;༊

it was last tuesday when his stomach dropped for no apparent reason. there was no headaches, no sensory overstimulation, and no huge, deadly attacks, the kind of things that usually preface such a feeling. his senses were heightened, his eyes darting wildly around his dingy “studio” (if you could even call it that). breathing suddenly became harder to do, at least momentarily, as parker scanned his surroundings. he moved away from his work, checking vents, going through drawers, and circling the building; nothing was out of the ordinary. still, the feeling persisted.

sleep came in short, spontaneous bursts, his body relaxing only to pop awake two hours later wrapped in a cocoon of webs (a whole different issue, one he’s just as unclear about). something was wrong. this fear wasn’t like anything he’d felt before. it wasn’t even human. it’s loud, it’s tense, it’s in his stomach and chest and sometimes even his head, urging him to glance over his shoulder as he swings through new york. the feeling that had started last week simply bled through into this one, and he still feels it in his gut now that it’s monday.

monday! nearly a whole week of being on edge!

“i just can’t shake the feeling that…” peter starts, awkwardly shifting in the water of yelena’s steaming hot office, “that something’s… hunting me.” his voice cracks on the word hunting, which causes him to frown and the blonde across from him to grin.

“it sounds like you are being paranoid. again, small potato stuff,” she muses.

“i’d agree but i can’t shake the feeling. i just— it feels like something is out there, looking for me. i can feel it. the spider parts of me, they’re terrified. i feel like prey,” he admits, voice growing smaller and smaller until he finally swallows and fidgets with the ends of his mask. “i feel like prey.”

“if you feel like you are prey,” yelena drawls, “then stop sitting around like a deer and start hunting like a wolf. or, in your case, like a spider. if you sit like a duck, you’ll be shot like a duck.” she follows everything off with a shrug, almost like a challenge to peter. the nonchalance is infuriating but her advice is, unfortunately, sound. sometimes, to avoid being hunted, you must become the hunter.

peter pulls himself out of the sauna without a second thought, nodding a little while thanking her. great, another mystery on his plate. more work to throw himself into, more things to worry about. he can feel his hands growing clammy as he tries to hone in on the fear for any sort of clues. is it a specific noise? a smell? a vibration throughout new york city? as always, fear replies unreasonably and illogically, leaving him with just one word on the mind: run.

✦   “FOUND YOU,” PARKER murmurs as he stares at his several monitors. it takes some filtering and a lot of research, but he eventually finds out that there was an incident in new jersey, recently, that revolved around genetical engineering and modifications towards wasps. it was an attempt to make the common wasp less aggressive by mixing them with tarantula hawk wasps, which are non-aggressive towards humans. one of the experimental hawk wasps escaped, however, and, now made aggressive due to stress from the lab, immediately went to sting a human. ouch. nothing to worry about, though, right?

wrong.

the victim of the stinging was described as a passerby to the lab building. in the few reports peter could find, the victim was alleged to have screamed and ran around, before collapsing on the ground, fainting entirely. as others approached, the victim sprouted thin, orange wings from their back while seemingly unconscious. antennae followed shortly afterwards from their head, and while there was no stinger described, the victim soon woke up and displayed violent behaviors, scaring off most officials on the scene before flying away. no wonder this was covered up…

it would all be fine if he wasn’t a spider. even then, things would be better if it wasn’t a tarantula hawk wasp that had been the subject of these experiments. you know, the wasp species that preys specifically on spiders? that’s the only reason his sudden fear makes sense: someone’s out there, genetically fucked, likely totally confused, and probably following off of their base, insectoid instincts— the instincts that say to kill and eat spiders. a shiver runs down his back just thinking about it, his eyes closing briefly because the thought alone worsens that stir in his gut tenfold. when parker finally finds it in himself to open up his eyes again, he begins clicking rapidly to sift through whatever he can get hands on, hoping to find a glimpse of this wasp-person. after half an hour, he strikes gold in the surprising form of security camera footage from a place nearby.

“oh,” he mumbles under his breath, brows furrowing as he sizes you up through the screen.

you’re floating above the ground, legs almost limp in the air, eyes wide and black (not unlike his own, as of late). your head lifts towards the security camera, noticing it but not caring. you’re just hovering in the clip. then, your head tilts, both antennae twitching as you fly off with surprising speed and determination. no other camera in the area picks you up with any clarity, it’s all fuzzy, blurry half-second appearances that leave peter feeling less scared and more frustrated. you’re constantly on the move, it seems, always flying— “right, tarantula hawks don’t have central nests,” he mutters, shaking his head, “hard to track but not impossible…”

why you came to new york is still unclear. to hunt him, maybe? or, are you hunting something else? or, maybe it was just a desperate escape out of state? regardless, this is his turf to protect.

“wasp or otherwise, i’m going to deal with you,” he half-growls to the blurry security footage, his gaze lingering on the shape of your wings. peter’d be shocked by his own territorialism if he wasn’t too busy imagining the pleasure it’d be to pin you.

the hunter has officially become the hunted.

papa amelia is getting back into writing fucking finally yay! i hope this is interesting to you guys, lmk your thoughts/opinions but i’ve always been super interested in man-spider/extreme spider dna peter stuff so seeing the new movie was a treat for me <3 of course, reader has the same issue but has no clue how to deal with it or what’s going on, which easily allows their wasp dna to overtake their reasoning.

also, i'm thinking of scrapping and just redoing my taglist bc it feels overcomplicated and junky... hope that's okay with all of you!

★ … “ART, ARE YOU even listening to me?”

art jolts a bit in his seat at the use of his name, nearly dropping the scuffed blue flip phone between his fingers right on top of his sandwich. it’s a juggling act to both keep it from falling and hide the screen from patrick, but art manages just fine and quickly shuts his phone with a click.

“sorry,” art sighs. his eyes dart briefly to the device now beside his nalgene bottle as he bites into his turkey sandwich, though he doesn’t make a move to grab it again– not so soon, at least. “… i’m just waiting to hear back from someone.”

patrick’s eyebrow raises at the explanation, easily catching art’s fleeting attention. “who, your mom?” he asks around a mouthful of cafeteria pizza in his mouth, his lack of manners showing as he chases the bite with a monster. “we don’t have friends, last time i checked. i’d know if someone was trying to get ahold of you.”

“i have friends that aren’t you, patrick.” art rolls his eyes, subtly shifting his phone to beneath the table so he can check his messages. 

