chilled," Pippin observes, though his gaze is anything but. He kneels beside Merry, reaching out to cup your cheek in his hand. His thumb strokes your skin in a gentle rhythm. "We should warm you up."

​He doesn't wait for an answer. He leans in and kisses you—a long, deep, and beautifully messy kiss that leaves your senses spinning. It is full of all the eager, open affection Pippin possesses, and you taste the last faint sweetness of berry pie on his lips.

​As Pippin pulls back only inches, Merry moves in from your other side. Unlike Pippin’s enthusiastic demand, Merry’s kiss is slower, more patient—a soft, deliberate brush of lips that quickly deepens into a long, profound expression of commitment and desire. His hand slips from your shoulder down your back, pressing you forward until your chest is flush against his.

​When Merry finally pulls away, you are breathless and thoroughly kissed. You are now comfortably wedged between them, their knees touching yours, their scents and warmth enveloping you entirely.

​"See, Princess," Merry whispers, his eyes dark with shared intimacy, "we knew exactly what you needed. And the night is still young."

​Pippin leans forward, running a finger along your collarbone. "We have the rest of the night to cause mischief."

Ი𐑼 yeah so it’s short , just a little thought and concept but I will definitely write a longer fic about this <3 I’m not prepared for the person I’m going to become when the movie is out … I’m already freaking out from the trailer 🤓

Oscar was angry initially. Fuming. He couldn't understand why he had even received the penalty. It was the only reason he had so desperately asked to switch on the radio. He was never desperate.

But after looking at the footage from various angles and drivers, he was inclined to agree. And although he might've argued ten seconds was still a little too harsh, it was over. What's done was done.

Yet... he couldn't get it out of his mind. No amount of exercise or mediation (as his mother so kindly provided) was helping. So he was calling in a favour.

Oscar sucked in a sharp breath, taking a step forward to knock on your door before stepping back. While he waited for you to answer, the dread immediately began filling him. Was this wrong? Would you even say yes?

This favour... he had incurred it after you had gotten a bit too carried away with the drinking when you had won your first race this year. To be honest, you still barely remembered the night. You drank, you danced, you cheered... and the next moment, you were waking up with Oscar dealing with your hungover-self in your apartment.

Embarrassed as hell, you had tried to get him out of your apartment as quick as you could, pushing him out, saying something along the lines of "I owe you."

Before Oscar could overthink any further, you opened your door, brows raised and lips parted. You definitely weren't expecting him.

"Morning," Oscar greeted, shifting on his feet awkwardly while he took in the little black sundress wrapped around your body. Not even wrapped, it clung to your body oh so nicely. Oh Christ.

You smiled softly. "Morning," you responded. "What's up?" You queried, leaning on the frame of your door.

Oscar pursed his lips. "Um, well, you know how you got shitfaced in Monaco a few weeks ago? Well–"

You sighed, leaving the door open as you retreated back into your home. "Thin ice, Oscar. Thin ice," you mumbled loudly, cheeks already burning at the memory. You didn't want to try and remember any of it.

Being hungover was hell enough. But after winning in Monaco and having the Oscar Piastri help you home... it was a new sort of purgatory. One you weren't willing to tread.

Being hungover wasn't even the problem.

The problem was Oscar and the way he looked at you.

You were a rookie driver. Three years younger than him. You had raced each other at different times before. You knew his sister well too. You had never even considered him as something more than a friend or co-worker until this year.

Being on the same grid meant seeing him everywhere. You had lost count of how many times the McLaren team had dragged you to help the boys with their social media. More times than that, you had caught him staring at you. Eyes soft yet dark, full of want. At first you thought you were imagining things. But when your publicist pulled you aside and asked why Oscar staring at you like he wanted to consume your very being, your beliefs had been confirmed.

Even worse, Oscar had gotten out of a long term relationship months ago. So with the way he looked at you, the last thing you wanted to be was a rebound. That's exactly what you needed. Be a young rebound co-worker for a leading potential World Champion. Not.

"Right, well," Oscar walked after you, closing the door behind him while he removed his shoes. "I... you said you owed me."

You looked at Oscar through your eyelashes, taking a seat next to your kitchen counter. You chewed on your lip, raising a brow. "You mean like a favour?"

Oscar nodded quietly, memorising the way you crossed your legs and looked at him, teeth grazing your plump lips. He blinked, shaking his head lightly. "Silverstone's killing me. I can't get my mind off it."

You tilted your head, leaning on the counter. "How am I supposed to fix it?"

Oscar's mouth opened but nothing came out. Fuck... he didn't know if he could actually do this. Not when you sat in front of him like this. Ready to devour him.

"I know you don't what to hear it but when you were drunk," he sighed at your groan. He stepped closer to you, invading your space. "When you were drunk," he repeated, "you said something and I think I need it." Right now. Tomorrow. Next week. He didn't want to put a time limit on it.

"Oscar, please," you closed your eyes, trying block out all the memories.

"You have to remember it if you keep stalling, ___," Oscar mumbled, brown eyes staring hard at you.

You swallowed thickly. It was the only part of Oscar bringing you home that you remembered. The reason you had been avoiding him in the paddock for weeks now.

Oscar breathed, inching closer to you. "You said you wanted to fuck me. Have me on my knees. Eat you out till you couldn't remember your name. Ride me until I begged you to stop. I need that."

You sucked in a sharp breath, visibly clenching your thighs together. Fuck. His voice was shaking. You did say that. You had said it because Oscar looked so beautiful in the moonlight. You had said it because...

