xoxo

Peter comes home sometime in the early hours of the morning. You hear him clattering in the living room, hear the slam of the window and a grunt and the thuds of uneven footsteps. Even in your half-asleep state, it registers that something is wrong. Usually, he’s quiet coming in, kind enough to not disturb your sleep. It’s only when something has happened that he’s careless and noisy.

You slither reluctantly from the sheets you’ve brewed perfectly warm throughout the night and pull a jumper over your head as you pad out into the hallway. “Peter?” you call softly. “You OK?”

There’s a groan from the living room. You flick the light on as you enter and find your roommate on the floor, knelt on all fours and whimpering. You swear and scramble to his side. “Fucking hell, Peter, what happened?” In the dim light, you can’t see any blood. He’s breathing heavily, though, and mumbling as he claws at his mask. You help him pull it off and he gasps for air.

“You have to go,” he manages to wheeze out. “Please. Please, go.”

“No fucking way,” you tell him fiercely, panic putting an edge in your voice. “What the hell happened?” You’re running your hands over him, checking for injuries as he sobs, and he’s burning hot even through the suit but you can’t find anything except—

That.

That’s not normal.

Big, hard and heavy, like every cliche ever in all the books you read. He hisses when you nearly touch it, swears when you lurch backwards before you make contact. “I’m so sorry,” he sobs again, teeth gritted. “It hurts. Sorry, sorry, fuck, you have to go. Please,” he begs, “you have to go.”

He looks absolutely miserable, soaked in sweat as his whole body shudders with aggressive spasms. You should back away like he’s told you, call someone who can help. Maybe it’s contagious, whatever he’s clearly come into contact with. But you can’t. He’s your best friend and you’re not leaving him like this.

“Peter,” you tell him softly but urgently, “look at me. You have to let me help you.”

Even in the distress he’s in, he laughs. Quietly, strained, under his ragged breath. “No. No, I can’t do this to you.”

“What do you mean?” He doesn’t answer, just chokes on a whimper, and you poke his shoulder. “Peter, what happened?”

He swears again, drops his forehead to the carpet. “Stupid drug I’ve been hearing about. Tried to catch some dealers. They sprayed me. It’s…”

He swallows, hisses out a pained breath. You watch him closely and wait. Finally, he grits out, “It’s an aphrodisiac, but, like, a hundred times worse.”

Oh. That explains the monumental boner he’s sporting. You take a shaky breath in, nod like he’s just told you he can’t make it to Sunday brunch anymore. “OK. Yeah, OK. Right. Uh, treatment is?”

He turns his head just enough to meet your eye, offering a wry grin. His pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the brown of his eyes. “What do you think?” he quips dryly before his whole body shudders again and he drops to his elbows, gasping raggedly. Sweat glistens on the back of his neck and mats the dark curls of his hair. “You should really go,” he croaks. “It’s not safe for you.”

Typical Peter, always thinking of others even when he’s visibly in pain. But you’ve already decided. “I’m not going to,” you tell him.

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

Hesitantly, like you’re worried about what something like a hand on his shoulder might do to him, you reach out and touch him. He tenses at the contact like he’s been shot; a strangled noise dies somewhere in his throat. He bows his head again, back heaving as he pants, refusing to make eye contact. Ashamed, maybe, of the state he’s in.

“Peter,” you say very quietly and very surely, “I’m not leaving.”

Slowly, he looks up at you, absolutely wrecked. His face is flushed and gleaming with perspiration. He watches you for a long moment like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. You don’t, even as you feel your whole body start to burn under his gaze.

“You have to say something if you don’t want to anymore,” he whispers finally. “Swear it.” You cross your heart. He manages half a smile. “Swear,” you murmur, and then you’re helping him onto the couch, and he’s making sounds that go straight to your core.

You peel the suit off him quickly. Ideally, you’d be savouring the moment, relishing in every muscled bit of skin you reveal, but you’re not trying to drag out his suffering longer than necessary. He helps you get the suit off fully, groaning and panting as he fumbles with the thick fabric, until he’s just in boxers beneath you and you’re trying not to drool at the sight of his bare skin all laid out for you.

“I have to—“ he cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut and tipping his head back as his jaw clenches. He balls his hands into fists and rests them on his thighs, his whole body taut as a bowstring. “Fuck, it hurts.”

“Tell me what to do.” You hover over him with a growing feeling of helplessness that you’re desperate to get rid of.

He’s pawing at the bulge in his boxers now, jaw clenched. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head again. A keening whine spills from his lips and he winces like it physically pains him to hear it. “I was going to ask you properly,” he mumbles so quietly you have to strain to hear him. “Wanted to take you out. I’ve liked you for ages.”

It’s news to you. For the past three years you’ve known him, you’ve firmly believed that all Peter will ever be is your best friend who happens to be a boy. Of course you liked him as more than that; look at him. You just never thought the feeling was mutual. Never even dared to hope, because you were sure you’d just end up disappointed.

“Oh,” you whisper now.

“Yeah, oh.” Peter groans. “I’m so sorry, really, this is so wrong—“

“Peter,” you say softly. When he keeps rambling about how sorry he is, you lean down to put your face right in front of his. “Peter, fucking shut up already.” And then you kiss him. He moans into your mouth, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline. You let out your own muffled noise when he squeezes the soft curve of them. “Please,” he mumbles into your mouth. “Please.”

“Please what,” you breathe right back.

“Fucking please,” is all he says and then his mouth leaves your’s, starts moving down your neck, while his hands fumble with the hem of your jumper and the pyjama top underneath. “Shirt off,” he pleads.

“Manners,” you murmur but you oblige anyway and quickly too, pulling your jumper over your head and your top with it. When Peter sees you haven’t got a bra on underneath, he practically malfunctions, hands hovering over your waist like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“Fuck,” he sighs. “I’m going to die.”

“You’re not.” You reach down to plant his hands firmly on your hips, then grip the waistband of his shorts and watch his face as you push them down. His eyes stay fixed on your chest for a long moment until his hips jump upwards and his dick springs free into the cold apartment air. Now it’s your turn to stare in blatant awe; he is huge.

“Fuck me, Peter,” you whisper and he groans.

“I’m trying!”

When you wrap a hand around him, his whole body jerks and he lets out a string of breathy curses. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes shakily. “Fuck, fuck.” You watch him in awe as your hand works, cataloguing every little noise that he makes and the way he looks at you, desperate and adoring. “Won’t last,” he whispers and you nod.

“I know.” But you don’t stop. Peter arches off the couch, chest heaving, and you watch as he comes undone beneath you. He’s still hard, afterward. You don’t care that it was quick, you don’t really care about anything but his hand which has managed to find its way into your shorts. He slips his fingers into your underwear, pushing them aside with unsurprising deftness; the guy is good at almost anything, so you wouldn’t expect any different. When his fingertips dip between your folds, your own hips stutter and you bite back a whimper.

“So wet,” he whispers almost to himself. “Holy fuck.”

“Peter,” you beg, core aching as you roll your hips over his in search of some relief. “Come on, please.”

Before you even know what’s happening, he lurches up to flip both your bodies around. In a second, you’re under him and his whole heavy body is pressing you into the couch. The movement has your head spinning.

Your shorts and undies are off now too, disposed of mindblowingly quickly as Peter works a finger into you. You cry out at the feeling, hands flying to grip his wrist. You can feel the muscles of his forearm flexing beneath your fingers as he crooks his own, another one slipping into you. He lowers his head to your chest as you gasp for breath, and when you feel him sucking marks into the valley between your breasts you nearly come right then and there.

“Fuck, Peter, fuck,” you swear. A hand goes to his hair, dripping wet and tousled from the sweat, the other hand still gripping onto his arm for dear life.

“I know,” he groans into your chest. “Just want you to be OK.”

“I will be, Pete, I will,” you promise frantically. “Please, Peter, please I need you, I need you now, please.”

Funny how he was the one in tears on the floor mere minutes ago, and now here you are begging for more beneath him. He’s nodding furiously, sucking marks on your skin as he moves back up to your lips, and when he reaches down to position himself against you, you hook your arms around his neck and pull him down to kiss you.

“Ready?” he murmurs when you break apart, and you feel the tip of him skimming through your folds. You can tell he’s restraining himself, can see it in the way he clenches his jaw and sucks in short, sharp breaths that he’s trying with all his might not just to take what he needs.

But you don’t want him to hold back. You pull him down for a kiss again and nod. “I trust you.”

His hips judder at that and he swears under his breath. When he starts to press into you, the stretch feels impossible. You hiss out, digging your nails into his shoulders for dear life. If it hurts him, he doesn’t react. He just watches your face, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his whole body shaking with the effort it takes to hold himself back.

“You OK?” he asks and you nod.

“Keep going. Please.”

So he does. Inch by inch, he presses his hips closer to your’s. When the stretch feels unbearable, he whispers in your ear for you to breathe. Before you know it, he closes the gap and there he is, buried inside you up to the hilt. And you wonder how you’ve gone so long without this, how something so new can feel so insanely right.

“Like you were made for me,” he whispers into your neck and you nod.

“I was,” you mumble. “Please move, Peter, please.” You can smell the sweat on his skin, can feel it all through his hair as you bury your fingers in his curls.

He moves. Hips rolling against your’s, steadily speeding up. You try to keep up with him, you really do, but your legs have given up on working and Peter’s got the whole super strength thing on his side. He makes little noises as he fucks into you, breathy whimpers and almost pained groans, but the look on his face is as far from pain as it gets. You let him do the work while you scatter errant kisses across his chest and shoulders, and the tightness in you swells and swells until you think you can’t take it anymore, but it keeps going and Peter moans out loud when you clench around him.

