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One second, you’re in control. The next, his hands slip from your hold like they were never trapped at all, his fingers digging into your waist with a bruising grip that has you gasping. And oh God the way he lifts you, like you weigh nothing, like he’s been dying to do this. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your back hitting the mattress a second later, Peter following you down without breaking the kiss for even a breath. His hips settle between your thighs, his weight pressing you into the sheets, and you arch into him with a moan, because fuck—the way he’s suddenly taking what he wants is obscene.

His hands slide up, rough and calloused from years of gripping webs and brick walls, to grip your thighs, prying them open wider, and you whimper into his mouth. The sound seems to snap something in him—his kiss turns hungrier, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s starving for you, his hips rolling down— and then, just like that, the confidence is gone.

His body goes still. His lips pull back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressing against yours, his chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon. His fingers, still tangled in the hem of your shirt, tremble.

“D-Do you—uh—mind if I—?” His voice is wrecked, rough and uncertain, his eyes darting between your face and the fabric he’s this close to ruining. The contrast is maddening—this boy who just manhandled you onto the bed like it was nothing, now stammering like a virgin.

You smile, slow and sinful, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him back down. “Yes, Pete,” you purr, your voice dripping with amusement and need. “You can take it off.”

His eyes darken at the permission, his hands finally move, his fingers curling into the fabric before yanking it up, up, over your head.

The second your shirt hits the floor, Peter’s lips leave yours like he’s been starved of the taste of your skin. His mouth trails down your jaw, hot and wet, his breath hitching as he presses open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear—the one that makes your toes curl every damn time. His hands follow, sliding up your sides with a reverence that has your pulse spiking, his calloused fingers trembling as they hover just millimeters from your breasts.

Of course he hesitates.

Of course this boy—man, now, though he still doesn’t see it—freezes like he’s afraid he’ll break you.

Your hands cover his, your fingers lacing through his as you guide them upward, pressing his palms against the weight of your breasts. His breath stutters against your collarbone, his thumbs twitching like he’s not sure he’s allowed to move. But he eventually does. His fingers flex, his grip tightening just enough to make you whimper, his touch gentle but firm, kneading you like he’s memorizing the shape of you. A low, needy sound rumbles in his chest, and you can feel the way his cock jerks against your thigh, like even that part of him is surprised by his own audacity.

You let go of his hands, finally trusting him to keep touching you, and slide your palms up his arms instead. God. The muscle beneath your fingers is ridiculous—thick, hard, earned. Every swing through the city, every near-death experience, every second of his double life has carved him into something new, something stronger. And fuck if it isn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever felt.

You’re so distracted by the way his biceps flex under your touch, by the way his skin burns beneath your fingertips, that you don’t even notice the way his other hand has slipped behind your back…

Until the clasp of your bra gives.

The fabric loosens, the straps sliding down your shoulders, and then his hand is underneath, his palm cupping your bare breast, his thumb circling your nipple with a precision that has your back arching off the bed. The first brush of his skin against yours is electric, and when his thumb flicks over the sensitive peak, you gasp, your hips bucking up into him like your body’s begging for more.

Peter groans, the sound raw, his mouth latching onto your neck like he’s trying to drink you in. His hips roll down, his cock grinding against you through his jeans, and you can feel the way he’s shaking—not from nerves, this time, but from restraint. Because fuck if he doesn’t want to pin you down, to devour you, to ruin you.

But this is Peter.

So instead, he whispers against your skin, his voice rough with need: “Fuck—you’re—is this okay?”

And you laugh, breathless and desperate, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Harder,” you demand.

“Harder—yeah, okay yeah,” he whispers, his voice rough like gravel under your fingertips, then his thumb and forefinger close around your nipple, pinching just shy of pain. The sensation shoots straight between your legs, and the sound that tears out of you is obscene—a broken, needy mewl that Peter swallows like he’s been starving for it. His lips crash back onto yours, his kiss bruising, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s claiming you, like he’s finally remembering he’s allowed to.

And just like that, the tables have turned.

Because you—you, who had him pinned against the wall not five minutes ago—are now the one struggling to keep up. His fingers are everywhere, his touch relentless, and your brain short-circuits as his free hand slides down, lower, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons of your shorts like he’s been dying to do it. The fabric parts, his palm cupping you over your panties, and fuck—the way he groans into your mouth when he feels how wet you are, how desperate you are.

“P-Peter—” Your voice is a whine, your hips jerking up into his touch like your body’s begging for more.

“Yeah?” His breath is hot against your lips, his voice a sinful mix of cocky and sweet, like he’s proud of himself for making you fall apart but still terrified he’s doing it wrong. His fingers press against your clit through the damp fabric, circling, teasing, and your nails dig into his shoulders. “This okay? Feel good?”