“really? because you’ve come over every day this week. you can only use band practice as an excuse so many times, man.”

art 🥁💥 (12:35 pm) am i good 2 come over later? you 🌷💋💓 (12:36 pm) r u stupid you 🌷💋💓 (12:36 pm) i told u not 2 text me while we’re @ school you 🌷💋💓 (12:37 pm) busy anyway. party 2nite. pregaming @ tashi’s

sighing to himself, art sets his phone on the bench beside him and continues eating his sandwich. “the practice’s more for you,” he counters, “since you’re the one who can’t nail the solo in ‘teen spirit.’ you’re dragging us down.”

patrick goes red at the dig and chokes down the rest of his pizza before flicking one of his fries at the blond across from him. “me?” he gasps once he’s cleared his throat, more focused on his breathing than art texting beneath the table. “you’re the one who’s completely off-tempo. no one could follow along to your shitty excuse for drumming.”

“right. my shitty drumming and your shitty guitar solo. we’re made for each other.”

art 🥁💥 (12:40 pm) sorry art 🥁💥 (12:40 pm) when can we meet? you 🌷💋💓 (12:40 pm) stop txting me art 🥁💥 (12:41 pm) BABE art 🥁💥 (12:41 pm) when can we meet??? art 🥁💥 (12:41 pm) need 2 c you b4 the plastics steal u 4 the summer

“maybe today’s the day, though,” art continues once he sets his phone back down, eyeing the screen closely while picking at his sandwich. he picks apart the white bread from the rest of the fillings and just eats the turkey. “if you can get your head out of your ass, that is.” dodging another fry from patrick’s tray, art flicks it back while patrick’s arms fold over his chest. “what?”

“i can’t practice today.” art’s face drops almost immediately, but patrick’s already waving off the inevitable barrage of complaints. “my parents are having people over, and my dad’ll kill me if i so much as look at my guitar.”

“dude,” art groans, “seriously?”

“i wouldn’t be saying it if i wasn’t, asshole. i mean, you can come over if you want to, but no one will let you in if you’re not wearing a tie and dress shoes.” 

art rubs his face with another groan. “fuck.” and as if the day couldn’t get any worse… his phone vibrates on his lap.

you 🌷💋💓 (12:47 pm) bleachers in 10 you 🌷💋💓 (12:47 pm) if ur late i’ll block u you 🌷💋💓 (12:48 pm) again you 🌷💋💓 (12:48 pm) the only thing plastic about me is my dick btw you 🌷💋💓 (12:48 pm) but then again i don’t hear u complaining. so

jesus christ. the last time you were pissed enough to block him– two weeks after spring break– it’d taken him a trip to the mall and blowing most of his cash at victoria’s secret to get back in your good graces. he’d seen enough hot-pink lingerie to last a lifetime, but not enough of you in it. it just wasn’t fair.

art’s on his feet without a word to patrick, his half-eaten turkey sandwich forgotten along with his bewildered best friend. he could come up with a flimsy excuse for his exit later.

art 🥁💥 (12:50 pm) omw

★ … ART, FOR ONCE, is grateful for the years of forced tennis practices and drills when they get him across campus in six minutes; it’s not that important that he’s sweating buckets when he gets to the football field. he’s only hunched over for a few seconds, recovering quickly while briefly slipping off his snapback to let his hair air out.

“babe?” art calls out, straightening up while scanning the area. they’ve probably got at least fifteen minutes before the lunch period ends, and art’s looking to make the most of whatever you’ve got planned for the both of you. “babe–”

“do you ever shut up?” you snip, snatching him by his thermal’s sleeve and yanking him beneath the bleacher steps. “babe, baaaaabe, where are you? give me a break.”

“hey– easy.” art raises his hands in surrender, looking down at you and the annoyance written all over your face. “all i got was a text to be here in ten minutes, and i was here in seven.”

“eight. it’s 12:58.”

… it is 12:58. art just nods, knowing better than to push against your word when you’re worked-up (or in any mood, really). “right.”

you nod, glaring up at him for another moment before rolling your eyes. “you’re lucky i put up with you,” you sigh, and despite the feigned irritation, you kiss him. “if it were anyone else, i would’ve just left.”

art laughs, and his nose bumps yours clumsily at the movement. “i was early.”

“not early enough.”

“right, i’ll add it to the list; anything not done instantly is late.”

“that’s not what i’m saying–”

“– i know.” art kisses you again as his hands rest on your waist, squeezing gently while the two of you move further beneath the bleachers. “i’m kidding. i’ll be faster next time.” and while you eye him pointedly, art can still see the wariness you try to hide behind your sharp choice of words and perpetual scowl. “you still haven’t said if you’re going to let me come around this summer.”

your footsteps pause in your shared migration towards the back of the bleachers, though art’s quick to steady you so you don’t fall. “i didn’t realize you were serious about that,” you admit, though you quickly recover and pull away to put distance between you both.

“why wouldn’t i be?” 

“because… it’s summer. there’s no sneaking around and getting caught when we’re not constantly in front of everyone at school.”

art frowns. “i know,” he says, voice tentative as he tries to pick up on whatever he’s somehow missing, “that’s the whole point of it, right? just you and me– no one else coming in and spreading rumors or whatever. doesn’t that sound nice?”

and while you don’t respond right away, art can see the wheels turning in your head as he holds your hands. it does sound nice; three months of privacy and time away from school to just be boyfriend and girlfriend without the added labels and stress. yes, there might be some explaining to your friends and patrick to keep them from getting too nosy… but what was a little white lie here and there if it bought you the day together? 

“... it would be nice,” you reply finally, “especially if we don’t have to keep meeting under here. i scuffed my jimmy choos the last time we were out here.”

“did you?” art hums, unable to hide his amusement as he pulls you back in towards him. even when things between you both were serious, it always did come back to your beloved shoes (or your purses, or your jewelry, or literally anything else that came from your expensive closet). “then you probably want me to grab this giant spider that’s in your hair, then.”

any signs of a smile on your face immediately dissipate, your brows furrowing as art’s fingers gently smooth over your hair. “art. get it out.”

“but he’s so cute–”

“get it out!!!”