“Please,” you just about sob, gripping his back for dear life. “Please, Peter, please.”

“I know,” he mumbles against your skin, dropping his head to mouth at your neck. He pulls almost all the way out and then pushes back in, one smooth movement, and you cry out. “I’m so close.”

“I know, I know.” He presses his face against the crook of your neck and grunts, hips still pistoning like machinery. “Me too. Feels insane.”

“Please,” you whimper, feeling frankly out of your mind too as you clutch at the muscles of his back and arms. “Please. So close.”

He gets you there. One hand snaked between your two bodies, the press of a calloused thumb against your clit, and you’re tumbling over the edge, eyes squeezed shut. Peter follows soon after, still working you through it, practically sobbing into your chest. The aftershocks last for a while and he’s there through it all, gasping for breath against your skin. When the haze clears, he pulls out gingerly and lifts his head to meet your gaze.

“You OK?” he asks, face scrunched in concern. “I didn’t hurt you?”

You grin at him. “I feel like jelly.”

“Good jelly?”

“Fucking amazing jelly.”

He laughs, the sound ragged. “I’m sorry, anyway.”

“I know you’re not apologising right now,” you retort, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “That was, like, the best sex I’ve ever had. Are you, um, OK, though?”

He smiles bashfully. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m OK.”

He brings you a wet cloth and a glass of water. The sweat has dried on his skin and he looks far better than he did when you found him on the floor.

Later, he crawls into bed with you. The lamp flicks off and the room plunges back into darkness. You wriggle closer to him until his arms find you and pull you tight to his chest.

“As good as that was,” you whisper, “please don’t scare me like that again. I thought you were dying or something.”

He laughs softly and presses his lips to the top of your head. “OK. I’ll try.”

You let your head fall back against the pillow, your eyes already drifting closed as sleep begins to pull you back under again. It's only then, just as you're comfortable, that the next sound tears through your bedroom.

Your bedroom window, old and creaky, is slid open. The curtains stir as something, a big something, slips past them. There are no footsteps or creaks of the floorboards to prove it happens, just the rustle of the curtains as more breeze flies through.

"...P–Peter."

The name slips from your mouth before your mind has even fully caught up. It has to be him, he's the only person reckless enough to slip in at three in the morning, and the only one who would consider your fourteenth story window as a perfectly reasonable front door, despite having a key.

There's no response, so you reach for the lamp. A soft, yellow glow fills the bedroom, your eyes taking another second to adjust before immediately settling on the wall.

Peter's halfway up your bedroom wall, crouched close to the ceiling with his weight resting on his feet. He has one hand on the opposite wall, as if he needs it to keep him balanced.

He's still not turned to look at you, opting to watch the city through the gap the wind creates in the curtains. One shoulder in his suit has been ripped almost clean off, exposing bruised skin beneath streaks of drying blood. There's more dried blood along the side of his face, disappearing beneath his jaw and into the collar of his suit. Fresh crimson still trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, his curls clinging damply to his forehead.

You chew your bottom lip as you take him in. It's become the norm for him to crawl through your window at night after patrol, but never this late and never looking this banged up. Dating Spider-Man has its perks but now it brings you an uncomfortable swirl in your stomach.

"Pete?"

When he finally looks over to you, the breath in your throat catches. His eyes, usually so soft and brown when they look at you, are gone, replaced by darkness. You blink a few times, as if that will reset your sight and give you something more familiar.

It doesn't and your brow furrows. You've spent enough time looking into Peter's eyes to know every shade of brown that they could be in a different light. This wasn't that. The colour has been swallowed whole, replaced by a black glossy enough to catch the light from your bedside lamp.

Over time, you've learnt to just roll with the things that happen to and around Peter. Now, for the first time really, he's beaten, he's bloody, his eyes are pitch black, and he just stares at you.

It's probably one of the most unsettling things you've ever seen, which makes it deeply irritating that your first coherent thought is still 'God, he's attractive'.

"That's... new," you finally say.

His head tilts ever so slightly, the movement smooth enough that it reminds you he isn't entirely human, as if him clinging on your wall without a regard for gravity wasn't reminder enough.

"What happened, handsome?" You ask softly.

One corner of his mouth twitches at the nickname, it's barely a smile, but it's enough to loosen the knot that has been tightening in your chest from since you turned the light on.

"Suit yourself," you say.

The silence feels wrong on him. Usually, Peter feels silence the way other people breathe. He apologises, makes terrible jokes, and talks himself into circles until you have to interrupt him just to get a word in. Even after the worst patrols, he somehow finds the energy to ramble on about the criminal who threw a microwave at him or complain about New York's pigeons' vendetta against him.

Tonight, he just watches you. His gaze follows you as you kneel beside the bed and pull out the first-aid kit you stashed there for times like this. It tracks the movement of your hands while you sort through gauze and antiseptic, placing them on the bed.

"Come here."

This, he obeys immediately. Usually there's some sort of protest, "I'm fine." "You don't need to fuss." "It's not even my blood."

But today, he walks down the wall, each step carrying him lower until both feet settle quietly onto the carpet. He walks the short distance over to you, stopping close enough that you can smell the rain and city dust beneath the metallic tang of blood.

There's tiny cuts scattered across his jaw, already looking like they're healing. "You really got beat up, huh?"

He nods in response.

"The other guy look worse than you?"

Another nod.

"Good."

It's your turn to watch him, your eyes trailing down from where his hair is still damp to the way his muscles bulge out of his suit. A hum of approval slips past your lips, and the corner of Peter's mouth lifts again.

"Missed you." His voice is rough, quieter than usual, as though he hasn't spoken in hours. Knowing Peter, that is unlikely.

"I missed you too." You reach for the antiseptic. "Suit off, sit down."

It's a routine you've done time and time again. He's out of the suit in no time, then on your bed in only his boxers. His chest and stomach is no better than his face, scrapes and bruises littered across him.

You kneel between his open legs, soaking a cotton pad with antiseptic before lifting it towards the cut above his eyebrow. "This is going to sting."

Normally, he'd flinch before you'd enough touched him, already complaining about your bedside manner despite being the one who'd shown up at your window and begging you to take care of him with those puppy-dog eyes.

But, the antiseptic touches raw skin without so much as a wince or bad joke about how it hurts worse than anything he fought as an Avenger.

The furrow in your brow deepens for the second time today as you carefully clean his face. "Peter."

His black eyes flick briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "What?"

"You've been staring at me for the past... I don't know. Like five minutes."

"I know." Is his simple response.

There's something in his voice that somehow manages to sound not quite like Peter but also entirely like Peter at the same time. A hint of brown peaks through his eyes as you study him.

You find yourself looking away first, pretending to concentrate on cleaning the cut along his jaw even though you've already wiped it clean.

When your thumb accidentally brushes against the corner of his mouth, any hint of brown disappears, replaced by pitch black again as there's a faint hitch in his breath.

The effects of his reaction rolls through your body in a way that you're not sure you can admit out loud. Although he doesn't show it, he's probably in pain, and the worry you'd had initially is very quickly being replaced by a burning desire.

"I think we're done."

You stand to throw the used cotton aside. The moment you try to leave, warm fingers close around your wrist. It's not tight enough to bruise, but it's enough to stop you in your tracks, to stop you from even thinking of pulling away.

The tug on your arm is done with hardly any force at all, but it still has you tumbling forward. Your hands land on his shoulders to steady yourself, and he lets go of your wrist only to settle one hand against your waist.

Lifting you with ease, he puts you on his lap.

For a brief second, he looks almost puzzled by the contact, as though some part of him is only catching up to what the rest of him decided several seconds ago.

As your fingers trace down the lines of his chest, over the faint bruising, his eyes drop to your chest, watching how your chest begins to rise and fall faster as your heart thuds in your chest.

His nipples are already erect, so perky and tempting and you can't help but slide your thumbs over them. It's as if the touch sparks something within him, his hands tighten on your waist, drawing you closer until there's barely any space between your bodies.

The streets of New York sound even more distant as the sounds of ragged breathing fills the room, it's all consuming and desire pools in your stomach without even being touched.

"Pete," you moan, and the restraint snaps.

Peter's hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down to crash his lips to yours. It's not really a kiss, it's too messy and too desperate, and he groans in your mouth as your teeth accidentally catch the cut on his lip. Still, he doesn't pull away. In fact, he craves more.

His hands run over your back and then down to cup your ass, tilting your hips forward in an attempt to press you harder against him. He hums quietly against your mouth, the sound vibrating somewhere deep in his chest.

Somehow, he calms down enough that his lips move against yours in a way more resembling real kiss, his tongue sliding over yours. The motion has heat prickling under your skin and a throb blooming between your thighs. Your nails scratch at his back, adding to the collection of marks there.

Without breaking the kiss, Peter eases you both backwards. You barely notice you're being moved until you suddenly feel him, all of him, press against you. He arranges you so he's flat on his back, your knees on either side of his hips.

The thin fabric of your panties is damp in a way that you're sure he can feel through his boxers. He's done nothing so far to warrant that.

"Fuck," you groan against his mouth as you shift against him. The friction sending little sparks of pleasure through you, but not enough to satisfy the ache.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you. You could always tell what he was thinking through his eyes, but they're still black, probably darker than before if that's possible. But, the expression on his face gives you all the reassurances that his eyes can't.