You nod, your throat too tight to form words, your vision blurring as his touch intensifies, his thumb grinding down just right.

“Words, baby.” His voice is firm, but there’s a tremor in it, like he’s holding on by a thread. And fuck—the way he says it, like he’s earned the right to demand them from you, like he’s finally stepping into the man he’s becoming—destroys you.

“Y-Yes—fuck—” The words stumble out of you, broken and breathless, and Peter rewards you by increasing the pressure, his fingers rolling over your clit in slow, deliberate circles. His lips trail down to your jaw, his teeth grazing your skin as he murmurs, “That’s my girl. Gonna make you feel so good—”

And oh god—you believe him.

This is the Peter you’ve been wanting—the one who takes what he wants, who owns his strength, who drowns you in pleasure until you forget your own name. His fingers hook into the wet fabric of your panties, his touch burning as he slides them aside, and his skin finally meets yours.

“Fuck.” The word is a prayer, a curse, torn from both of your lips at the same time.

His fingers are rough from years of gripping webs, of clinging to life by a thread, and the contrast of his callouses against your soaked, sensitive skin is heaven. He explores you like he’s mapping you, his touch hesitant at first—of course it is—but then his confidence surges, his fingers parting you, stroking you, learning you in a way that has your back archingoff the bed.

“P-Peter, please—” You’re begging now, your voice raw, your body aching for more.

And god—the way he smirks against your skin, the way his breath hitches like he’s just as undone as you are.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice dark with promise.

Two of his fingers sink into you in one smooth motion, and your head snaps back into the pillows, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Fuck—his fingers are thick, his digits stretching you just enough to make your toes curl, and when his palm grinds against your clit, the dual sensation has your vision whiting out for a second.

Because God, Peter knows what he’s doing.

His fingers curl inside you, dragging against that spot—the one that makes your breath hitch, your back arch, your nails rake down his shoulders like you’re trying to anchor yourself to reality. His thumb circles your clit in slow, maddening strokes, his touch firm but gentle, like he’s memorizing the way your body reacts to him. And his eyes are glued to your face, searching, studying, like he’s desperate to know if he’s doing this right.

And oh, he is.

“F-Fuck, Peter—” Your voice is a whimper, a plea, your hips rolling up into his touch like you’re chasing something just out of reach. “Need you—please—” The words tumble out of you, broken and breathless, and Peter swallows them like they’re the only thing keeping him alive.

Because fuck—how is he supposed to say no to that?

His fingers slide out of you with a wet, obscene sound, your body clenching around nothing, aching for him to fill you back up. He brings his hand to his lips, his tongue darting out to lick every last drop of you from his fingers, his groan vibrating against his skin as he tastes you. His lashes flutter, his pupils blowing wide, and for a second, he looks drunk—high even—on you, like he’s never tasted anything so good, so addictive.

“Fuck—” The word is torn from his throat, raw and desperate, as he shoves himself off the bed, his hands fumbling with the button of his jeans like he’s forgotten how to undress. You whine at the loss of his touch, your body thrumming with need, but the sight of him—flustered, desperate, stripping for you like his life depends on it—has you biting your lip so hard you taste blood.

Your own hands hook into the waistband of your shorts, shimmying them down your hips along with your panties, the fabric sticking to your soaked skin before you kick them off. The cool air hits your bare, aching flesh, and you spread your thighs wider, inviting, daring him to look—to see what he’s done to you.

His jeans and boxers pool around his ankles, his cock springing free, hard and throbbing, the tip already glistening with precum. His breath hitches, his eyes locked on the way your hand slides down yourself, your fingers circling your clit, teasing yourself because you can’t wait anymore. The sight of you—spread for him, touching yourself, needy for him—has his cock jerking, a bead of precum dripping onto the sheets.

Peter crawls back onto the bed, kicking his pants off properly, his movements clumsy with need. “You look—fuck—so pretty,” he whispers, his voice rough, like he’s barely holding on. And then his lips are back on yours, his kiss hungry, desperate, like he’s starving for you.

His hand slips between your bodies, his fingers wrapping around his throbbing length, and you feel the heat of him, the pulse of his cock as he runs his tip up and down your slit, collecting all of your wetness. The sensation is teasing—torturous—and when he presses just the tip inside you, testing, waiting…

“Peter,” Your voice is a warning, a beg, your nails digging into his back.

When he finally sinks into you—all of him, deep, stretching you in a way that has your breath catching in your throat, your nails digging into his back—Peter freezes.

His entire body goes still, his muscles locked like he’s afraid to even breathe. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps, his skin burning against yours. For you, he tells himself. It’s for you—so you can adjust, so you can breathe, so you can—

Fuck.