★ …

art 🥁💥 (9:45 pm) u still mad?

d

you 🌷💋💓 (9:48 pm) i am never forgiving u 4 this you 🌷💋💓 (9:48 pm) u lie 2 me again & i’ll have the football team throw u in the dumpsters you 🌷💋💓 (9:49 pm) swirlies 4 months you 🌷💋💓 (9:48 pm) no one will want 2 b ur friend you 🌷💋💓 (9:49 pm) except that patrick guy you 🌷💋💓 (9:49 pm) loser

“just checking,” tashi replies, looking to the rest of your friends as they down their own cups of booze or touch-up makeup in her downstairs bathroom. “you’ve been in too good of a mood recently to be hooking up with one of them. you always complain about them after.”

you scowl at tashi. “i do not,” you protest, glancing between her and your phone as art continues to type. “but even if i did, i wouldn’t be wrong. it’s a miracle any of them are graduating.”

“agreed…” tashi steps closer to you, her shoulder brushing against yours as she not-so-subtly glances down at your screen.

art 🥁💥 (8:50 pm) i got it. no spiders next time art 🥁💥 (8:50 pm) b safe 2nite ok? art 🥁💥 (8:50 pm) i can pick u up l8r if u need me 2

“who’s art?”

“no one.” you glare at tashi with all the feigned vitriol you can muster, slamming your phone shut in your palm and sliding it into your purse. “don’t read my texts.”

“does he go to school with us?” she asks instead, clearly amused by your sudden defensiveness, “i don’t think i know anyone called art. is it short for something?”

“it’s really none of your business.”

“it is when you’re smiling for once.” and when you don’t push back against her, tashi only smiles further. “whoever he is, keep him around. you’re less insufferable like this.”

“shut up, tashi.” still, you let tashi hug you before she heads down the hall to begin rounding up everyone so you can leave for the party down the road. you’re right on her heels, but not before sending art a few more texts and finally slipping your phone away for good.

art 🥁💥 (8:50 pm) babe? you 🌷💋💓 (8:53 pm) i’ll let u know. promise you 🌷💋💓 (8:54 pm) <333

wallows supremacy model supremacy calling after me supremacy she’s an actress supremacy dylan minnette supremacy braeden lemasters supremacy cole preston supremacy… real ones love the remote ep i won’t tolerate its erasure… love that i’m rambling HOPE U ENJOYED. yeah. anyways this album in summer 2024 changed my life and so did seeing them on tour that year and now #theboysarecomingback we’re so uppppp

‘oh!’ you call cheerfully and the curly headed figure in the hall turns, ‘we live on the same floor! hey neighbour!’ 

his eyebrows knot together, a short chuckle escaping his lips. ‘cool.’ comes his bemused, barely even polite response. 

without introducing himself, your admittedly rather handsome neighbour disappeared into his apartment. your heart sank as your own key rattled in the door, stepping inside your empty apartment with a sigh. 

slinging your tote bag onto the floor, you stare at the piles of packed boxes that fill the shoebox of a home. opening your fridge, you’re greeted by day old takeaway and souring milk. 

opting for the box of noodles, you sit on the only chair you have. it’s a beanbag with half the beans spilling out of it that you’d dragged from a dumpster all the way to the top of this block. pulling your knees up to your chest as you chopstick soggy noodles into your mouth, you reach for your open laptop. 

the cursor was blinking back at you like a mantra of failure, an empty document staring you in the face. moving to new york was supposed to give you the creative inspiration you’d been searching for, having exhausted all your options in your small, middle of nowhere hometown. 

fuelled by the promise of brilliance, you’d packed everything up and left your parent’s house with minimal fanfare and now you were stuck. no friends, no meaningful career and now you couldn’t even hold a conversation with a neighbour. maybe this was all a mistake. 

you finished your meal unceremoniously, not even a hint of characters in your head or any semblance of plot for the novel you were convinced you were destined to write. collapsing onto your mattress, the springs long since died and no bedframe to speak of either. you fell into a dreamless sleep, although you were certain you woke up once, in the middle of the night, to a flash of red passing by your window. 

a few days later, you stooped to a new low. dumping your resume at every reception desk within a five mile radius had solved nothing, you were still jobless and the rent payment was slowly creeping up. 

‘please? i’ll work weekends, i’ll clean, i’ll-’ you plead with your local bodega owner. 

‘i’m not hiring, sweetheart.’ he repeated for the millionth time, shaking his head at you. 

‘come on, just one day a week!’ you groan, leaning against the counter and almost certainly blocking his business. 

‘i can’t afford it!’ he shrugs, hands tied. 

just as you’re thinking of a rebuttal, a man slides in beside you. 

‘sorry to interrupt- can i just-?’ he dropped a collection of coins onto the counter and turned. 

all the colour drained from your face, it was your neighbour. your hot neighbour with a bouquet of flowers clutched to his chest. up close, you could see the angular line of his jaw and his dark, sorrowful eyes. suddenly, you found yourself unable to speak, breath catching in your throat. 

his head tilted to the side as recognition sparked in his expression, ‘hey. we’re neighbours right?’ came the polite greeting, lips spreading into a warm smile. 

you nod furiously, hearing your own words repeated back to you is too embarrassing, although there’s no humour in his tone. 

he continues gently despite your lack of verbal response, ‘i’m peter.’ 

‘nice to officially meet you.’ you smile, finding your voice but unexpectedly having this bizarre urge to curtsey. 

thankfully, you don’t and peter’s disappeared before you can continue the awkward chat, again. the bodega owner just shakes his head at you so you snatch your resume and storm off, disappointed once more. 

after what felt like an eternity of staring at the battered four walls of your apartment and scrounging around for just enough money to live, just as you were about to pack it in and go home to your parents in defeat, you were offered a job. 

it wasn’t life-changing money or anywhere near your dream role, but it was an office job, full time with entirely average pay. you were officially an intern for the daily bugle. 

‘what’s the deal with spiderman?’ you lament to one of the other interns, lara. 

her entire face twisted into one of utter surprise, ‘seriously? he’s like singlehandedly saving new york.’ 

you glanced around the office, every tv screen had his face plastered all over them. 

‘spiderman stops fifth criminal in two weeks’ 

‘spiderman prevents major pile up in downtown nyc’ 

‘who is the masked hero bringing down crime rates?’

‘wow…’ you whisper under your breath. 

lara’s furrowed brow deepens, ‘you really hadn’t heard of him?’ 