"My senses are going crazy." It's the first sentence that was more than two words he's pulled together all night, so you sit up straight, looking down at him. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep and ragged breath. "Fu-. You smell so..."

The praise went straight to your core, more wetness dampening your panties and Peter whimpered.

He didn't open his eyes immediately, taking another long, shuddering breath of air as if your scene was an intoxicant he couldn't get enough of.

Shifting in his lap, you grind down against him with as much pressure as you could manage. His hands on your hips twitched, his fingers digging into your skin with enough pressure that you knew it would bruise tomorrow. Good.

His eyes lock on to yours, the void in his gaze terrifying in a way that only made you ache more. "I can hear your blood rushing. I can feel... no, I can smell how warm and wet you are."

Leaning forward, you drag your chest against his bare skin until your noses almost brush.

"So, then you know I'm ready for you." You kissed the bottom of his jaw, where a bruise has formed. "I'm begging for it." Another kiss and shift against him. His full body tremors underneath you. "I need you."

Before you can blink, his hand flies up to wrap around the back of your neck, and then the room spins. Peter's over you in an instant, pressing his erection against your core.

There's a wet patch on his boxers where his precum has pooled and each roll of his hips coats his boxers as it glides over your damp panties.

"Fuck... Pete."

Your nails find their way to his back again, leaving him with marks that you know he'll appreciate in the mirror in the morning.

Peter whimpers, hair flopping over his face and eyes half-lidded as he moves faster against you. You reach up, thumb flicking over his nipples in time with his grinds against you. Electricity runs through his veins at every wipe.

"I-I'm not- I'm close already," he stutters, his dick twitching in his boxers.

"But I want you inside of me," you all but whined.

"Okay, yes."

If you weren't as aroused as you are now, you would have laughed at the unnecessary acrobatics as he jumps back to pull your panties off in one swoop. The cold air hits your soaked folds, and his throat bobs as he watches the way it glistens in the light.

"Hurry up," you begged, legs closing slightly. It was a silly thing to feel so self-conscious in front of the man who's been between your legs more times than you could count, but he's also not seen you this desperate before.

He stands to pull his boxers down, a soft moan escaping his lips as the fabric catches on his sensitive tip. He turns to look at you as you swallow hard. His dick is beautiful, slightly curved and thick in a way that fills you up completely every time. It's flushed a pretty pink at the tip. Your tongue moves in your throat, craving the feeling of how heavy it would feel on you.

Settling between your legs again, Peter spreads your legs wide. He rubs the tip of his length through your slick folds, his precum and your arousal mixing. He uses the tip to circle your clit with extra pressure, and you cannot help the grind of your hips.

Peter taps his dick on your clit once, then once again, running it through your folds again.

Your hands hook under the backs of your thighs, pulling them to your chest and exposing yourself to him. "Peter, please."

"I'm sorry, baby," he coos.

Just the tip is eased past your hole, and it's enough for your mouth to go slack, eyes rolling back as the stretch burns so well. He continues to push in slowly, face scrunched as your walls wrap around him like a specialised glove.

Every ridge, every vein, and every pulse drags hits against the walls of your pussy. He fills you up completely, thick and veiny, and neither of you move for a moment, too lost in the feeling.

"Won't last long," he grits out.

Sweat already beads at his forehead. Sex with Peter is usually a stamina war, he goes rounds and rounds before even tiring. But whatever's happened to him has heightened his senses in a way that he cannot yet control, the feelings overwhelming him to the point of almost overstimulation.

"That's okay, take what you need."

He begins to move, pulling out so just the tip is left in before pushing back forward. He finds the right angle immediately, hitting against your spot and making your toes curl.

Without missing a thrust, Peter grabs hold of your ankles, using them to spread your legs further. The new angle has you both sighing, moans mixing in the room with the sounds of his skin clapping against yours.

"Feels s'good, s'tight," he groans. "Touch... self."

Three of your fingers immediately find your clit, circling with the pressure that you know you like. It only takes a few tightly pressured circles for the first waves of your orgasm to shake through your body.

Peter watches your body arch as your orgasm hits you in full force. You clench around him and that combined with the pure ecstasy on your face has him burying himself deep inside of you, giving you a few more frantic thrusts before he's whimpering and groaning, his nerve endings going haywire.

Seconds later, he's shooting hot, ropey cum into you. He falls forward but keeps his body hovering over yours. Your hands cup his cheeks, pressing kisses to his face as you both come down from your highs. He mumbles praises to you between kisses, making your heart squeeze.

"Feeling better, Pete?" You ask.

"Yeah, thanks to you," he sighs. He sits back on his heels, still buried inside of you.

As you watch him, his eyes slowly clear of the black, his soft brown eyes finding yours.

He gulped down a large bite of bread and had the gall to look ashamed. It was such a petty thing. Yet, after dating for nine months since you met him in that godforsaken coffee shop you worked at, you had learned that, with him, he would keep conducting himself in blissful oblivion until you told him something. Sighing, you gave him a stern yet empathetic look, wrapping your arms around his side as he slowly ate his food. 

“My bad, Y/N. I’m sorry. I never realized it was this bad,” he looked down at you and wiped his crummy lips before kissing your forehead, “but I really never thought it was so bad you had to resort to your mom’s woo-woo stuff.” 

“Hey!” You flicked his side. “Take me seriously. And the thing works. Also, I can’t reach the hook. Put it on there for me? Please?” 

“Of course,” Peter said, walking to the kitchen sink, extending his arms and lifting up the base of his tshirt, exposing his absurdly defined back. 

That visual reminder of his athleticism made you add, “and what do you mean, woo-woo? Have you seen what you do for a living?” 

 With deft ease, Peter tied the knot over the hook, laughed, squeezed the bag for good measure - for some reason - and watched it bubble, then got down to face you. 

“Is that in the right spot?” he asked, standing at your side, admiring it with you. 

“Works for me,” you said. “Thank you.” 

After Peter had eaten his toast, apologized again, and apologized again, he proposed an idea. Thus, two hours later, you and Peter sat on your slightly cat-scratched Craigslist couch, already through a bottle and a half of some wine you had nipped from your work party. You lounged with your back on the side, legs over Peter’s lap, his hand absentmindedly gliding over your thigh. You were tipsy, and at this point in the evening, you had resorted to lazily gazing at Peter, just taking your partner in—yet, as you inspected, he looked tired. Too tired. His undereyes suddenly seemed too purple and his hair too mussed. Frowning, you sat up right when the vinyl transitioned into a new track, wine sloshing in your glass. 

“Woah, there, cowboy,” Peter said, trying not to smile as he steadied your hips. 

“Sorry, Parker,” you slurred. “How’s the Spidering going?” 

His lips tugged into a jokingly offended frown. 

“I told you, that is not what we are calling my, uh… arrangement.” 

“My arrangement,” you taunted, biting your lip to prevent them from widening into an amused and lovesick grin. “Like that’s any better.”

He thumbed your hips as you straddled him, wine still in hand, “and what do you propose?” 

“Spidering.” 

“Horrendous, love.” 

You laughed and kissed him and nearly spilled the wine onto his clean curls before he swiftly grabbed it from you, placing it on the coffee table with such agility you could hardly register the coolness of the glass leaving your warm palm. With both of your eyes still closed, he tongued your mouth, sitting up; heat soared through you, anticipation hot on your tongue. 

“I’m so happy we moved in together,” he admitted lustfully against your lips, brushing his hands over your back, “I’ve had such a fulfilling month.” 

“You only want me for one thing,” you teased, teeth accidentally grating his teeth as you held back a smile. 

“Yeah, your food and your woo-woo penny Ziplocs,” he said. And then, after a moment, his eyes gleamed impishly: “and how you suck my cock—hey!” 

You bit his bottom lip a little bit too hard before sinking to your knees, sighing when his hands automatically threaded through your hair. 

“It’s like you read my mind,” Peter said, lips pulled into a lazy grin. 

“It’s like you just said what you wanted out loud,” you said, smirking, undoing the tie on his gray sweatpants. Peter laughed breathlessly and shook his head as you pulled his pants down, feeling him twitch through his boxers. You regarded his throbbing length curiously, tilting your head. 

“It’s crazy how thick you are, y’know,” you told him, gently squeezing. He sucked in a breath as the record stuttered and his eyes darkened. You could see the faint outline of his abs heaving underneath his sheer shirt, and as you tugged his boxers down, you gazed up at him through your lashes when his dick bounced back against his chest, pink, hard, and getting bigger. You smoothed a hand over his stomach before closing your eyes and taking him into your mouth. You loved exploring the taste and feel of him; you had learned that whenever you took the time to look up at him and hollow your cheeks, he had to look at the ceiling, unable to watch, eyebrows furrowing—

So, you did that. And Peter reacted as you had predicted. 

“Fuck,” he groaned. The Ziploc penny bag jingled in the wind as it bustled through your open window, the midmorning light cascading onto his cheekbones as you dared a glance at him. You clenched your thighs as he clenched his jaw and lightly held the back of your head, not pushing you nor forcing you onto him. 

“I wanna feel you so bad,” he muttered slowly, suddenly pulling you off of him, grabbing you by the armpits and lifting you onto his thighs, making you burst into a fit of laughter. You bit your lip and pulled your hair behind your ears as you quickly got off on him, your sleepshorts slipping to the side, exposing your bare heat. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I laugh when I’m excited,” you said, already out of breath as his tip slid against you. 