"I was drunk–"

"Drunk words, sober thoughts," Oscar retorted simply.

You wordlessly watched Oscar sink down to his knees, his hands skimming the fabric of your dress and your exposed thighs. You could feel your heart thud in your ears, whirring loudly while you spotted the semi-bulge in his pants.

"Please," Oscar murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of your calf. "I want to taste you so bad," he breathed out, fingers drawing idle circles on your skin. "I want you to feel good, princess."

You involuntarily shuddered at the nickname. He threw it around the paddock all the time. Teasing you. But today, he was on his knees, pleading you.

"Oscar..." you whispered, swallowing the saliva built up in your mouth. He was making the mess between your legs even worse. "We can't. We work together. Our contracts–"

You could feel him huff with amusement against your legs. "Fuck the contracts. Everyone knows within a five hundred metre radius knows."

"Knows what?" You whispered.

That same boyish smile you saw that night sprawled onto his face. The sheer seriousness swarming his eyes as he looked up at you. "That I worship the floor you walk on."

Oscar watched you blink, silent for a moment. Quietly, you opened your legs, revealing a peak of your matching black panties. His mouth fell open as you spoke with a small smile, "I hope you don't make promises you can't keep."

"Christ," Oscar rasped, leaning in, hands grasping your thighs, your skin spilling between his fingers driving him crazy. He pushed your legs further apart, black dress riding higher, teeth sinking into his bottom lip when he spotted the damp spot of black on your panties. "Look at you," he croaked, hot breath skimming past your core.

He breathed in the smell of your arousal and God, he could've sworn his cock twitched. So intoxicating.

Your body lurched as he pressed his thumb on your clothed pussy, rubbing you gently. Oscar couldn't take his eyes off it. "So wet... does my devotion turn you on, princess?" He queried not in jest but pure intrigue.

"Shit," you mewled, hands clenching the edge of the kitchen counter tightly as Oscar pushed aside the drenched fabric and was immediately greeted by the warmth of your folds. He smiled, gathering all your slick with this thumb, grazing past your clit to capture the look of your hazed eyes.

Oscar said nothing, hooking a finger on your waistband before pulling down your panties, leaving it on the countertop before spreading you once again. His head dipped between your thighs, tongue taking a long stripe. You whimpered at the hum vibrating through your body.

"Taste like heaven," he gasped before plunging his tongue back into your pussy, nose nudging your clit as he lapped at you.

Your head fell back, pleasure swirling around you while your thighs clenched around his face. He was drinking you, taking all he could while he explored every single crevice he had been jerking off to for months now. How many times had he come in his driver's room under the guise of Lando's loud music, imagine your pussy on his tongue? Too many perhaps.

Your hands flew to his brown locks, trying to grasp the sheer pleasure running through your body as if it was tangible. Your eyes fell to his, tongue dragging up your folds before circling your clit while you instantly spotted his blown pupils.

You think he was humping the air, that's how turned on he was. But you couldn't tell. Not when he sucked your clit to gently yet firmly, a precision you had never even been to get on your vibrator. "Feels so good, pretty boy."

Oscar moaned against your pussy, cock straining in his pants at the name you had given him. He adored the thin sheet of sweat on your skin. You glowed above him, lips red from the way you bit them, nipples hard through your dress. Fuck, you were killing him.

He could only tighten his grip around your thighs, bringing you closer if possible, eating you like he was a starving man. The edges of his mouth drooling for you. He could feel your hips jerk and grind against his lips, your moans turning into incoherent gasps. White stars were clouding your vision while the sounds of Oscar slurping your pussy filled your apartment.

"Oscar," you breathed, lower stomach tightening, "I... fuck!"

Your legs trembled around his face, air evaporating from your lungs as you continuously ground your hips, taking every wave of pleasure rolling over you while his groans reverberated within your core.

While Oscar wasn't done, still lapping at your sensitive pussy, you grabbed those brown locks, forcing him to stop and look at you. Your core throbbed at sight of his face, shining with your arousal, chest heaving like he was finally breathing.

"Let me ride you, pretty boy," you breathed, pushing yourself off the chair, not forgetting to grab your panties. You watched him slowly stand back up, your index finger under his chin, his brown eyes solely focused on you.

"Yes, please, please," Oscar rasped, moaning when you grabbed his collar and pulled him towards your bedroom. The small trip had you press your lips to his, his hands immediately resting on your waist, bringing you closer while his tongue explored your mouth. The flavour of you fell all over your tastebuds.

Dear God... you weren't ever going to forget these lips.

Oscar whimpered at the rub of your hands on his ears, fingernails moving down his neck teasingly. You walked through your bedroom door, hands moving to push him onto your bed. "Take it off," you breathed. "Take all of it off."

Oscar scrambled at your orders, removing his shirt off with one hand – the other undoing his belt. He only sped up as you removed your pretty sundress, revealing your bare body to him.

"Oh fuck," he whined, eyeing you in awe while he finally removed his boxers. Goosebumps littered his skin. He was awfully aware of the way you were looking at him as he laid on your bed. Memorising him.

Your eyes fell to his cock. The pretty thing standing straight, slapping his stomach, red and sore – dribbling pre-cum like there was no tomorrow.

You grinned to yourself. You crawled onto the bed, Oscar watching your every move. Your hands trailed over his legs, moving up and up, grasping his thighs while your hot breath grazed over his cock, leaving him squirming.

You looked at Oscar, tilting your head, eyes wide like a doe, innocent thought you were anything but. "I'll let you choose, pretty boy," you murmured, hands roaming his chest, leaving him breathing unevenly. "There's a condom in my purse. Or... you can have me raw."