‘superheroes aren’t really in a thing in small towns.’ comes your honest reply, ‘nothing much going on and nobody worth saving.’ 

minus the blip and the ramifications of losing half your farmers for apparently five years, but you don’t mention that part. 

even so, lara can detect the sadness in your words. ‘look… all i’m saying is that guy.’ her pen deftly points to your boss, the boss, j.jonah jameson storming through the desks with a desperate photographer at his heel. ‘would pay a lot of money to find out spiderman’s identity.’ 

you nodded, ‘huh.’

you knew she was only half serious, it wasn’t a challenge yet it sunk deep into your bones regardless. a lot of money, you could do with a lot of money. 

the subway journey home is a mindless blur, you’re too busy replaying the faint memory from a few months ago. the flash of red outside your window, you’ve dissected it a million times. it wasn’t a car light, too close and no noise to accompany it. it could’ve been long enough to be a person, in a suit, in the suit but what would spiderman be doing around your block anyway. it was in the worst, albeit cheapest area of new york and surely you would’ve heard a commotion if he had been arresting criminals. 

the memory continued to plague you, even as you stepped into the creaking elevator heading to your apartment, with it’s broken buttons and sticky floor. however, one floor up, your pondering is cut short by someone stepping in beside you. 

‘hey. sorry.’ came the awkward voice. 

your eyes widened, new york cannot be this small that you keep running into your hot neighbour, peter. 

‘it’s fine.’ you reply quickly, pulling your handbag tighter up your shoulder. 

it’s only when you actually turn your head to look at him, that you realise everything is not fine. peter is stood next to you, arm muscles rippling in a cropped black tank top and cupping his crotch in a pair of low rise sweatpants with the reddest face you’ve ever seen. the whole outfit looks familiar, too familiar. 

‘is that my shirt?’ you asked, bewildered. 

‘no…’ he lied, badly. 

looking him up and down again, you were more than certain he was wearing your clothes. the clothes you had put in the laundry that morning before you’d dashed off to the daily bugle, the clothes that you were desperately looking forward to changing into when you got home. 

before you can ask again, the metal doors slide open and he’s sprinting out of that elevator and into his apartment faster than the speed of light. his door slams shut and you’re left alone in the hallway once again, even more confused. 

scouring your wardrobe, you confirm those were definitely your missing clothes and after summoning the courage, with a lot of deep breaths and walking up to his front door only to turn around and run back over and over, you finally knock on his door. 

the minute it swings open, barely an inch and he’s stood there in his pyjamas but you start your practiced spiel. ‘look peter, i know those are my clothes. i’m not gonna ask any questions, i would just really like them back and- holy shit!’

your jaw dropped, immediately distracted by what you could spy in the crack of peter’s door. stringy webs coated his entire apartment, covering every surface and furnishing, almost like a spider lived there. 

pushing the door further open with a second thought, you’re stepping inside. if you thought your apartment was a mess, this was another level. every item of furniture was upturned, white webs falling from the ceiling and caking the apartment like a layer of dust. 

‘wait-’ peter called hurriedly, trying to step in front of you. 

‘what is this?’ you breathe, moving closer to a collection of monitors atop a desk, stray pieces of tech littered across it. 

‘i’ll grab your clothes…’ he mutters, disappearing into the next room. 

as you glanced around in wonder, the cogs in your brain began to turn. the flash of red by your window, the oversized webs strewn around his apartment. either peter was housing a family of spiders or he was…

turning around with an open mouth, ‘you’re-’

before you can get the words out, peter’s kissing you. he’d rushed over, pressed his lips to yours and dropped your laundry in the process. 

you’re overwhelmed, taken aback but you find yourself leaning in, kissing back with fervor. cupping his strong cheekbones, you’re barely breathing in between hungry kisses, stumbling back till he hits the wall. 

peter’s hands are all over you, feeling you up despite your corporate attire. eventually, you break away for good, coming up for air like a fish but you notice peter’s hardly out of breath. 

‘what… are you doing?’ you pant, gazing at him. 

‘what you want.’ he whimpers, ‘please?’ 

something in his tone makes your stomach flip and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t dream about this moment ever since you’d first met him. admittedly, surrounded by spiderwebs and biotech wasn’t exactly how you pictured it but you were needy and he was attractive. 

‘bedroom.’ comes your reply, a question and a statement rolled into one. 

peter doesn’t need to be told twice and with his large hand dwarfing your own as he takes it, he leads you into the alcove of his room. the bed is unmade but you don’t care anymore, especially when he pulls his shirt off in one swift move. 

his muscles are insane, bordering on inhuman. he’s stocky, a firm six pack with bulging arms and yet he’s got the most bashful expression on his face. veins run across the back of his strong hands, the ones that have currently got your delicate fingers tucked in them. 

‘fuck me.’ you whisper, eyes feasting on his build. 

‘that’s the- uh- plan.’ he jokes sheepishly, and you crack a soft smile. 

he’s back on you again, like a starved creature, kissing at your neck with unabashed desire. peter’s stumbling back onto his bed which creaks as you both tumble onto it. you break away, now sitting on top of him, feeling his semi underneath your pencil skirt. 

licking your lips in what you hope is a salacious manner, you start to run your hands along his chest. peter squirms, more than you’d expect but he’s not making you stop. 

‘ah- ah-’ he breathes, twitching as you flick his exposed nipples, standing to attention in the cold of his room. 

'you like that?' you purr, continuing to rub your supple hands all over his responsive body.

'y-yeah...' peter laughs breathily, 'feels s-so! good.'

there was curiosity on his tone rather than apprehension but you don't question it. lifting your hips, you start to pull down his tartan pyjama bottoms. with no boxers on, peter's veiny dick springs free and stands to attention.

'jesus christ...' he grunts as precum already starts dribbling out of his overly sensitive tip.

you swallow, unable to draw your eyes away from his twitching cock. even as peter pulls you down closer to him, for another kiss, you're still envisioning him inside you.

with a wry smile, he flirts, 'your turn.'

as he speaks, his thick fingers are making quick work of the buttons of your blouse, slowly revealing your comfort bra. in your defense, you weren't planning on hooking up today, you would've worn a much sexier bra if you knew.

peter doesn't seem to care, helping you tug the tight shirt off so you're just in your bra, which he hurriedly unclips so your boobs can be freed.