“I know,” he said, pushing into you. He sat straight against the back of the couch as you rode him feverishly, frantically, eyes fluttered closed, noses smushed together, arms wrapped around his back. You gasped into his mouth and he helped quiet you, kissing you dirtily. 

“I love wine morning,” he said through a pleasured huff. 

“Me too,” you agreed. “We should do this more often.” 

Peter’s lips fell agape when he hit a particularly euphoric spot inside of you. You saw stars and moaned into his mouth and he rested his chin on top of your head, pulling you into his chest, fucking you impossibly hard yet slow. 

“Fuck, Pete,” you cried out, scraping your nails against his back, unable to deal with the sheer pleasure; you bounced on him so fast you were panting, kissing his neck, holding him close, “fuck wine night.” 

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ-

author's note:

hi!!! i hope u liked this lil blurb:)) im tryna focus more on cute lil domestic blurbs bc the intense dark ones make me sad LMAOOCJ fucc pisces moon..... anyways THOOO pls send me requests<3

and if you would like to be added to my taglist, comment here, or shoot me a message! good day/night folks love yousss<33

You laugh. Luca took after Peter in a lot of ways, his playful nature being one of the qualities. He was smart too--sometimes a little smart for his own good. Nevertheless, you loved your son and your husband alike.

"Gotcha," you whisper. Peter loosens his grip, allowing you to make your way out of the kitchen.

"Wow, I wonder where my baby boy is..." you say loudly into the living room.

"I think he disappeared...Oh no! We won't get to eat cookies anymore!" you fake cry as you walk toward the couch.

Your fake cries are only met with even more silence.

"Damn, this kid is good," you mumble under your breath.

Just as you finish that thought you hear faint laughter coming from under the TV stand. Your lips make their way into smirk.

"I wonder where he could be..." you say, your voice wavering as you make your way over to the TV stand. You flag Peter down, urging him to make his way over to where you're standing.

"He's under here," you mouth. Peter smiles.

"Yeah, I don't know where he is either, guess we'll just have eat cookies without him..." Peter joins in your teasing.

"Hey!" you finally hear your four-year-old let out.

"Aha!" Peter yells, opening the cabinet below your TV stand, revealing Luca sitting with his knees to his chest.

"Found you," Peter said reaching in and picking up your son.

"That's not fair, Daddy!" the four-year-old cried.

"Yes, it is," Peter laughed, tickling him.

"Mommy, help!" he cried out between laughs.

You smile, watching your two favorite people stand in front of you.

"Okay, okay. Mommy's stepping in," you say reaching your arms out. Luca quickly lunges his body towards you. He eventually finds his way into your arms.

"You played a good game little man," Peter says placing a small kiss on Luca's cheek.

"Mommy, tell Daddy I won the game," Luca says with a small pout.

"Daddy, Luca won the game," you repeated with a smile.

Peter fakes offense.

"Cmon!! What?" he says in a high pitched voice.

Luca laughs nodding his head.

"Fine, you win Luca but I'm gonna get you next time," Peter says ruffling Luca's hair.

You smile placing your son back on the ground. He wastes no time running to his playroom right up the stairs.

You let out a content sigh watching your son slip just out of view.

"Welcome home baby, how was work?" Peter says, softly, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"Long," you say, half-joking.

"I know, we miss you when you're at work."

"I miss you guys too--so much,"

Peter leans down, placing a kiss on your lips. You moan lightly into the kiss. Your arms come up around his neck.

He's the first to break the kiss, his forehead resting against yours.

"I can make dinner tonight, you need the break."

"Peter, you don't have to do tha--"

"Sweetheart, I want to."

You laughed at his sudden serious tone. Peter took great care of you but you'd be lying if you said you made it easy. You were so independent sometimes that you refused to let Peter do anything. He knew how important some things were to you like making the house up and cooking but sometimes you did need a break. He always cherished the moments you let him cater to you and spoil you.

You sigh, giving in to his demand.

"Go and rest. Put on your favorite show or mindlessly scroll through Twitter, I don’t care. Just rest—please, baby.” he says motioning for you to go upstairs.

His lips found their way to yours again before ushering you up the stairs.

"Okay Luca, it's bath time~~" Peter said as you made your way down the upstairs hallway.

“Noooo,” you hear his tiny voice from your bedroom.

You smile as hear the two of them make their way to the bathroom.

You stretch out across the bed and turn the television on. As soon as you put your show on, you feel yourself drift off to sleep.

“Hey, love.” you feel yourself being shaken awake. Your eyes flutter open to reveal your husband standing above you.

“Didn’t realize you were so tired,” he says taking a seat next to you.

“I hope you don’t mind, I made May's pasta recipe again. Luca was going on and on about how he wanted dinosaur nuggets so I made him that with some carrots."

You smile. You knew how much your son loved his dinosaur-shaped foods.

"Thank you, Pete," you say sitting up and pushing your hair out of your face.

"You know you looked really pretty sleeping..." Peter said looking at you.

This makes you blush. Even after being married for five years and being parents for four of those five, Peter never missed an opportunity to compliment you.

“Shut up,” you laugh

“What?! I can’t compliment my beautiful wife?” he says leaning in and placing a peck on your lips.

You smile.

“Have you eaten today?”

You let out a hard sigh.

"I had a bagel for breakfast..." you admit. The day had been so hectic that you didn't really have a moment to eat lunch.

He narrowed his eyes.

"Baby-- you know this isn't good for you," he said, sounding hurt almost.

You looked at him sympathetic look.

"...Come downstairs and eat." Peter scoffs as he begins to make his way downstairs. He seems angrier than normal. You quickly scurry behind him.

Once you turn the corner of the hallway, you spot him at the microwave, reheating leftovers.

He turns slightly to see if you were still behind him. You give him an awkward smile. He rolls his eyes.

"Okay--it's not like I didn't eat on purpose," you say walking up behind him. You place your head on his shoulder.

He turns his body completely towards you and wraps his arms around you.

"Please try to eat from now on...seriously. If not, Luca and I are gonna start paying you daily lunch visits." he said, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"I wouldn't hate that..." you say looking up at him.

He lets out a chuckle and places a small kiss on your forehead. The microwave beeps notifying him that your food is ready. He carefully picks it up and places it on the counter. He picks up a spoonful and lightly blows on it to cool it.

"Here--ahhh," he says motioning you to open your mouth.

You oblige and take the spoon into your mouth. The savory flavors of cheese and tomatoes fill your tastebuds. You loved when Peter cooked May's recipes and this one was secretly your favorite.

"Mmm good girl," he says as he pulls the spoon from your mouth.

Good Girl. A term you hadn't heard in a while. It almost sends a hitter down your back.

"It's good right?" he added as you continued to chew.

"Mm so good, babe!" you say excitedly.

"Sit and eat," he laughs, wiping down the counter.

You take a seat at the table and continue eating the pasta that your husband made for you. Peter takes a seat across from you, watching you eat.

"God--I really missed you today," he says abruptly.

You give him a haphazard smile and playfully roll your eyes.

“I mean it” he laughs out. He leans toward you.

You understand what he means now. Peter wanted you—needed you.

You quietly finished dinner and Peter takes your bowl and rinses it off in the sink.

“You should take a nice warm shower too babe, it’ll help you go back to sleep easier.” He said guiding you to the upstairs bathroom. He turns the faucet on and tugs at the fabric of your shirt. You smile lifting your arms, allowing him to pull it off. He continues until your body is bare. Then, his attention returns to himself. He begins pulling off his shirt, shorts, and socks until the two of you are naked.

“Hey, I thought this nice warm shower was for me?” you snicker.

“It is but I’m not gonna let you have all the fun by yourself,”

He guides you into the shower, climbing in behind you. The warm water instantly relaxes your muscles. Your husband lathers a rag and begins to clean you. You allow the water to wash the suds away. You lather a rag and begin to do the same for Peter.

The more your hands graze his skin, Peter tries harder and harder to manage his growing boner. You’re quick to notice.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me, baby…”

“Let me take care of you now.” you finish. You slide him agains the wall of the shower and press your lips against his.

Peter quickly wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer. It takes no time for the kiss to become passionate and heated, the water still running over the two. Your hand creeps to his throbbing erection, stroking it carefully. Peter moans into your lips.

His grip tightens around your hips. He begins to buck his own hips into your hand. You’re the first to break the kiss, quickly sliding down so that you’re eye level with his member.

You slowly lick from the base to the tip, knowing it drives his crazy. He throws his head back and his member twitches.

“Please—” he whimpers out. You smile before taking the tip into your mouth. You hollow your cheeks and begin taking as much of the shaft into your mouth as you can. The bathroom becomes filled with lewd and wet noises as you bob your head up and down.

“Fuck, you’re so good at that baby” he whines.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to be a quick shot.

“Shit babe, I don’t want to finish like this. Get up.” he said, sliding himself out of your mouth.

You stand up only to be forced into the wall. Peter forces you to arch your back. His hand reaches between your legs and his fingers slowly making their way to your clit. You sigh out in relief when he finally lands on it.

“You’re so wet for me already, angel. Did you miss me too?” he teases. You don’t answer.

“That’s okay, just be a good girl and take this dick for me okay?” he says as he aligns himself with your entrance and slides himself in.

This earns an audible moan from the both of you. Peter, eager as ever, doesn’t waste time moving himself in and out of you. The pace starts steady but his movements soon become erratic.