"Raw," Oscar said almost immediately. His voice torn. His chest heaved. He leaned up, kissing the column of your neck. "Please, please, please... raw. Fuck, I wanna feel you so bad, princess.'

You smiled, pleased. You pushed his back onto the bed, thumb trailing his swollen lips. "Such a well mannered boy. You deserve a reward."

You didn't give yourselves any time to adjust. No more teasing. You couldn't. You needed to feel him too. You hovered over him, legs on either side of him while you grabbed his cock, aligning it with you.

Oscar had to remind himself to breathe at your touch and not just cum already. He swallowed thickly, eyes glued to the space between your drenched pussy and his hard cock. You slowly sunk down on his cock, walls stretching to adjust to his thickness.

"Fuck," he cried out, hands flying to your hips like he needed to steady himself. Shit... you felt too good. He wouldn't last long.

"So big, pretty boy," you praised, moaning quietly at the way he filled you. You could feel him everywhere. So deep.

"Feel so good," he grunted out, trying to prevent himself from moving already.

You chuckled lightly. "It's okay, Osc," you cooed, patting his cheek softly. "You can come if you want. I'll just make you come again and again and again..."

Oscar's cheeks and ears flamed at your words. His stomach churned as you lifted your hips, coming off his cock before slamming down. "Shit," he mewled, head lurching forward into your breasts. The feel of your pussy clenched around him like a vice and it was driving him crazy. He could feel every part of you pussy, hips flushed with yours while the tip of his cock nudged your cervix.

Oscar watched you ride him, your body moving up and down like you were imprinting your name on his cock. Your breasts bounce against your chest, enticing him to suck them, praying it would silence his moans.

Your hand travelled to his locks, grasping his hair while the moans tumbled out of your lips.

"Tell me," he breathed against your breasts, cock pulsing in your pussy. "How do I feel? Tell me I feel good."

"So good," you groaned, eyes clenched, grinding your hips against his cock. "So deep, I could let you breed me."

Oscar's hips began fucking up into you, whimpers escaping his throat. "Yeah, you like that? Wanna come in me, pretty boy? Coat me from the inside? Let me know what's mine?"

"Yes," he whined, stomach clenching at the sight of the cream ring around his cock. The weight of you was fully resting on his cock, taking in every inch of him. The sounds of your skin slapping against one another filled the air.

Oscar swallowed, bringing his thumb to your clit, cursing at the way your pussy tightened around him even more. "Come for me, princess. Show me how good I make you feel."

Your jaw went slack, moans turning silent, vision blurring as your body trembled and convulsed around his cock, hips bucking to ride out the high. "F-Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Oscar moaned, his own hips increasing the pace. His hands gripped your waist tightly, your folds clenching over him still. "Shit, I'm going to come!"

He tried to hold off, thumb rubbing your sensitive clit in quick circle, rubbing your arousal all over you. "Come with me, please, princess," he panted, cock filling you in all the right places.

Your eyes rolled back, body shuddering once again while you felt his hot cum spill into your walls, his hips stuttering up into you. You fell against his chest, your own heaving.

Oscar pulled out of you gently, watching his seed drip out of you. He moaned, lifting you so you sat on the bed. He spread your legs, fingers collecting his cum before spreading it around your puffy pussy.

Your body shivered, overstimulated. You sunk your teeth into your lips when you felt Oscar push his cum into your pussy, three fingers pushing right into that spot.

"O-Oscar," you stuttered, walls clenching around his fingers while your hand reached out to grip his arm.

"One more, please," Oscar begged, fingers thrusting in and out of you. Curling and rubbing your insides. "I can make you feel so good. Look how you take my fingers. Just like my cock. Like I was made for you."

"Oh fuck," you moaned, hand tightening around his arm. The obscene squelches of your pussy told you both what you knew: you were so fucking wet.

His fingers plunged into you, thumb circling your clit. His speed increased, digits curling into your g-spot. Oscar groaned. He could feel your pussy pulsing around his fingers.

"Oscar," you panted, almost drawing blood from your lips, feeling him coax the liquid from you.

A cry fell from your lips, thighs shooting to clench around his hand while your legs trembled. Your vision was entirely white. Mouth open, pants eerily silent as heat flooded from your pussy, hot liquid coming out in spurts from your folds, onto his hands, and the mattress.

Oscar, who had been rutting his hips against the bed quietly, felt his cock twitch, his cum spilling again at the sight of your juices drenching him. "Oh my God," he whined, eyes shut, riding out his orgasm.

"Christ," you swore, head falling back to your pillows while you tried to catch your breath, legs collapsing while Oscar fell next to you.

You turned to him, sucking in a sharp. "You made me squirt," you breathed out in disbelief. "I came four times," you sighed, shuffling closer to him.

Oscar smiled gently, tucking your hair behind your ears. Both of your bodies stuck to the blanket, sweat, his cum, and your juices covering the both of you. "That was just four. I can give you eighty one."

You rolled your eyes, smacking him lightly. "Piss off," you chuckled, feeling his body shake with amusement as well. You pursed your lips, caressing his cheek. "Still feeling shit about Silverstone?"

"What's Silverstone?" He queried, a dry smile on his face as he pulled you closer to him.

You grinned. "That's what I like to hear."

"You wanna hear about Monaco?" Oscar teased, pressing his lips to your shoulder.

You groaned, cheeks burning as you tried to get out of his arms. Oscar laughed softly, keeping you close to him. "Okay, okay," he murmured. "Now let me at least take you out on a date. I'm not usually a sex first guy."