'wow.' he breathes, a slow open smile spreading across his face as he takes in your chest.

immediately, he presses kisses to the flesh there tenderly, like he's mapping out your body for his memory. as he continues, you awkwardly unzip your skirt and toss it, and your granny panties without him noticing for that would be too embarrassing, aside onto the floor.

peter's dark eyes are as wide as saucers, filled with adoration. 'you're beautiful.' he murmured.

'...thank you.' comes your embarrassed reply, pressing your lips together to hide your cheesy smile.

he lets you sit up, settle against his strong erection. lifting your hips, you slowly start to sink down on his length, gasping at every inch.

his face is contorting into expressions of pleasure you've never even seen before, and he's already gripping the sheets.

'fuuuck me.' he pants, sweat already beading on his forehead.

'are you okay?' you pull a face of concern, pausing halfway. your tight pussy was clenching around him hungrily as it rubbed against your gummy walls.

'never better.' peter choked out with a vigorous nod to continue.

exhaling deeply, you continue to lower your hips down till you're fully seated inside him. he's big, not thick but long and you can already feel his tip prodding that spongy spot inside you.

'okay... god you feel good. so tight, so perfect.' peter's rambling, already lost in oversensitive pleasure.

it's almost endearing how much he's feeling it, even as you start to roll your hips and his body practically levitates off the bed. with every subtle movement you make, his body jerks in response.

'yeah? is that good, peter?' you taunt, starting to bounce on his dick.

he's in awe as peter watches your tits jiggle as you move up and down. lifting his hips in tune with you, making sure he slams into your g-spot everytime.

'ah- ah- yes- yes oh god yes-' he whimpers, repeatedly till it's hardly even full words.

throwing your head back, you coax, 'that's it- fuck-'

slowing down, you let yourself feel every inch of his dick, coating into your slick walls. peter's still moving beneath you like a jackrabbit, abusing the spot inside that makes you see stars.

'peter... please... i'm close...' you crow, feeling your body start to tense.

'wait- wait- wait- i'm- shit-' he's out of it, completely delirious on the feeling of being inside you.

that's the only warning he gives before he's shooting ropes of cum inside you.

'oh god- oh god- oh god-' he moans, whole body writhing like a snake beneath you.

he's breathless, chest heaving but still staring at you like you'd hung the moon and stars. the sight is enough for you to feel yourself slip into an orgasm, soaking his already leaking cock and his thighs, and most certainly his sheets.

'jesus fucking christ.' you whimper, nearly doubling over and hands finding his rock hard abs for stability.

however, the sight of your orgasm reignites peter's own and he's busting inside you of once again, overstimulated and moaning dumbly. he's twitching, not even trying to stay still, every sensation overwhelming him.

once you finally come down from your high, you slide off him, moving to sit down beside the bed. peter doesn't take his eyes off you, even as his hard cock hits his stomach, still shooting out endless ropes of cum.

'thank you...' he whimpers, 'thank you so fucking much. that was incredible. you're incredible.'

you tilt your head to the side, you were not this good. this was some porno level behaviour. 'thanks?'

eventually, he'd stopped cumming and lay spread-eagled on the bed as he came back down to earth. even as he'd stood up to shower, his legs were shaking like a baby deer, every nerve in his body thrumming with pleasure.

you'd climbed into the single bed with him, foreheads pressed together and legs entangled in each others. he'd wiped a stray lash from your cheek and was just, staring. no words needed to be shared, it was a moment of complete and utter stillness, something you didn't realise you'd been craving till you were in it.

'wait so are you spiderman?' you ask, killing the mood immediately but curiousty got the better of you.

'shhh...' he'd muttered sleepily, finger pressing to your lips. 'save that for the morning.'

jack was born and raised in the south, and has never had the desire to leave. he's okay with living a quiet life that others would consider boring. he likes getting up to chirping birds as an alarm. he likes stopping by the diner before work for a cup of coffee every morning. he likes waving back to the kids outside of the preschool at the end of the day, catching the eye of all of the female staff and housewives looking for a little attention. some call it repetitive, jack calls it routine.

his rhythm falters when you move into town.

you and your husband, recently married after being engaged for four years. four years is far too long to be engaged in jack's opinion, but he keeps that to himself when he overhears the church ladies gossiping about it in the diner.

your husband moved you here because it's cheap. he plans to work in blue collar for a while to save some money, then you'll be back to the suburban life in no time. you try to believe it and push through, but you're miserable. you miss your job, your friends, your family. now all you've got is your grumpy tired husband and an old shack with cracked windows and dusty floorboards.

oh, how it makes jack's blood boil.

he could treat you so much better and show you how beautiful this place could be instead of keeping you locked up in the house all day.

you've only ever given him a polite smile when you pass him with an armful of groceries or case of cheap beer for your husband. he ignores the fire in his stomach when he watches you walk off. your calves in those heels. your ass in that dress.

all jack can do is peel his eyes away and clench his jaw.

he'll keep an eye on you from a distance.

for now.

your point had been made clear that night, and art was not letting you forget it. he made a show of scorning the new hire, till her cutesy giggles faded into jealous glares and art had his own satisfied smirk. she could barely stand to look at you, and maybe sometimes she’d push you out of the way to get to her section or deliberately reach over you for cutlery but it didn’t matter, you’d won. 

art, however, continued his ludicrous displays of affection even after she’d given up. he’d make a show of whooping whenever you came into the kitchen or patting your ass every time you squeezed by. although you’d glare at him with barely hidden smirks, you loved it. in fact, you’d long since forgotten what that server had said to you months ago, art was different now, you were different now. 

that was why, when you heard it, your whole world had stopped before shattering into a million pieces. 

you were taking out the trash, flipping open the cracked plastic lid and already gagging at the smell of rotting food. art was round the corner, cigarette between his lips as he lit a second for the teenage chef. every time, they managed to evade closing tasks and it drove you crazy to see the three of them slipping out to hide. 

‘so… what’s the deal with you and her?’ grunted a male voice, older than art. 

‘yeah-’ the other cook, the teenager coughed from the smoke, ‘you putting a ring on it or-?’ 

you froze in position, trash bag still gripped in your hand with a open bin lid spilling it’s stench into the air. they were talking about you, asking art about you and your breath caught in your throat for a fleeting, hopeful moment. 