Fuck, he’s lying to himself.

Because the real reason he’s not moving is because if he does—if he so much as twitches—he’s going to cum in two seconds flat. And Lord, would that be embarrassing. But the way you clench around him, the way your walls pulse and squeeze like they’re begging for more, like they’re trying to drag him deeper—it’s torture.

And worse—he can feel it. All of it. His spider-sense is screaming, every nerve in his body alight with the heat of you, the tightness of you, the way you fit around him like you were made for him. It’s too much—overwhelming—and he’s drowning in it.

“Peter, move.” Your voice is a whisper, a plea, your hips rolling up just a fraction, testing, teasing.

His entire body shudders, a broken sound escaping him into your neck. “J-Just—give me a second—” he mumbles, his voice muffled against your skin, his fingers digging into your hip like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

But you’re done waiting.

With that, you lift your hips, fucking yourself on him since he clearly won’t do it. The movement drags him deeper, and the sound that rips from his throat is obscene—a whimper, a moan, something raw and needy. His grip on your hip tightens to the point of pain, his fingers bruising your skin, and fuck it hurts so good.

That hand drags downward, his touch rough as he trails down your thigh, his callouses scraping against your skin. And then his palm slides under your knee, pressing your leg upward, opening you wider for him. His hips push forward, driving himself deeper, and the angle—fuck—the angle makes it feel like he’s hitting something new, something impossibly deep, like he’s fucking you into your soul.

The way he’s manhandling you again, the way he’s taking what he wants, the way his control is shattering—it has you clenching around him, your walls pulsing, milking him, begging for more.

His breath hitches, his hips stuttering as he finally—finally—starts to move. “Fuck—” The word is a curse, torn from his lips as he pulls back, slamming into you again, his rhythm erratic, desperate. “Y-You—fuck—you’re gonna—”

His voice breaks, his words lost as his hips snap forward, his cock hitting that spot inside you that has your vision whiting out. And oh—the way he groans, the way his forehead presses against yours, his eyes squeezed shut like he’s fighting for control—he’s gone.

Like he’s really gone.

The last remnants of his shyness, his hesitation, his Peter-ness—shattered. Like a dam breaking, like a switch flipping, like the boy you knew has been replaced by something feral, something hungry, something desperate to claim you. And definitely you’re here for it.

His hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that has the bed creaking beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall. His tip hammers against your g-spot repeatedly, each thrust hitting that spot inside you that has your toes curling, your back arching, your vision blurring at the edges. And his hand is holding your leg up, pressing it to your chest, opening you wider, going deeper, like he’s trying to fuse you together.

His lips crash onto yours, his kiss sloppy, desperate, his words spilling out of him like he can’t contain them, like he needs you to hear them, to know them. “You—fuck—you feel so good—” His voice is rough, raw, his breath hot against your mouth. “So good—do you—do you feel good?” His hips stutter, his cock twitching inside you as he waits for an answer, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

And you do. You feel amazing. But your brain is mush, your body alight with need, and the only thing you can manage is a nod, a whimper, a broken sound that has him groaning into your mouth.

“You look like you do—” His voice is wondering, awed, like he can’t believe he’s the one doing this to you. “Yeah you do—so pretty—so fucking pretty—” His hand tightens on your leg, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulls back, slamming into you again, his cock dragging against that spot that has you seeing stars. “And so tight—so fucking tight—good God—”

The words tumble out of him, unfiltered, like he’s drowning in you and the only thing keeping him afloat is the sound of his own voice, the feel of your body clenching around him.

It’s intoxicating.

You can’t speak. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but feel—the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he’s fucking you like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out. Your fingers tangle in his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp as you pull him closer, deeper, harder. And oh—the way he responds, the way his hips stutter, the way his cock jerks inside you.

It’s madness.

Pure, delicious madness, you never want it to end.

Because this? This is the Peter you crave—the one who takes what he wants, who manhandles you into the perfect position, his hands rough and possessive as he bends you to his will. The way he grips your thigh, yanking it up to your chest, opening you wider for him—it’s perfect. The way his hips slam into you, driving deep, hitting that spot over and over until your mind is blank and your body is singing—it’s addictive.

And even now, even as he fucks you like he’s starving for you, even as his breath comes in ragged gasps and his skin burns against yours—he still checks in. His lips brush against your ear, his voice rough but tender, “You okay?” like your pleasure is the only thing that matters. His eyes flick to your face, searching, studying, like he’s memorizing every whimper, every gasps, every shudder of your body beneath his.

It’s too much—this boy, this man, this perfect mix of ferocity and care—and fuck if it doesn’t make you ache for him even more.

Good lord—you want to fuck this man forever.

© 𝕮𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐙𝐓𝐈𝐂. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.