"What can I say? I bring the worst out of people," you quipped with a cheeky grin, tapping his nose lightly.

Oscar smiled while you sighed loudly, hand idly rubbing down your body. "Our publicists are going to kill us," you mumbled, already fearing the wrath of your own.

"It'll be fine. Everyone already knows how much of a loser I am for you. They'll probably be relieved, if anything," he snorted. "Have I mentioned that I really like you yet or..."

"Not really," you commented, warmth spreading over your body at his words.

Oscar grinned, clearing your face of any loose strands to he could see you clearly. "Well then," he whispered, thumb trailing over your lips. "I really really really like you."

You smiled. "I like you too... even if you're an absolute idiot."

"Okay... rude," Oscar nudged you, still grinning.

The London air is crisp, carrying the distant scent of rain and exhaust fumes. You’re walking side-by-side, a comfortable silence settled between you after a long lunch. The pavement is uneven, a mosaic of cracked grey paving stones. He’s telling a story about babysitting Max Verstappen’s cats, something about a strategically destroyed roll of toilet paper, and his voice is a low, pleasant rumble against the city’s hum.

You’re approaching a particularly busy intersection. As the crowd thickens, funnelling you closer to the curb, a gentle pressure settles on the small of your back. It’s his hand. Before your brain can fully process the warmth of it, he’s steering you.

It’s not a push, not a pull. It’s a seamless, fluid motion, like a current guiding a boat into harbour. In the space of two steps, you’ve switched places. You are now on the inside of the sidewalk, nestled against the muted brick of a storefront. He is on the outside, a quiet barrier between you and the roaring red blur of a double-decker bus.

He doesn’t break his story.

“… and I swear Sassy looked me dead in the eye while she did it,” he finishes, a small smile playing on his lips. “Pure evil, that one.”

You’re not listening. Your mind has snagged on the manoeuvre. It was so subtle, so practiced, you might have missed it if you weren’t actively cataloguing every new and bewildering thing about him.

You stop walking. He pauses a few feet ahead, turning back, his expression shifting from amusement to concern. “Everything alright?”

“You just … you moved me,” you say, the words feeling clunky and strange in your mouth.

He glances back at the street, then at you. A flicker of confusion crosses his face. “Yeah? It was getting a bit crowded.”

“No, not … you switched sides with me. I was on the outside, and now I’m on the inside.”

He looks at you, really looks, and the cogs are visibly turning behind his calm, brown eyes. He seems genuinely baffled that this is something worth commenting on.

“Oh. Yeah,” he says finally, as if just realizing he’d done it. “Well, you’re not supposed to walk on the road side.”

He says it so simply. A statement of fact, like ‘the sky is blue’ or ‘water is wet’. It’s not a declaration of protective intent. It’s not a grand gesture. It’s just … a rule. An unspoken, deeply ingrained piece of code in his programming that he executed without a second thought.

Your ex, a man named Seth who considered sending a ‘u up?’ text at 2 a.m. the height of romantic effort, would have let you get clipped by a cyclist’s handlebar and then blamed you for not looking.

“I … huh,” is all you can manage.

Oscar’s brow furrows slightly. “Is that a bad thing?” He sounds genuinely worried now, as if he’s just committed some egregious social faux pas he’s entirely unaware of.

“No,” you say, shaking your head, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across your face. “No, Oscar. It’s really not a bad thing.”

He watches you for a second longer, his expression still a little uncertain, before he offers a small, relieved smile in return. “Right. Good. C’mon, my flat’s just around the corner. I’ll make you a tea that’ll make you forget all about my weird walking habits.”

He starts walking again, and you fall into step beside him. He doesn’t take your hand, doesn’t throw an arm around you. But you are acutely aware of his presence beside you, a solid, unassuming shield against the chaos of the city. And for the first time in a very, very long time, you feel the foreign, terrifying, and wonderful sensation of being looked after.

***

A week later, you’re on the phone with your best friend, Jess, pacing the length of your small apartment.

“He did it again,” you say, twisting the phone cord around your finger.

“The dishes? Because if he did the dishes without you having to ask, I might have to build a small shrine in his honour,” Jess’s voice crackles through the receiver.

“No, not the dishes. The thing.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific. He does a lot of things. You know, for a man. Things like ‘listening’ and ‘remembering your coffee order’. Bizarre, I know.”

You roll your eyes, even though she can’t see you. “The sidewalk thing. We went out for dinner tonight. We walked from the restaurant to the car park, maybe a hundred metres. He switched sides with me three separate times. Three! Every time we crossed a street. It was like a perfectly choreographed dance I didn’t know I was a part of.”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line, then a low whistle. “Wow. So, what you’re saying is, he’s not just a fluke. This is a factory setting.”

“It has to be! Jess, it’s … weird.”

“Weird how? Weird bad? Or weird like finding a twenty-pound note in a jacket you haven’t worn in a year?”

You sink onto your sofa, tucking your feet under you. “Weird good. It’s just, no one has ever done that. Ever. My exes would have used me as a human shield against a rogue puddle.”

“Ah, yes. The Bare Minimum Brigade. A truly distinguished group of gentlemen,” she says dryly. “So, what did you do?”

“Nothing! I just let it happen. What am I supposed to say? ‘Excuse me, sir, could you please stop being so subconsciously considerate? It’s unnerving.’”

Jess laughs, a bright, clear sound. “Okay, I see your point. It’s like you’ve been subsisting on dry toast your whole life and someone just handed you a perfectly baked, artisanal sourdough with French butter. You don’t know what to do with it.”