‘who? that server?’ art took a long drag of his cigarette, you could tell from the pause. ‘nah, we’re just hooking up. nothing serious like that.’ 

then he laughed, art had the audacity to add a throaty chuckle at the end of his declaration and the other two cooks murmured in agreement. 

you almost puked, not from the smell this time but from his words. you were half tempted to throw the bag of restaurant trash at their feet but you couldn’t possibly reveal you’d been listening so all you could do was storm back inside and finish polishing cutlery. the wet sheen of your eyes glinted in the metal but you didn’t dare let the tears fall. 

art was waiting at his car, like always, flicking cigarette ash onto his black boots. he hadn’t noticed you yet, dark eyes still scanning the parking lot. every bone in your body told you to turn back inside, pretend you forgot something and hide out till he drives off as his dark eyes scanned the parking lot. 

however, your aching heart spurred you on, a rising fury that insisted to be contested and heard. despite the fear that made you shake, you wanted to argue with him, to fight and release your emotions. 

‘hey doll.’ he murmured, leaning in closer as you walked up to the car door. you could smell the cigarette stench on his breath and for the first time, it made you recoil. 

your reply is clipped, an attempt at casual. ‘hi.’ as you slipped into the passenger seat, suspension creaking. 

art’s whole demeanour shifted, tensing slightly as he got in and started the engine. 

‘god, what now?’ he muttered under his breath but you heard, head whipping around faster than the speed of light.

he just rolled his eyes as he pulled out of the parking lot, already fed up. 

you drove in silence for a few minutes, he hadn’t even bothered to stick an old cd on. 

‘fine, don’t answer me.’ came the grunt and you snapped. 

‘do you talk about me with the other cooks?’ you feign disinterest, voice surprisingly measured for the rage that is bubbling within you. 

art’s brow furrows and he shrugs, ‘sure, it comes up.’ 

your lips purse, ‘but what do you say?’ 

‘oh i don’t know…’ comes his offhand reply, rounding the corner. ‘the usual stuff.’ 

‘like what?’ you press, gaze solely focused on him now. 

‘christ, what does it matter?’ art retorted with a weary sigh, 

‘BECAUSE!’ you yell with such ferocity, even startling yourself. 

the car screeches to a near halt, and you almost go flying through the windscreen. art’s chest is heaving and tears are brimming in your eyes as you try to swallow them down. 

‘fucking hell, i’m driving!’ he snaps back, shooting you a dangerous look. 

‘you asked.’ you grumble, burrowing down into his seat almost childishly. 

‘i didn’t think you were that upset about it. god, i don’t even know what ‘it’ is.’ he tutted.

you take a deep, regulating breath. ‘...what are we, art?’ 

he doesn’t answer that for a long time, focusing on pulling the car into the parking space outside his dingy apartment block. 

‘you’re my… we’re…’ he stuttered as he opened the door for you, searching your face for hints, a right answer but you’re giving nothing in return. 

‘go on.’ you prompt with a scathing glare. 

art continues to mumble, even as you climb the endless stairs to his apartment, but he never gives an honest answer and every stumble makes your heart crack a little more. 

‘we’re just… you know what we are, whatever you want it to be.’ is art’s final answer and disgust doesn’t even begin to encapsulate the range of emotions you were experiencing. 

as his key turned in the lock and the door swung open, the feminine touches you’d added that used to ground you, comfort you now felt mocking, illusions of what could be. 

‘i thought we were serious.’ you frown, eyeing up his indifferent, albeit a little fearful, expression. 

he scratches the back of his head awkwardly, ‘i mean.. yeah, i’m not seeing anyone else or anything.’ art’s tone is evasive, clearly treading on unfamiliar ground. 

‘good. i’d hope not.’ you snap, turning your back to him and instead staring into the “kitchen”, which was just a line of worn down built in cabinets in the corner. 

‘fuck’s sake…’ art mutters, there’s a long deep sigh before he speaks again, ‘i know how this goes, okay?’ 

you round on him, ‘know how what goes?’ comes your snapped retort, head tilting to the side dangerously. 

‘you’re getting all mad so you can fuck your anger out on me.’ he folded his arms over his chest, a hint of pride in his expression as he waited for you to agree. 

‘no.’ you say firmly, and he visibly deflates.

‘no?’ art repeats, entire face screwing up. 

‘not this time. i’m sick of being used like that, you don’t even want to a put a label on us!’ you whine, glaring at him. 

he huffed before leaning in, ‘but baby…’ comes the flirtatious whisper in your ear. 

your frown deepens, heart crushed by his indifference, his unwillingness to even try and make you feel better. even as his sinewy arms snaked around your waist and pulled you into his chest, you weren’t comforted, distracted by the prominent semi that was pressing into your ass. 

you recoil, pulling away faster than the speed of light. ‘are you serious?’ 

art’s cheeks flushed, ‘doll i- i can’t help it!’ 

‘jesus art! just… go sort yourself out.’ you lift your hands up in exasperation, shaking your head. 

his jaw sets, as he considers your response. a studio apartment isn’t exactly known for it’s privacy, with his unmade bed just a few feet away over the kitchen peninsula. there was always the bathroom, but there was something so painfully embarrassing and deeply tragic about jerking off behind the closed door with you left outside aimlessly. 

so, he opts for flirting. his tone drops low and although he doesn’t move closer once more, his salacious words curl in the air and bring the boiling tension down to a simmering heat. 

‘it’s much more fun with you there.’ came the sultry purr. 

something in the phrase made a shiver run down your spine but an idea spark in your head. eyes narrowing slightly, your tongue pokes out and slides over your lips. 

‘okay then.’ you agree, waiting to see if he was bluffing. 

art swallows, adam’s apple bobbing but he walks over to the creaking bed anyway. you follow, intrigue written all over your expression and sit in the chair you’d so graciously gifted him from a thrift store just weeks ago. 

you’re still not speaking, watching him silently as he undresses. however, as he lays down, flat on his back, his eyes are boring into yours, a test. 

‘go on.’ you coax, curling up in the soft plush of the armchair. 

‘fuck.’ art grunts, head hitting the thready comforter. 

swallowing, your voice turns seductive. ‘let it all out.’ 

‘don’t-’ he groans but his hand in his pants away, frantically pulling down boxers to reveal his thick cock. it’s already beading with pre-cum and twitching in the cool air, desperate. 