“Are you gonna cum baby?” you say to mask your own pleasure.

“I wanna cum with you, angel” he groans out. His hand finds its way to your clit again and continues in patterns that make you see stars. Your moans become louder as you begin to reach your climax. Your walls squeeze him tighter and tighter each stroke.

Soon, neither of you can contain the release. You finish first, your body convulsing. Peter finishes right after you, painting your walls. He pulls you closer and whispers your name followed by a string of ‘i love you’s’

After a moment he finally pulls out and begins to clean the two of you up…again.

Nights like this remind you how lucky you are to have a husband that takes such good care of you.

───୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

“Summerween is crazy,” MJ said idly. Her glass clinked with ice as her lips pursed around it, and Betty’s backyard was blindingly hot—Peter and Betty continued to talk near the long, wooden family table and the sun glinted off the pink umbrella in searing white refractions. 

“How are you finding MIT?” Betty asked, sifting through locks of Peter’s brown hair. At this point, he had rid himself of his neon orange shirt, only donning his navy blue swim-shorts. She sat on his lap, facing the pool with her back to his face, squirting a thick dollop of white sunscreen into his expectant palm, which lay facing towards her, extended beyond her side. As he moved, you noticed how his arms tensed and untensed and hit reflections of the pale blue pool. 

“It’s been really fun,” Peter told her, smearing it all over her back with the same grace as a child in a kitchen. “I’ve made a bunch of new friends. The classes kinda suck but they’re not too hard.” 

Betty nodded and bit her lip. When MJ nudged your shoulder, you were already glancing at her through your sunglasses. The pair of you held back a giggle as you further inspected the amusing situation at hand. Literally. Betty’s back must have been well-protected from the sun after a near five-minute operation of Peter rubbing it into her skin, yet, she still encouraged him to put on some more. You adjusted the string of your gingham bikini and sipped your peach bellini. 

“Not too hard? Peter, you’re a genius,” Betty said, girlishly. She flipped her hair and looked over her shoulder back towards him, eyes low. “I only go to community college.” 

Awkwardly, Peter patted her bicep, and said, with unsure restraint, “everyone has their own journey.” 

“That’s the corniest shit I’ve ever heard,” MJ said. 

“Sh,” you told her. 

“That’s true,” Betty continued, finally stepping off of his lap. She stretched, revealing lines of toned abdomen. Peter noticeably tried not to steal a glance. In the distance, Ned must have jumped into the pool, because a big splash echoed across the water, catching your attention. You shifted on your lounge chair, watching Ned and Gwen. Ned had just thrown Gwen into the pool, and now, she was in his arms, being dragged across the pool, shrieking with laughter. You glanced back at Betty and Peter. Then to MJ. 

“Did you say that Betty and Ned broke up?” you whispered to her. 

 She inhaled the rest of her slushy through her straw. “I thought it was a rumour. I never thought Betty would go for Peter. So soon, too.” 

You nodded at MJ’s words as Betty stepped into the water. Peter stood beside her, hand-in-hers, taking her guidance down the steps. As they descended into the pool, their bodies turned ghostly pale. 

“Shall we go in the pool and continue this investigation?” 

“Should we do that and also get another drink?”

“You’re a genius.” 

After fashioning yourselves new peach bellinis in Betty’s wonderfully expensive blender, MJ walked ahead of you as you entered the water. You looked around at the crowd of drunken twenty-somethings dressed in whatever cheap Summerween attire they could afford—someone had poorly died a neon orange Halloween shirt (Peter had not even bothered to alter his), Flash donned a watermelon hat, and—

“Are you going to the afters tonight?” MJ asked you conversationally, twirling around in the water with ease, holding her drink above it. Her sunhat casted funky shadows onto the gently lapping waves. 

“There’s afters?” you asked, joining her in her twirling. 

“Yeah. Betty’s hosting. This thing’s supposed to be over in like, an hour.” 

“Are you going?”

“Yeah. Are you?” 

“Is it invite-only?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Free drinks?” 

“Probably.” 

A few hours later, you joined MJ on the couch as you and a group of maybe twenty people crowded into Betty’s basement. It smelled like stale beer, cheese, and ham. Flash stood in the corner, verbally sparring with some girl. You and MJ had nearly intervened, too, until Flash stepped away angrily, yelling to the group, “anybody want to play Spin the Bottle?” 

“Are we in middle school, Flash?” MJ yelled. She hoisted the strap of her tank top over her shoulders. Her hair was curly and damp; the basement felt humid, for some reason. You were not sure how MJ was not freezing. 

“Shut up, MJ,” Flash scoffed. “Anybody?” 

Betty sighed. “Gimme another shot.”

Although you were unsure and slightly surprised at how quickly Flash had managed to wrangle and gather and organize the group into a rough suggestion of a circle, you were all equipped with an empty Heineken bottle, sat in the center of the circle-suggestion. 

You shuddered and resented yourself for not bringing a hoodie, like MJ did. Your nipples ached as Flash spun the bottle first - obviously. After some anti-climactic waiting, the bottle landed on Peter. You laughed as Flash shuddered, refusing, and handing the bottle to the person beside him, which was Ned. Ned spun the bottle, and it landed on Betty. After a very restrained yet strangely passionate kiss, they parted, slightly dazed. This time, MJ spun the bottle. It landed on you. With a drunken giggle, she leaned forward, and placed a chaste kiss on your lips.

“That doesn’t count,” Flash scoffed. 

“You just want to see us make out,” MJ said, smugly. 

“What are the rules of this game, again?” you asked.

Flash sat back down, muttering. MJ passed the bottle to you, snickering to herself. You did not particularly have any feelings for anybody there, yet, as your hand slipped from the cold glass and sent the bottle into a spiral, your stomach felt weird when it landed on Peter. He sat criss-crossed from across the room, hair tousled, grey shirt slightly wet. Some people laughed, but it was teeth-grindingly quiet as you had to stumble across the room, bend down, fall awkwardly onto your ass, adjust onto your knees, put your arms on his shoulder, thumb the curls at the nape of his neck, and kiss him. 

MJ whooped when you closed your eyes, surprised, trying not to smile. You had not expected Peter to reciprocate, let alone run his hands through his hair, tongue the inside of your lower lip, bite it, and pull away. As you waddled back to your spot across the floor beside MJ, you wiped your lip, ignoring the eye contact and juvenile comments. And how your face felt like flushing. Yet, luckily, everyone else had moved on—Gwen was already spinning the bottle. Why did Peter kiss you like that? You were on the same Decathlon team as him in high school. That was it. He had barely talked to you. Unfortunately, before the game was officially over, you had to kiss a dude named Sven who smelled like damp rags and cologne. As the group settled into the low hum of conversation, Flash yelled, “what about seven minutes in heaven?” 

“Just watch porn, Flash,” Ned said, shaking his head. “We actually respect the people here, you know.” 

“I’m down,” Betty said. Ned looked at Betty. Then sighed. His shoulders slumped as he silently followed the group back over to the empty bottle, sitting back down like it was an ashamed routine. At this point, you were so tipsy that Flash’s words melted into a golden champagne haze. You followed everyone else and spinned the bottle first when MJ had encouraged you to get to it before Flash. You were too busy studying the string of fairy lights that illuminated Gwen’s blonde hair before MJ nudged your side. Hard. 

“Get up,” MJ whispered. 

“What?” you asked. 

“It landed on Peter.” 

“What?” 

“Get inside of that damn closet!” 

Confused, MJ hurried you up, and you stood on your legs like a drunken, baby deer. Flash came up behind you and grabbed your shoulders, facing you towards Peter, who was already standing by the door, staring at something on his knuckles. 

“Alright,” Flash sighed, “you both know the rules.” 

Flash opened the door and a wave of mildew and mothballs hit you before Flash promptly pushed you inside. You had barely registered the sensation of hard plastic beneath your fingertips before Peter was steadying you, pulling you away from the shelf. 

“Is there a light in here?” you asked, trying to open the doorknob. It was locked. 

Peter was feeling up the walls, but based on his defeated sigh, he had not found anything. 

“Do you have your phone?” he asked you.

“It’s in there.” 

“Me too.” 

“Well.” 

“Think we can feel for a chair?” 

You laughed. “I admire your wishful thinking.” 

The storage closet was more like a broom closet, and you wondered why, with Betty’s wealth, her family would construct a room so tiny. Your chest was barely brushing against Peter’s—you were still cold, and your bikini top was colder, so you had elected to take it off and toss it into a grocery bag. When your pearled nipples brushed against his damp chest, you inhaled and ignored the wave of heat that made your face pound. 

“My legs hurt,” he said. 

“Why?” 

“I dunno.” 

You found yourself smiling. “I wish we could sit down.” 

In the darkness, you heard and felt Peter shuffle around. You barely had enough space to do a full turn. 

“We could sit with our legs crossed if we angle it right,” he said. 

“Let’s do it,” you said. After what felt like the whole of seven minutes - yet was not, clearly, as you two had not yet been fetched - you were sitting on your knees with your back pressing into what felt like a dollhouse, and Peter was sitting cross-legged beneath you, awkwardly trying to rest his back against the wall of what felt like old toys. You smiled. 

“Think our time’s almost up?” 

“I had hoped figuring this out would take up most of it,” Peter admitted. 

“Me too.” 

Now, your arms were resting over his head, fingers curling over the shelf ledge. If you were to get up, you may step on him. If he were to adjust, he would send you falling. 