“That is a startlingly accurate metaphor,” you admit. “It’s not just the walking, either. He always opens the car door for me.”

“Get out.”

“I’m serious. Not in a showy way. He just gets to the passenger side first, opens it, and waits for me to get in before he walks around to his side. The first time he did it, I just stood there like a lemon for a full ten seconds.”

“What did he do?”

“He just waited. Patiently. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me like, ‘Are you getting in, or …’”

“This man is a unicorn,” Jess declares. “A rare, Australian, motorsport-driving unicorn. You need to protect him. Keep him away from the influences of modern, emotionally stunted masculinity. Put him in a biodome if you have to.”

You laugh, the tension in your shoulders loosening. “It’s just, I’m not used to it. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like, is this all an act? Is he going to turn around one day and ask me to pay him back for all the doors he’s opened, with interest?”

“Honey,” Jess says, her voice softening. “Some people are just nice. Genuinely, properly nice. Maybe he’s not putting on an act. Maybe that’s just who he is. Maybe his parents raised him right.”

The thought is both comforting and terrifying. If this is just him, if this isn't some elaborate ruse, then what does that mean? It means you might actually have to let your guard down. It means this might actually be … real.

“He also holds the door for everyone,” you add quietly. “Not just me. Men, women, elderly people, kids. If he gets to a door first, he holds it. It’s like a reflex.”

“Okay, the biodome is a go,” Jess says decisively. “I’ll start drawing up the blueprints.”

***

You’re in the paddock at Silverstone. The noise is a physical entity, a roaring, vibrating beast that seeps into your bones. The air smells of burnt rubber, high-octane fuel, and the nervous energy of thousands of people. It’s overwhelming, a sensory assault course, and you’re trying your best to look like you belong here.

Oscar has a debrief in ten minutes. You’re walking with him from the hospitality suite to the garage, a journey that feels like swimming upstream against a tide of media, team personnel, and VIPs. He has his game face on — focused, serious, his gaze fixed straight ahead. But his hand is resting lightly on your lower back again, a steady, grounding presence in the chaos.

A small crowd of fans has gathered near the entrance to the McLaren garage. They surge forward as he approaches, shouting his name, holding out caps and programmes for him to sign.

“Oscar! Oscar, over here!”

“Good luck this weekend, mate!”

He gives them a quick, polite nod, a tight smile. “Thanks, guys. Bit busy right now, maybe later.”

Most of them are respectful, but one man, burly and insistent, leans over the rope, shoving a phone in your direction. “Can you take a picture of us?” He barks at you, not even making eye contact.

You flinch, surprised by his aggression. Before you can form a response, Oscar has moved. It’s that same seamless efficiency as the sidewalk maneuver, but amplified. He takes a half-step, placing himself squarely between you and the man. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t even look annoyed. He looks … blank. Incredibly, unnervingly calm.

“Not right now, mate,” he says, his voice low and even, but with an edge of steel you’ve never heard before. It cuts through the surrounding noise. “And you’ll speak to her with a bit more respect.”

The man’s bravado immediately deflates. He mutters an apology, pulling his phone back.

Oscar gives him a short nod, then his hand is back on your back, urging you forward. “C’mon.”

You’re bustled through the garage doors and into the relative quiet of the engineering office. The door clicks shut behind you, muting the roar of the paddock to a distant hum. Your heart is hammering against your ribs.

“Are you alright?” He asks, his attention now fully on you. His brow is creased with genuine concern.

“I’m fine,” you say, your voice a little shaky. “He just startled me.”

“Some people just have no manners,” he says, shaking his head. It’s a simple statement, but the underlying frustration is clear. He runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry about that.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” you say, looking up at him. “You … thank you.”

“For what?” He looks genuinely confused again. “He was being a tosser.”

“For stepping in. For saying that.” You try to explain, the words tumbling out. “It’s just … most guys I’ve dated would have either ignored it or, worse, thought it was funny. They would have told me to ‘lighten up’.”

A look of deep distaste crosses his features. “Why would anyone think that’s funny?”

“I don’t know,” you say with a shrug, a bitter little laugh escaping you. “Because they’re idiots?”

He gives a small, wry smile at that. “Can’t argue with that logic.” He glances at the clock on the wall. “Right, I’ve really got to go.” He hesitates for a second, then leans in and presses a quick, soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll see you after?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, touching the spot where his lips were. “See you after.”

He gives you one last small smile before disappearing into the debrief room. You’re left standing alone in the sterile office, the thrum of the garage vibrating through the floor.

It wasn’t a grand, dramatic defence. He didn’t puff out his chest or start a fight. He just calmly, quietly, and unequivocally drew a line. This is not acceptable. He didn’t do it to look like a hero. He did it because, in his world, you don’t let a stranger be rude to someone you’re with. It’s another rule from his unspoken codebook. Chapter 3, Subsection B: Don’t Tolerate Blokes Being Tosspots.

You sink into a nearby office chair, the adrenaline slowly leaving your system. It’s being replaced by something else. Something warm and solid and terrifyingly hopeful. Jess was right. This isn’t an act. This is just him. And you’re starting to think you could get very, very used to it.

***

The night is quiet. You’re curled up on his sofa in his Monaco apartment, a ridiculously soft blanket draped over your legs. A half-finished movie is playing on the television, casting flickering blue light across the room. Oscar is in the kitchen, the gentle clinking of mugs the only sound.

He comes back with two cups of tea, steam rising in fragrant clouds. He sets yours on the coaster on the side table, exactly how you like it — milky, one sugar. Another one of his small, silent observations.