‘don't what?’ you taunt, ‘i thought this was what you wanted.’ 

your words are slow, slipping into his mind and making every neuron fire at once. art's long fingers are wrapping around the base of his cock, gripping the quivering member with ferocity. 

his breathing is already heavy, as he slowly starts to pump his length. art’s back arches, but he doesn’t pick up the pace immediately. 

‘just- keep… talking.’ he pants.

tilting your head, you start to weave your story. ‘so there was this one table that would not stop pestering me-’

art’s head whipped up with a glare, ‘not like that! yell or something!’ he whined, cock already drooping despondently. 

a slow knowing smirk spreads across your face, ‘what’s the magic word?’ 

he glowers, ‘fuck off.’ 

‘this was your idea wasn’t it?’ you remind tauntingly, voice patronising. 

‘... please.’ comes the begrudged word. 

your smirk shifts into a real smile for a split second, just before you clear your throat and try to find the rage that had overcome you mere minutes ago. 

‘i hate the fact that you skip out on all the closing tasks.’ you mutter. 

art’s brow furrows but his hand squeezes his cock regardless, perhaps he could work with this line of argument. 

‘and it drives me crazy how much you smoke outside with the other cooks, especially during a rush.’ you bulldoze, feeling yourself getting riled up. 

‘that’s not true-’ comes art’s meek protest. 

‘shut up!’ you screech and although his jaw drops, his eyes light up with desire. 

‘i hate it most when you gossip with them, and lie!’ you snap, feeling tears welling up unbidden.

‘that’s it…’ he whimpers, increasing the pace of fisting his cock and utterly blind to your genuine hurt. 

‘telling them we’re not serious, and it’s just hookups?’ you shout, sticking your neck out. 

art pauses briefly, realisation dawning on him. ‘shit…’

‘yeah fucking right, shit.’ you retort immediately, scowling at him. ‘i heard you, out there… laughing it off.’ 

although art’s still furiously pumping at his dick, each vein bulging with effort, he did have the decency to look regretful. 

‘baby- doll- it wasn’t like that.’ art pleaded, but it was only half hearted. 

‘then enlighten me.’ comes your sharp response, even the venom in your voice making yourself fearful. 

‘it’s just jokes!’ he protest, ‘with friends! god we don’t talk about the ins and outs of relationships- fuck-’ he groans as his thumb runs over his sensitive tip, that aching slit. ‘that’s weird… we don’t-’ 

‘don’t what?’ you press but he’s gone, lost in the throes of pleasure. 

you can see in the way art’s cheeks redden, his mind reliving endless memories of your fury, your pussy, the expression on your face when you orgasm. on any other day, you’d find it hot, romantic even but somehow the whole sight is only making you more infuriated. 

‘fuck… doll, i’m so close- just- please-’ comes his moans of pleasure, a desperate plea to help him over the edge as he strokes his cock hungrily. 

swallowing down tears, you response is clear. ‘we’re done.’ 

‘oh- oh-’ comes art’s garbled reply. 

he wasn’t actually focused on what you’d said, but the anger behind the words. his orgasm came in slow waves, sputtered ropes of cum spraying out of his abused tip, coating his stomach as his body jerks in overwhelm. eventually, his body falls flat, as does his now flaccid dick, dribbling the remainders of his seed into his belly button. 

you stand, staring down at him with utter disgust at his immature attitude. 

‘i mean it art, we’re done.’ you repeat. 

art shrugs, running a hand over his sweating face. ‘yeah… okay…’ 

you pout, indignant. ‘i’m serious! you don’t take anything seriously! you can’t even answer whether we’re in a relationship or not!’ 

he blinks, processing what you’ve said as his expression darkens. ‘what? of course i take things seriously!’ 

‘look at you.’ you frown, crossing your arms over your chest. 

art sits up, looking at the flaccid dick between his legs. ‘okay so this isn’t the best example right now but c’mon! you were enjoying it too.’ 

that wasn’t not true. regardless, you still couldn’t bear the sight of him and his handsome, rugged face anymore. 

‘i’m leaving.’ you say firmly, standing your ground. 

‘c’mon doll, say you’re kidding, yeah? this isn’t funny.’ he wheedles, tone so soft it almost melts your hardened heart. 

‘i’m not joking, art. come find me when you’ve grown up a little, okay?’ is your cutting remark as you slam the door behind you. 

‘you’ll be waiting for a while then!’ art calls through the door. ‘...fuck’s sake.’ 

it’s only then that you let your hands shake, let the sobs rack through your body in the dingy hallway of all places. art had always driven you to his apartment, you had no way of getting home and you certainly had no intention of marching back in there and demanding a lift. 

once your sobs had ebbed, tear stained cheeks and sniffling nose, you trapsed down the stairs and didn’t stop till you reached a bus stop. watching the world go by, the outskirts fading into the suburbs fading into the centre of the city, you only felt more and more sure in your decision. 

you didn’t need art anymore than he seemed to need you.

< prev | next >

“Oh,” you said, offering a small smile as you walked closer. “Didn't know you were here.” It was nothing; a harmless sentence, one spoken without a second thought. But something inside Sam caved in so quickly it made his chest ache.

Years.

Years spent learning how to stand a little straighter, how to bury every insecurity beneath confidence, how to become someone people could rely on without ever wondering if he needed someone too. Years convincing himself that the uncertain veteran who came home after Riley died—the man who constantly questioned whether he was enough—had finally become someone stronger.

Captain America, a leader, the guy people believed in and somehow five simple words stripped all of it away.

Didn't know you were here.

Of course you hadn't, you hadn't come hoping to find him, you hadn't expected him and you hadn't even considered the possibility. He looked back down at his drink before you could notice the way his expression had shifted. “You mind?” you asked, gesturing toward the empty stool beside him. Sam shrugged. “Go ahead.”

You settled beside him, ordering yourself something without taking your eyes off him for very long. There was a familiarity in the silence that followed, but not the comfortable kind it used to be: once upon a time the two of you could sit together for hours without speaking because words had never been necessary but now, every pause felt like something fragile balancing between you.

“You've been here long?” you finally asked. “A while.” Sam only replied, shrugging at the question leaving your mouth.

“Long day?”

“They're all long.” You smiled faintly, then. “That sounds about right.” He answered with a hum that barely counted as conversation. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could feel you studying him, trying to decide whether to push or let him retreat into himself. You'd always been good at reading him, sometimes better than he understood himself. It used to comfort him, but tonight it only made him feel exposed.