“This is a little more uncomfortable,” you told him. 

“I agree,” he said, sadly. Your nipples still hurt from how cold you were. The thought of your hardened nipples so close to his face, to his mouth, made your grip slip—you gasped and Peter grabbed your waist, holding you until you could feel out the ledge again. 

“Sorry,” you breathed. 

“It’s fine,” he said, still holding your waist. His fingers were hot. 

“Your skin is freezing,” he said. Then, as if he was completely unaware of what he was doing, he traced his thumb over the goosebumps on your hipbone. The lace of your thong had ridden up and over the waistband of your low-rise shorts, and as he slowly felt the extent of your coldness, you shivered when his thumb ran over it. 

“It’s cold down here,” you said, trying not to sound winded. 

“Do you want my hoodie?” he offered. 

“Do you have it on?” 

He quieted. “It’s out there.” 

You laughed, softly. He was tapping your hip, now, and you liked it. It was soothing. 

“I’ll warm up eventually,” you whispered. Boldly, you remembered how he kissed you with a little more teeth than something casual. You extended your leg, accidentally kicking his stomach. 

“Watch out,” he said, steadying your hips as you figured out how to sit on his thighs. You were expecting his body temperature to be hot. You were not expecting him to be hard. Involuntarily, you pressed down onto him, and he sucked in a breath. You swore you could see the gleam in his eye, looking up at you, when you sighed and slowly began to grind against him. He squeezed your waist, feeling his way up your body in the cold darkness until he reached your jaw, holding it. 

“What if they walk in? What if we run out of time?” you asked. The faint yellow outline of light seeping in through the cracks in the door made the highlights on Peter’s hair shine when he shook his head slowly. 

“Do you hear that?” he suggested, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“What?” 

“They forgot about us.” 

“What?” 

“Be quiet.” 

You nibbled on your lower lip as heat rushed to your cheeks. You listened. No music. No people. A splash in the distance. Everyone had re-joined the pool. Peter tentatively brushed his lips against your neck. Suddenly, you were too hot. With a deep inhale, you pushed him away. He stared at you as you held his shoulders and rode him over his swim trunks. Slowly, he lifted his chin, and you felt the distance close—heat built up on static before you kissed, a push-pull, a tickling of lips—with your heavy sigh. You had never kissed somebody like this before. All of your one-night-stands were people you had never met. Yet, as you choked down a pleased, tipsy hum, you remembered all the times you had studied together. 

“How’s school been, Pete?” you asked, sighing when he kissed your neck. 

“Been good,” he said, squeezing your hip. “You?” 

“Also good.” 

“That’s good.” 

“Yeah. Try a little more to the left—yes. That feels nice.” 

You felt his teeth graze your skin for a moment as he held back a smile. He was growing harder by the second, and you could not tell if the dampness between you was the swimwear, or you—were you seriously going to sleep with him? In a closet? 

“I can’t hook up with you in a closet, Peter,” you said. Yet, as you spoke, Peter gingerly slid his warm palm beneath your shirt, sending shivers through your spine. When his thumb touched your nipple, experimenting, you began to second-guess it. 

“You’re really pretty,” Peter said, lifting your shirt up—before you could slap him and tell him to pull it down, he suckled on your tits, and your defensively raised hand faltered into a debauched, frantic extension into Peter’s hair, pulling on it. 

“Oh my god,” you whispered, lips parting. He reached a hand between you and thumbed your clit through your jeans. Of course he knew where it was—he was a science nerd. The concept of Peter Parker doing research on a clit was enough to make you laugh, yet, as he unbuttoned your jeans for you and somehow managed to help you hold yourself up enough to take them off, you felt your breath being truly taken away. He slipped a finger beneath the string of your thong and let it snap back against your skin before lifting his thighs to shimmy his trunks down. At this point, you had long forgotten about the crowd of partygoers swimming just a few feet away outside. The godawful yellow light made Peter’s knuckles gleam when he lifted you up, slipping his dick beneath the soft lace. 

“You’re so wet,” he murmured, shaking his head in disbelief; you watched his brow darken in concentration and sucked in a moan. 

“I just showered,” you said, unsure. When Peter laughed and kissed you, pushing your thong to the side, you grinned into his mouth, riding his fingers. 

“No, I think you’re just wet,” he said jokingly when you let out an uncontrolled whimper into his neck. 

“Don’t joke,” you gasped, biting your lip. The pressure of his fingers curling inside of you made your body feel numb. Your hips rolled against his as if it were a routine dance. He thumbed the swell of your ass with one hand and touched you so deeply with the other. Peter then, while still touching you, sucked on your tits. You felt delirious and hot and sweaty and like you smelled like mildew. 

“Peter,” you said; it was all you could say. With your other hand that was not holding onto Peter’s hair for dear life, you spat into it, and began to smear it into his tip. A low, withholding noise came from his chest as you gracefully jerked him off, sliding your fingers over his cock as if it were a fretboard, listening to every minor overtone and chord—when you took your time rubbing his pink tip, he seemed to slow down, and kiss you; when you frantically tugged, he tried not to moan, and had to kiss your neck—

“Can I fuck you, Y/N?” he asked. Your thumbs rested against his forehead, wiping away beads of sweat. He sounded breathless and you could feel his heart hammering. You nodded coyly. You had already decided that he could in high school. You lifted your thighs and held his dick, lining him up. It took all the restraint you had not to sink down onto him. Instead, you lightly run him over your folds, feeling light-headed. 

Peter gripped your hips so hard, you wanted him to do it more. 

“I need to hear you say it,” he said. You could tell his jaw was tense in his voice. 

“I nodded,” you said, sinking down halfway. 

“It’s dark,” he moaned. “I won’t unless you say it to me.” 

“Fuck me, Peter, I want you. Does that get you off—”

He slipped inside of you, catching you off guard. His dick felt like it sat somewhere comfortable yet slightly stuffed in your belly as he took his time, letting you accommodate his girth. Unwillingly, you moaned, arched your back, and rested your hands on his shoulders, tentatively riding him, testing out the swell in your stomach, the pit of pleasure that knotted in your chest; he entered and exited you, slow and wet and decadent. 

“Fuck, Happy Summerween,” he said, through a breathless laugh. 

“You’re such a nerd,” you said fondly, kissing him as he wrapped his arms around your back, fucking up into you at a pace you had never experienced, encouraging long, drawn-out moans from your glossed lips. He held you so tightly you could feel his hammering heartbeat matching yours, his hands shaking with every frantic thrust. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he praised through clenched teeth. You sighed and rolled your head back, tangling your fingers in his hair, indulging in the feeling. You fucked him for what felt like hours—yet, you felt so inebriated around him, it could have only been seven minutes, after all. 

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ-

author's note:

hope you enjoyed! i have run out of requests in my inbox, so please send some more over to help me get my puny lil brain going!! thank uu:))) bye bye love u!!

Peter’s brows jump together. He watches his mug as he fills it up. “No. Why?” 

You feel immediately stupid. You’ve overstepped. You’re nosy. You don’t mean to be. 

“I heard the door open.” 

No way to say that without sounding like a paranoid freak. You have a quiet door in a loud city. At nearly midnight, with sirens wailing and your neighbor singing in the shower on the other side of your wall, you shouldn’t have heard it. But you did. 

If Peter finds this odd, he doesn’t mention it. “Oh,” he says, dragging the word out long and slow. “Out as in out of the apartment. I thought you meant out out, like to the club or something. No, I just…I had a late night craving. Went down to the bodega to grab some chips.” 

You feel yourself frown. You hadn’t heard the door open again until a couple hours later, far longer than a trip to the bodega would take. But to ask more questions would be to admit you’d still been listening, so you don’t. Maybe Peter has some emotional attachment to a bodega in Queens. He said he was from Queens, right? 

Peter joins you in the living room. You’ve opened a window to let the air in, still warmish but getting cool enough that you can get away with running the fans and not the air conditioning, and Peter turns his face into the light as he settles in on the opposite side of the couch. You wonder if he’ll have his own dent in time, too. He doesn’t strike you as the type. 

“You were up late, too, huh?” he asks. The smell of his coffee mingles with the smells of wet pavement and car exhaust coming in through your window. 

“Sorry,” you say, before you can stop yourself, “I didn’t mean to pry.” 

“It’s cool. It’s not prying to make sure the door to your apartment isn’t left unlocked in the middle of the night.” Peter grins. Two dimples dive into his cheeks. “Were you doing homework then, too?” 

“No.” You don’t consider lying. It’s not something you feel the need to be private about, even with virtual strangers. “I just don’t sleep much.” 

Your roommate’s head tilts. The movement reminds you of a cocker spaniel. “Like, you can’t?” 

“I can’t,” you confirm. “Not usually, at least.” 

“Ouch. That sucks.” 

Peter’s sympathetic bemusement confirms for you that his reasons for being tired are not, in fact, the same as yours. Whatever they might be, you file it away as None of Your Business. You’ve asked, he’s told, that’s the end of it. You sleep not twenty feet apart, but Peter is a near stranger to you. You don’t have any right to his mysteries. 

“So,” he says into the silence that follows, “any classes today?” 

“Yeah.” You check the time on your laptop. Corner the page of your textbook. “Actually, I’d better go. It starts in twenty minutes. Do you care if I leave my mess on the coffee table?” 

Peter glances at your collection of pens and highlighters with a look that makes you think his version of mess might be different to yours. 

“Go ahead,” he says. “So long as you don’t mind my mess joining it.” 