He settles onto the other end of the sofa, stretching his long legs out. For a few minutes, you just sit in comfortable silence, watching the film, sipping your tea.

“I have a question,” you say, breaking the quiet.

“Shoot,” he says, his eyes still on the screen.

You take a deep breath. You’ve been wanting to ask this for weeks, ever since that first day in London, but you’ve been afraid of how it might sound. Afraid of making a big deal out of something he clearly sees as nothing.

“Why do you do it?”

He finally turns his head to look at you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Do what?”

“All of it,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your mug. “The sidewalk thing. The doors. Today at the track. All the … gentlemanly stuff.” The word feels old-fashioned and silly on your tongue.

He processes this for a moment, a thoughtful frown touching his lips. He doesn’t laugh or dismiss it. He just thinks.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, honestly. “I don’t really think about it. It’s just how I was raised, I guess.”

“By who? Your parents?”

“Yeah. My dad, mostly,” he says, a fond, distant look in his eyes. “He’s a very proper bloke. Not in a stuffy way. Just … decent. He always told me, ‘You look after the people you’re with, Oscar. It’s not hard. It’s just what you do.’ It was never presented as a big deal. It was just part of being a good person, you know? Like saying please and thank you.”

You stare into your tea, the warmth seeping into your hands. It’s not hard. It’s just what you do. The simplicity of it is staggering. The Bare Minimum Brigade had always acted like basic consideration was a monumental effort, a task worthy of a medal.

“So it’s not a conscious choice?” You press, needing to understand. “You’re not thinking, ‘Oh, I must now place myself between her and the traffic’?”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “God, no. If I had to consciously think about it, I’d probably trip over my own feet and walk into a lamppost. Nah, it’s just … automatic. Like I said, it’s just how it’s supposed to be, isn’t it?”

He asks it as a genuine question. Isn’t it? As if he can’t conceive of a world where men don’t do these things. As if your entire dating history is an anomaly from a bizarre alternate universe.

And in that moment, something inside you, a tightly wound knot of cynicism you’ve been carrying for years, finally begins to unravel. The constant analysis, the suspicion, the waiting for the other shoe to drop — it all just dissolves in the face of his simple, unpretentious decency.

He’s not trying to prove a point. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s not playing a role.

He’s just being Oscar.

“I guess it is,” you say softly, your voice thick with an emotion you can’t quite name.

He seems to sense the shift in you. He puts his mug down and shuffles closer on the sofa, closing the distance between you. He gently takes your mug from your hands and places it next to his. Then he just opens his arm in a silent invitation.

You don’t hesitate. You slide across the cushion and curl into his side, resting your head on his chest. You can feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your ear. His arm wraps around you, holding you securely. It feels less like an embrace and more like a homecoming.

He rests his chin on the top of your head. The movie continues to play, forgotten. The sounds of the actors’ voices are just background noise to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

You settle back against him, feeling a profound sense of peace wash over you. The world outside, with its noise and its crowds and its rude men with camera phones, feels a million miles away. Here, in the quiet of his apartment, curled up on his sofa, you are on the inside. You are safe.

You think about all the things you thought you wanted in a partner. Someone who would challenge you, who would match your fierce independence, who wouldn’t try to ‘take care’ of you. You were so busy building your fortress, you never realized how nice it would be to have someone who just quietly, instinctively, makes sure the drawbridge is secure. Not because he thinks you can’t do it yourself, but because it’s just what you do for the people you care about.

He shifts slightly, his hand coming up to gently stroke your hair. It’s a simple, comforting gesture. Another unconscious act of care.

You slip into the room, not caring to check for cameras as you lock the door behind you. 

His face lights up when he sees you, a full grin making its way onto his face. He shoots up from where he's sitting, and you practically jump into his arms.

“My Isack, you did amazing!" You say, your voice muffled from where it's buried in his meaty shoulder.

He spins you once before setting you down, cupping your face to plant a kiss on your forehead.

A smirk pulls at his lips, “Only because my good luck charm was watching.”

“No, baby, that was all you.” You deflect, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and staring at him.

There's a flicker in his eyes, something between the obvious giddiness that always seems to take over him when you're around and a spark of an emotion you're still trying to figure out.

You didn't start noticing it until a few weeks ago. Little by little, it started making more sense.

Why he gets so excited when you tell him you think he did great.

Why he seeks your validation more than his teams.

Isack loves to be told he's good.

You plant a kiss soft on his forehead, then the corner of his eye, near his temple. His cheek. The corner of his lip just before he opens his mouth to speak.

His jawline as he says, “What're you doing, ma chérie?” With a nearly unnoticeable shudder. my darling

You pause, mumbling into the supple skin of his neck, “Rewarding my boyfriend.” You tilt your head softly, nuzzling into him.

“I have– ah… fifteen minutes.” He says, big hands making their way around your waist when your tongue juts out to lick a stripe up to his ear. His thumb strokes the skin when your shirt rides up, the touch nervous.

You pull away and step forward, walking him towards the couch slotted against the wall of his room. “That's fifteen minutes to make you feel good.” 

His knees hit the end of the couch, and he nearly topples over as he scrambles to sit.

His hands linger on your waist, eyes wide as they stare up at you in awe. You climb atop him, legs on each side of his muscular thighs as you straddle him gently.

“They- they want me down early—” Isack stammers, browns cinching and uncinching as he watches you make quick work of the zipper holding his fireproofs up.

You hum, “How early?” 

“Ten.” He says quickly.