“I watched your interview yesterday,” you said after another minute. “You looked good.” Sam let out a quiet laugh that held no amusement. “Did I?” You nodded your head at his reply, eyes shifting from his drink and back to his face. “You did.” Sam hummed once more at the words leaving your mouth. 

“I smiled.”

“That's usually what people mean.”

“No.” He rolled the glass slowly between his palms. “People confuse smiling with being okay.” Your eyebrows pinched together and you hesitated before replying, not knowing what to say back just for the tiniest amount of seconds. “I… I wasn't trying to.”

 Sam hummed at that before voicing again. “I know.”

The conversation threatened to die again, but neither of you seemed willing to let it. “I've missed you,” you admitted quietly. His fingers stopped moving. The words should have warmed him but instead they only made his chest tighten. “You miss me,” he repeated, almost to himself and you nodded your head. “I do.”

“Which one?”

You blinked at the words, not fully understanding what he meant by that. “What?"”

“Captain America?” His voice remained calm, almost conversational. “The guy on television? The one giving speeches? The one carrying the shield?” Your eyebrows furrowed once more and you were quick to defend yourself.  “What? No?” And Sam was as quick as you when it came to keep talking.

“The hero?”

“No.”

“The guy who's always somewhere else?” You frowned, confused by the edge creeping into his voice. “I just miss you, Sam.” The words left your mouth and he looked at you then, really looked. For a second, silence took over the conversation, broken by the people around.

“You walked in here,” he said softly, “and your first reaction was surprise.” Your mouth opened, then closed again, unable to give an explanation to that because in the end, he was right. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

“I didn't expect—”

“Exactly.” His smile was small, tired, almost apologetic. “You didn't expect me.” Silence settled over the both of you, the kind that suddenly made the music feel too loud, one that made the shame boil inside your body and you couldn’t explain why.

“I think…” Sam swallowed hard before continuing. “I think I've spent so much time trying to become someone people admire that I forgot how badly I still want to simply be... expected.” You stared at him after those words.

He laughed under his breath, embarrassed by how honest he'd just been. “That's pathetic.” You immediately shook your head before speaking up. “No, it’s not.” But Sam didn’t want to believe the words leaving your mouth and he chuckled, even though it wasn’t with humor.  “It kind of is.” He said again before shaking his head. “You know what's funny? I really believed I'd outgrown this.”

“Outgrown what?”

“This feeling.” He gestured vaguely toward himself. “I thought after everything… after the shield, after the battles, after people started believing in me—I wouldn't be shaken by little things anymore.” His eyes drifted toward the amber liquid sitting untouched in his glass.

“I thought I'd finally become…” He searched for the word before finding it. “...cool.” You couldn't help smiling a little before asking for more detail, more information. “Cool?”

“Confident and untouchable or whatever. Something like that, I guess.” His shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “I spent years becoming that version of myself.” He finally met your eyes again. “And then you say, didn’t know you were here, and suddenly it feels like none of it mattered.” The words hung between you, heavier than either of you expected.

You reached toward him instinctively, hesitating only long enough to let him pull away if he wanted but he didn't. Your fingers rested lightly over his hand.

“Sam.”

“I know you didn't mean it.” He replied quietly, his free fingers tightening around the glass. “I didn't.” You said, as quietly as he did.

“I know.”

“But that's not what I was thinking.” You still added just for Sam to reply with, “What were you thinking?”

You smiled sadly. “I was thinking…” You looked down for a moment, collecting the right words. “How stupid I am for not realizing this was Friday.” He frowned at that, looking at you for a second like you had grown two heads suddenly and his voice became slightly louder.

“What?”

“You've been coming here on Fridays for years.” You squeezed his hand gently. “I should've known where to find you.” His expression faltered, then, like he had realized something. “I wasn't disappointed.” You added, to prove a point that was already done.

“I know.”

“I was surprised because I haven't seen you here in months.” Your eyes lowered when you said those words, just to lift up to Sam’s face again. “And for one second…” You laughed softly through the ache in your voice. “I got excited.” Sam stared at you for a second as you spoke once more. “I thought maybe we'd accidentally found each other.” Neither of you spoke after that.

The noise around the bar continued without caring about the quiet revelation unfolding in the corner booth; someone cheered over a game of darts, glasses clinked together, a burst of laughter erupted near the jukebox. Sam felt his throat tighten as he choked out some words. “I heard something completely different… I heard…” His voice cracked almost imperceptibly. “...that you wished I wasn't here.”

“Oh, Sam.” You moved from your stool before thinking about it, stepping close enough that your knees brushed his, heart skipping inside your chest and not in the good way you had felt in the past when around him. Carefully—giving him every chance to stop you—you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. For one stubborn heartbeat he remained perfectly still, then every wall he'd spent years building quietly collapsed.

His forehead rested against your shoulder, and he exhaled a breath he felt like he'd been holding for months.

“You scare me sometimes,” you whispered. He managed a tired laugh. “That's a first.” You hummed before shaking your head, trying to explain the sentence that had left your mouth. “Not because you're Captain America.”

“No?” You waited a few seconds before replying to that. The words blurted out without you thinking about them. “No, because you believe the cruelest version of every sentence.” He shut his eyes at that all while you continued rubbing slow circles across his back.

“You've never needed to become someone impressive for me.” Your voice was barely louder than the music around you. “You've always just been Sam. The man who checks whether everyone got home safely, the one who pretends cooking breakfast is harder than fighting aliens, the one who answers every problem with Marvin Gaye.” 

He laughed, and this time it sounded real. “I burn pancakes.” You chuckled quietly at his sentence, nodding your head because damn, he did. “You absolutely do.”

“I've gotten better with the years, I’ll tell you that.” He tried to defend himself, which made you chuckle once more. “You absolutely haven't.” Another laugh escaped him, softer now. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were damp, and judging by the shine in yours, neither of you had escaped the conversation untouched.

“I guess…” he murmured, “...healing isn't becoming impossible to hurt.” You smiled and he kept talking. “It's trusting that someone will stay after they've hurt you by accident.” You intertwined your fingers with his without hesitation. “And reminding you that one sentence doesn't erase ten years.” Sam looked down at your joined hands before giving them a gentle squeeze after finishing his words.

For the first time that evening, the ache inside his chest loosened, not because the scars had disappeared.

But because someone had finally reminded him they were never the only thing worth seeing.