“Of course not.” You zip up your backpack, relieved. 

“You coming back for lunch? I think I’m gonna go grab a bagel in a sec, I can bring you back one.” 

“Oh, that’s…” That’s too much. That’s more than roommate duties, and more than you want to return. “That’s okay,” you say, moving towards the door. “I packed a sandwich, I’ll probably camp out on campus between classes.” 

Peter raises his hand in a lazy salute. “Let me know if you change your mind.” 

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” You try to mirror him. It feels weird; you let your hand drop halfway through. The door shuts nearly silently behind you. 

—

Peter plies you with meatloaf when you return. He’s been to his aunt’s in Queens and brought back enough to feed a family of four. 

“It’s not…I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s a not world-renowned meatloaf,” he says, bringing a forkful to his mouth. “But it’s food and it’s free and I can’t eat it all by myself, so.” 

You’re not in any position to turn down free food. You sit on the couch next to him. Peter’s left the cushion by the window open, and you wonder if already you each have your own spot. The meatloaf isn’t bad. 

You talk about your classes. Peter’s studying biophysics and biochemistry, two words which mean nothing to you but apparently require lots of time spent at the labs on campus. He congratulates you on the achievement of getting matched with a roommate who will make you feel like you live by yourself; his classes are only getting started, but soon he’ll be in the lab most of the time. Though your own classes are far from easy, you don’t envy him. 

Peter doesn’t need any help from you; he finishes the rest of the meatloaf in that one sitting. 

—

You get into a rhythm quickly. On campus from your first class in the morning until your assignments (or at least the ones due the next day) are finished usually sometime in the evening, cooking at home, eating on the run, plasma donation on Thursdays at seven to make some extra cash, four scoops of coffee grounds in the machine because both you and Peter need it strong. Peter brings home more meals from his aunt. Her name is May, you learn, and after the third free dinner you write her a thank-you note for Peter to bring back to her. 

Your hot water goes out. Peter sweet-talks the landlord while you send stern emails to the leasing company until it gets fixed. You bring his laptop instead of yours to campus by mistake and have to meet up at a library to swap. Peter comes from the lab, half-jogging with plastic goggles pushed up into his hair and making it stick out in every direction. It’s endearing beyond reason. You make him a sandwich to take to class when he oversleeps. He comes to pick you up from the plasma donation clinic when you forget to eat beforehand. You develop inside jokes about the flickering light above your stove, and the erratic banging you think is your upstairs neighbors having sex, and the too-good-for-this-world cashier at the bodega on your corner. No matter how Peter tries to get you in on it, you refuse to develop inside jokes about his Aunt May’s cooking. 

It’s in the dull blue of a sleepless night in September, Aunt May’s pasta pomodoro still heavy in your stomach, when you hear the lock on your front door click. It’s a quiet sound, but you’re too antsy to miss it in your otherwise silent apartment. The door opens with a shush of air. 

You wonder if Peter is going out or coming in. It’s late, but not so late for the overworked grad student population. He warned you that he’d eventually be spending long nights at the lab. 

You don’t get up with any suspicions. You only want to make sure the door gets re-locked, and you haven’t heard the second click. 

There’s an odd sound as your bedroom door opens. Like plastic ripping or cast fishing line, blink-and-it’s-over. You step out to find Peter wrapped up in your largest blanket and absolutely covered in filth. 

You blink. 

Peter blinks back at you. 

“Jesus,” you say. 

“Nope, just me.” Peter grins, but it falls short of his usual. “Sorry, lame joke. My uncle used to make it. It was lame then, too, I guess.” 

“What happened to you?” 

“Uh, there was a small accident at the lab. You should be asleep.” 

“Small? Is that soot?” 

“It’s…it’s soot, yeah.” 

You’re reeling. You turn the kitchen light on to see him better. Peter’s left footprints in from your front door. There’s soot even in his hair, tinging it a darker color. “Was there an explosion?” 

He grimaces. “It was a super small explosion. Very contained. But, you know, chemicals. Volatile stuff.” You shake your head, baffled, and his expression softens. “It was freaky, but everything’s fine now. It’s late, you should go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.” 

Peter’s brow furrows; the lines are more pronounced with soot etched into them. “You weren’t? It’s almost three,” he says, as if to himself. 

“What’s with the blanket?” 

“The…oh.” He looks down. “Right, yeah. The lab actually took my clothes. They’re probably not contaminated or anything, but they’re being disposed of for liability reasons.” 

You look down at your blanket, covering him toe-to-chin, and back up at Peter. “They made you walk home naked?” 

Peter blinks. “Uh. No, no, not…totally naked.” 

You raise your eyebrows at him. 

“They gave us…lab coats?” His voice tips up at the end like a question and the corners of his mouth tip up with it, sheepish. He gives a little shrug. “It’s not super modest, but it’s what they had on hand. Sort of like a slutty nurse costume situation? I didn’t want to, uh, you know, scar you as you were coming out of your room.” 

“Right.” You frown, embarrassed of the heat you can feel coming to your face. “I…appreciate that.” 

“Anytime. But you can go to bed now, seriously.” Peter starts edging towards the bathroom. “Don’t let me keep you up, I know you have that nine a.m. tomorrow.” 

You wave him off. “I’ll be fine, we don’t have any explosions in my class. Are you okay? Is there anything I can help with?” 

“Nope! No help.” Peter’s voice pitches slightly when you step towards him. He draws the blanket tighter, walking backwards until his back bumps the wall and feeling his way into the bathroom. “It’s just that I’m really basically naked. Like, so, so naked, and it’s embarrassing, so you should just go to your room and I’ll shower and then we can, uh, probably just not talk about this, if you’re alright with that. Because I’m embarrassed. Okay?” 

“Okay.” You hold your hands up peaceably. “If you’re sure.” 

“Super sure.” Peter flashes you a smile before shutting the bathroom door. “Goodnight!” 

You go back to your room and sit with your head laid flat in the middle of your pillow, your bent knees making a tent of your covers. You listen to the shower running until it squeaks off at three-thirty. 

—

Your backpack feels heavier leaving the library than it did on the way to campus this morning. Your train runs less frequently after midnight, so walking is nearly just as efficient. It’s a long, slow trudge up the hill that leads from campus to your neighborhood, past empty university buildings and through dapples of pale streetlights. A raccoon stops riffling through a trash can to look at you as you pass. You raise a hand to let him know you’re a kindred spirit. 

It’s cliché, but you sort of love the city after dark. It’s less glitzy than people think. The city may not sleep, and neither do you, and apparently neither does Peter, but some people have to. The streets are relatively quiet, technicolor dulled into grays and blues that blur together as you pass them by. Somewhere out of view, a siren wails like a ghost’s cry. 

It’s the quiet that allows you to hear the schwick and rush of air that comes before feet hit the sidewalk beside you. 

You flinch hard. Nearly send yourself tumbling into the street, but a hand whips out to catch you before you can slip off the curb. Slippery red fabric with black latticework spanning up the wrist. 

“It’s okay.” Spider-Man steps back as soon as you’re steady. He holds his hands up. “It’s okay.” 

You put a hand to your heart, feeling it beating beneath your palm. “Jesus. Don’t you know not to sneak up on girls walking by themselves?” 

“Don’t you know girls shouldn’t walk by themselves?” Spider-Man counters lightly. 

You suppose you’re meant to feel chastened, except you are a girl, and you have to get places, you can’t have a chaperone at all times. Also, this superhero speaks in a deep, rough voice that makes you think of teenage boys trying to sound tough. 

“Is this really the most pressing thing you have to deal with?” you ask him. Spider-Man’s head tilts, and you gesture around you at the empty street. “Aren’t there any bank robberies happening? Or, like, serial killers on the loose?” 

He’s wearing a mask, and yet you could swear it’s like his eyebrows raise. “How common do you think those are?” 

You shrug and keep walking, though you’re careful not to put your back fully to him. Even Spider-Man could turn out to be a bad guy to be stuck alone with. “I don’t need any help,” you say. “Thanks for the tip, though.” 

He keeps pace with you. “Are you a student?” 

You look at him sideways. “Maybe. What makes you ask?” 

He taps the pin on your backpack. “The university has a walking buddy program, you know. So students don’t have to walk home alone after long nights at the library.” 

“How long have you been following me for?” 

“What?”

You narrow your eyes at him. You don’t like that he guessed you were coming home from the library; however, on the chance that it is a guess you’re not about to tell him he was right. 

“I’m just saying.” Spider-Man’s hands are up again, in a gesture of peace. “You should think about calling a walking buddy next time.” 

“Maybe I’d rather be alone than alone with someone who’s volunteered to learn the routes to people’s homes.” You throw him a pointed look. 

Spider-Man’s casual gait doesn’t falter, but he lets out something that sounds almost like a laugh. “Are you always this suspicious of people trying to help you?” 

“John Wayne Gacy was known to lure victims by promising help.” 

“But I’m…” The voice behind the mask changes, turning younger and less polished. He lifts his gloved hands haplessly. “...Spider-Man.” 

You shrug, not allowing yourself to feel bad. “I’m suspicious of people in general. And I don’t need help.” 

“Noted. Listen, can I just walk you to your building to make sure you get in safe? I won’t know your apartment number or anything.” 

You give him an appraising look. Spider-Man walks with a respectable distance between you, his hands swinging at his sides. It’s not like you could actually make him go away even if you wanted to, but you do think he would fuck off if you said no. Ultimately, that’s what makes the decision for you. 