You search his eyes, running your fingers through his short black tufts of hair. “Think you can cum in five minutes?” You ask, cupping his cheek.

He gazes up at you for a few beats, cursing in French lowly.

“Yeah.” He replies, breathless.

You gnaw at your lip softly, tugging his undershirt up ever so slightly as you ask, “You okay with this, baby?” 

Another sigh, “Yeah.”

He lifts his arms for you to take the white compression shirt off, peeling the sweat-damp material off his skin to expose his lean muscles and toned abdomen.

You run your fingers across the divots of his abs and plant your lips on his collar, careful not to mark him where the cameras might catch it.

He glances at his watch, “Quatre.” four

You hum against his skin and adjust yourself on his hips, causing a soft groan to leave his mouth. He's rock hard under you.

You smile as you lean back.

“Pull down your suit.” You order, taking some weight off him so he can push his fireproofs down further, taking his boxers with it.

You watch as his cock springs out, flushed and ready. He's leaking precum, and when you move to massage the tip, he's sensitive to the touch.

“Fuck– Please, ma coeur,” Isack chokes. my heart

You shush him, “I know, I know.” You say, hiking up your skirt.

You're dripping. So wet that it's unbearable. “Y’gonna be a good boy and let me use you?” You ask, stroking the base of him softly.

Isack twitches, staring up at you as he adjusts himself. “Hahh– yesyesyes, whatever you want, please just do something.” He begs quickly, looking at his watch as you adjust yourself.

You swipe his tip between your folds, the wetness of you smearing onto him. You sink onto him slowly.

“T- fuck- trois.” three

Sometimes you forget how big he is. How hard it is to go without any prep.

You gasp, “Mmh, my winner. Yeah? Say it. Say you're my winner, Isack.” You say, kissing along his jaw as you let his length fill you.

He curses to himself in French, “Yours- I-I’m your winner.” Isack groans in your ear. 

He wraps his arms around your body, engulfing you in a hug and assisting you as you begin to move.

“Fuck, I love you, baby,” You whine, rolling your hips as you nip at the soft spot behind his ear, “C'mon, say it again, say you're my good boy.”

Isack stammers as he squeezes you closer. The fat of your hips. The press of your clothed breasts against his bare chest.

“I'm your- mm- good boy,” He whimpers in your ear, “I'm yours.”

Duex. two

A hard knock on his locked driver's room door doesn't make you pause. You're still moving up and down on his cock, the soft plap of skin meeting skin and the squelch of your combined liquids still quietly filling the room.

Isack is still peering up at you when he asks, nearly unintelligible and in one breath, “Qu'est-ce que c'est?” what is it

“You're on in about ten, Hadjar. Team principal is looking for ya.” The person outside replies.

“Donnez-m'en deux.” give me two

“Hurry it up.” They say, pushing off the door as they trek off.

You clench around him, eliciting a low groan. He thrusts up into you in retaliation, and you're barely able to contain the choked moan that almost leaves your throat.

“You heard the man, Isack. Hurry it up.” You say, ignoring the stiffness in your legs as you push up and down at a faster rate. He's thrusting, too, the pleasure draining him as he pulls you in closer. His thrusts are so hard you can almost feel him in your stomach.

Isack's whimpers mixed with your soft moans fill the room, low mutters of, “So fucking good for me, baby,” and, “I love you,” being whispered back and forth as you begin to find your high.

“You ready to cum, Isack?” You ask, the burn in your legs is now something you're unable to ignore as you fasten your pace even more.

He shudders, “Y-yes, please. Inside- please.” Isack stammers, 

“Yeah? Wanna fill me up? Go ahead, then. Make me full.” You say between soft moans and his whimpers.

Isack nuts inside of you like a man starved, filling you to the brim with hot seed he'll probably apologize for later.

He thrusts a few more times, fucking his cum back into you, before finally pulling out.

“Better be quick, baby. Don't wanna miss your podium.” You whisper in his ear, giving him a quick bite before he pulls on his clothes and runs out of the room with a sloppy kiss to your wet lips.

Your cheers ring louder than the rest of the crowd when he takes his trophy. 

What the crowd and the cameras don't see? 

The blooming marks on his neck, just below his collar, that you left in a hurry, and the knowing smile he offers to you when his eyes find yours in the midst of the crowd.

© AAJXS

in the hotel room, max's hand lingered across your back a little more as he guided you away from your hotel room and towards his. his nose brushed against your neck, taking in your scent before he went to open the door.

when he got the door closed behind you two, his hands were on you once more. his lips at your neck and between kisses he asked, "you'd pick, charles, huh?"

you squeaked, "they said pick someone else." you looked into max's eyes, "we're already teammates." and your eyes went a little wide as he pressed himself further against you. you two have had sex before, it was no secret - with the amount of time you spent together it was inevitable.

"could have picked anyone else." he said lowly as he rubbed up against you further and touched your chest, "you know how i feel about him. how he gets under my skin. i wouldn't want anyone to be on the same team as you. you're mine."

you knew his reaction was overbearing, but you knew that max deeply cared for you. he yearned for you deeply. the thump of his heart was in time with how much he adored you, needed you. so the idea of charles taking you away from him only poked at something in his brain.

you gasped when he bit into the skin of your neck, you knew it would bruise. but something curled in your gut as you felt the a certain lust wash over you.

"you're red bull or nothing." he said lowly, "by my side, or off the track." he said as he started to play with the front of your jeans, "i don't want charles to get the wrong idea, so tonight. i'm going to make sure you firmly remember who you belong to." he placed another kiss on your neck before you ended up in the bedroom and on the bed.

you could have said no, you could have stood your ground and had him slink away with his tail between his legs. but there was something about the domineering max that just made you wet. the looked in his eye, cold, commanding. he looked like the villain that everyone thought of him as.

you took off your branded t-shirt and you felt his gaze linger on your breasts. he licked his lips and you got your bra off, slowly your jeans came off too along with the rest of your under garments. socks throw in two different directions and your panties on the other side of the bed. max was quicker to get undressed before he got on top of you in bed. he pushed you up against the pillows and gazed down at you.

his cock was fully erect. you knew he got off to submitting you under him. he told you once that he liked when you posed a challenge on the track because that meant he could fuck you harder. a real champion can take anything, he told you once when he had you in a headlock and bullied your poor pussy.

"look at you." he said as he hiked your hips up closer to him, "see, this is what no other driver can have. you're just so sweet on the track, you're their little star. but you need someone to actually keep you safe. and charles would never do that." max said lowly and rubbed the tip of his cock up against you, "too trusting. you should only be trusting me."

you swallowed, "please, max." you held onto the pillows under your head and you lifted your hips a little to give him better access to your cunt. you were wet and max knew it. he loved that he carried that bit of control over you, easily making you soaked between your legs.

he remembered after a rough practice he spent what felt like half an hour rubbing your cunt through your driver's suit and he knew that you raced the next round with stickiness between your legs. risky move, but max had to plant those seeds early.

that after formula one, you wouldn't become an engineer or a reporter, or whatever else ex-drivers seemed to do. no, you'd be max's wife. and hopefully married after after that season ended.

he looked at you and licked his lips. you met his gaze as he sank his cock into you. you arched your back a little and he relaxed against you. and so did you. he planted his hands on either side of you, he leaned in to kiss you on the lips as you wrapped your legs around him.

"look at you." he said.

you shifted yourself on the bed a little and reached for him. your arms wrapped around his neck. you held on while he moved against you. pleasure moved through both of you. you loved the feeling, even with max's harsh words, you still felt affection for him. both as a teammate and a lover.

"i'm always looking out for you." he said, he drank in the sight of your face, "i want you well, i want you safe. and i want you as mine." his strokes started to move faster, he felt a slight fire in his gut from the feeling of his cock buried inside of you slick pussy.

you were on birth control, but still it was a risk to take you this way. to have him bare inside of you. but, it eased his jealousy just a little bit to know that he was the only man to ever take you this bare. to take you as his, all his.

"please, max. it feels so good." you encouraged him as you held on tighter, the pleasure was growing in your core as he rutted against you. there was something about how his cock moved inside of you that hit all the right areas that made your eyes roll a little out of pleasure.

"you don't know what you do to me." he said lowly, "i don't want you to ever think about having another teammate ever again. i want you to only need me by your side. matching cars, matching uniforms." matching last names.

he continued to thrust into you, he held onto the bedding a little tighter and felt the sweat at his brow. it was hot between you two. the movements of him against you only had you holding onto you tighter.

"max. fuck."

"i know, it feels good. you love how you feel under me. do you like being my teammate?"

you nodded and your nails nipped at the back of his neck as you held on, you swallowed before you said, "i love being your teammate, max. you know that!"

"do you want another teammate? want another man to fuck you the way i do?"

you shook your head, "never. never in a million years. i want us to win the constructor's this year!" you arched your back a little when his cock nudged against just the right spot that made you feel tingly all over. he laid another heated kiss on your lips and continued to fuck you quickly and roughly.

the headboard slammed against the wall from the force that he was fucking with you. you whined into the kiss and he held onto your hips tightly, you were pinned under him while he fucked you. he felt your body quake under him, the feeling of heat under your skin. you were the sparks in his brain and the fuel in his blood.

fucking you was the same intensity as driving. except he could let his mind grow hazy with each powerful thrust. to know you'd never want another meant the world to him, to know that you were all his. you moaned against his lips and clawed down his strong back.

you didn't last much longer. you broke the kiss and made a strong yet whiny noise as you came around his cock. you arched your back and squeezed your eyes shut as you climaxed. it only spurred him on, it made his heart hammer along with yours. the pleasure flooded your head and after you reached your peak, you let go of him and let him have his wicked way with you.

"beautiful." max said as he continued to fuck you strong thrusts. he left himself feel all of you, every inch of you felt warm under him. you were sweaty and hot. he licked his lips and the pleasure throbbed in his body.

"please, max. i'm sorry that i made that comment. i knew i couldn't pick you." you whined.

max kissed at your neck, "next time, pick someone else. alex, george, even carlos. just not charles, i won't let that sweet talker take you from me." you could feel the possessiveness in his tone.

he knew he was close, with a few more heavy thrusts he finished inside of you. he groaned under his breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead. your cunt fluttered around him and he drank in the feeling. you felt amazing, warm all over and so soft. he knew he had to have you always.

"perfect." he cooed before he pulled out and laid out next to you in bed. he cupped your face with his large hand. those large hands on your soft skin. he leaned in, "tell me again."

you opened your eyes and asked, "tell you what?"

"that you don't want charles."

you shook your head, "i don't want charles. only you, max." and you curled up closer to him. his touches were more gentle, the jealous beast in him calmed down. for now.

-

"if you could be teammates with anyone else, who would it be?"

you thought about it for a moment, the reminder of last time tickled in your gut. but quickly you looked back to the camera and said, "i'd have to pick, lando! he got really close to the wdc last year, but if we were teammates he'd have a little more competition."