“Okay,” you say, tacking on reluctantly, “thanks.” 

“Hey, all in a day’s work. Until there’s another bank robbery or serial killer, obviously.” 

Spider-Man turns out to be a half-decent walking companion. He offers to give you a lift instead—but once he clarifies what he means by lift and you swiftly decline, he only continues walking beside you at a New Yorker’s amble. He asks you about your classes. You admit to having fallen asleep earlier at the library, and then staying late to make up for the study time you’d missed. He tells you about how it feels to swing through the city at night; how there are some neighborhoods he likes better than others for their calmness, but of course by the nature of what he does he tends to stick to the noisier ones. Times Square isn’t only a hotspot for crime during the day, as it turns out. He says, in a light, kind voice, that he’s glad to have the break of walking you home. He enjoys the quiet of your little neighborhood, too. 

True to his word, Spider-Man lets you go at your building. He watches you walk up the front steps, waving when you turn around briefly before buzzing yourself in. You hear the schwick of his webbing shooting out just before the door closes behind you. 

You slog up the flights of stairs to your apartment, letting your backpack drop by the door and sending a silent apology to your downstairs neighbors right after. You feel lighter without it, but still your body all but drags you to the floor when you sit to take off your shoes. You turn at the sound of a door creaking open. 

Light spills out into the hall as Peter emerges in his plaid pajama bottoms. You wince. 

“Hey,” you say softly. “Sorry, did I wake you up?” 

“No.” He shakes his head, though you obviously did. His hair is all messy from sleep, sticking out in every direction. “Did you just get back?” 

“Mhm.” 

Peter makes a face highly reminiscent of a sad puppy. “You were on campus all day?”

You shrug, like what can you do? Peter’s a grad student, too; he’ll get it. 

But your roommate looks troubled. “Did you eat?” 

“I…” You blink, realizing why, besides the late hour, you might have felt so tired on your walk home. “I guess I forgot about dinner. I fell asleep for a while in the library.” 

“Yeah?” Peter’s already moving towards the kitchen. “Sit down, I’ll make you something.” 

“Peter, that’s okay.” 

“I’m not gonna have you passing out waiting for the microwave or whatever. Just sit down.” 

You find you don’t have much argument left in you. You’re dead tired, and the couch does look like a nice place to rest. “I thought we ran out of May’s lasagna.” 

“We did. I can’t cook as good as her, but I can whip up a half decent quesadilla.” 

You fall silent, resting your cheek on the back cushion of the couch and watching as Peter puts a thin slice of butter into a pan on your stove. Your teeth worry into your lower lip. 

“Doesn’t the library close at midnight?” he asks. 

“Two,” you correct him. “It’s open twenty-four hours during midterms and finals week, though.” 

Peter glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “It’s not midterms or finals.” 

“Hence why I got kicked out.” 

He makes a chuffing sound like laughter, familiar in a way you can’t place. “Can’t believe you stayed late enough to get kicked out.”

“I know, right? It’s like bar close for students.” 

“Are you really comparing yourself to people who get kicked out of bars?” 

“Hey, we’re both committed, just to different pursuits.” 

Peter hums, ceding the point. “I guess the only difference is that you got kicked out on a Tuesday.” 

“You think the barflies aren’t there on Tuesdays?” You give him a droll look. “Wisen up, Parker.” 

Your roommate casts you a glance paired with a half-smile. “You know productivity decreases with exhaustion, right?” 

You scoff. “You don’t get to talk about healthy sleeping habits. I know you work just as hard.” He brings you a plate with a neatly folded quesadilla on it, and you soften your tone as you take it. “Thank you.” 

Peter settles into his side of the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table. He watches you take your first couple of bites. “I just think,” he says, “that if you pass out somewhere from sleep deprivation or low blood sugar or whatever, there might be some part of our lease agreement that says I’m responsible for that.” 

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Did you read that whole thing?” 

“Oh, hell no.” 

“Me neither.” 

“I’m only saying that it’s possible. Landlords love weird clauses.” 

You hum as you chew, playing along. “Okay. That’s fair. What if I kept a note constantly on my person that said this isn’t Peter’s fault, so that if someone finds me passed out you can avoid culpability? Would that make you feel better?” 

Peter’s lips twitch. He shrugs. “A little.” 

“Perfect. That’s what I’ll do, then.” 

“You could also just come home before some poor librarian has to kick you out. Or,” he goes on, “call me to walk you home if it’s late.” 

You give him a look. “I’m not going to call and wake you up so you can come get me every time I stay late on campus.” 

“I wouldn’t mind being woken up. I might be on campus too, and anyway I’d want to help.” 

“I don’t need help.” 

Peter frowns. “If you say so.” 

You nod, trying to smile to soften the rejection. You hold up what remains of your quesadilla. “This is really good, by the way.” 

Peter mirrors your half-hearted smile. “I learned from the best.” 

“Yeah, you did. I really owe May another card.” 

“You don’t owe May anything, and if she were here she’d tell you that herself.” 

—

You feel like something is amiss. It’s not a new feeling. Some nights, you can’t stop going over things you’ve done wrong. Times you said something you shouldn’t have, acted without thinking, didn’t act and regretted it, going back as long as you can remember. It’s enough to make you hate yourself. 

Other nights, like this one, you become convinced there’s something still yet to be done. You didn’t actually hit submit on that assignment. You’ve left the stove on. Your water bottle is sitting abandoned on your table in the library, begging to be stolen. Someone’s trying desperately to call you, but you clicked your phone to silent without realizing. 

The anxieties worm their way into your weary bones until the only option is to drag yourself out of bed and quiet them. It’s not like you were going to fall asleep anyway. 

Your building is old and creaky. You take care to walk on light footsteps into the kitchen, reassuring yourself forcefully as you go. The stove is off. The freezer is shut. The heater is not turned up so high that you’re going to be surprised by a heart-stopping electrical bill. The kitchen sink isn’t leaking. Your school things are just where you left them, heaped together in your backpack beside the door. The front door is…

The front door is unlocked. 

You know you locked it when you came in. You’re sure you did, because you don’t allow yourself to put your keys on the hook unless you have and there they are. You look towards Peter’s room. 

When you text him, there’s no chime you can hear.

YOU: Hey, are you home?

PETER: Just left, forgot my laptop on campus! Everything ok?

YOU: Yeah, it’s fine. The door was unlocked.

PETER: Shit. SO SORRY!!! 

PETER: U can lock it, I have my key.

YOU: It’s fine. Locked now.

PETER: Won’t happen again. Promise!

You double-check that Peter’s key is missing from his hook before actually locking the door. You think wryly that you and Peter may have synced in your sleeping habits; you always seem to be awake at the same times. Or maybe you were simply both such terrible sleepers to begin with that the comings and goings of the other don’t make much difference. 

You run through a few more checks before going to bed. The window that goes to the fire escape is latched. The oven is off. Your laptop is charging. 

Right next to Peter’s. 

—

The next night, you’re not woken by worries but by cold. You rouse from a fitful hibernation to find yourself coiled tight like a crab within its shell, knees pressed together and chilled nose hidden beneath your covers. Early winter seeps through your apartment like a frozen kiss. 

You take your blankets with you as you stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed. You feel the chill more when you leave your room, though less in the living room. The heat is supposedly on. Peter’s door is closed, but you knock to see if it’s woken him, too. There’s no answer. 

“Peter,” you whisper. 

Still nothing, and you knock again. 

“Pete, are you up?”

When another minute of this produces no response, you turn the door knob tentatively. You know it’s a massive invasion of privacy. You know that. But your apartment feels like it’s teleported to the Arctic, and for all you know Peter could be comatose with hypothermia right now. 

It feels all the more plausible when you open the door and the air that meets you is cool enough to make your skin pebble under your blankets. Peter really might have hypothermia. If he was here. 

But Peter’s bed is empty, and his window is open. 

You decide to leave it that way in case it’s how he needs to get back in. You take more blankets with you to go back to bed. 

—

There are few things you can think of which require someone to be out in the darkest hours of the night. None of them are reassuring. Things too illicit to be exposed to daylight, risky things, illegal things. 

If you’re being honest with yourself, you probably should have realized sooner. New York is expensive, and Peter doesn’t seem much better off than you are. You’re both full-time students without jobs; everyone has to supplement their income somehow. He probably makes more doing whatever he’s doing than you do pimping out your plasma once a week. 

Peter may not seem like the type, but you don’t have to be the type to do drastic things when you’re broke. Anybody could be doing anything. Some people do yard work, some people babysit, some people buy cheap shit and resell it on ebay; you donate plasma; Peter deals drugs, probably. It’s fine. It’s…well, it’s not fine, it’s dangerous, but you can understand it. He has access to a lab and pays for school with government grants. He had to be paying for your rent somehow. 

“Hey.” Peter returns to your table with a mug in each hand. “You good?” 

You let out a little hum. “Yeah, why?” 

“You just looked kinda spacey.” He sets your coffee in front of you. You pick it up, gratified by the way it sears your tongue and seeps sweetness into your tastebuds. 

You’ve taken to spending your Saturdays together at this coffee shop, The Daily Bean. It’s big enough in size that you can always find a table in some hidden corner if you look hard enough, small enough in popularity that regulars can still stare-shame anyone who talks too loudly when everyone else is trying to work. You and Peter like that it’s walkable from your apartment, and that the chairs are comfortable, and that every mug is unique so you can debate who got the better one when your drinks come out. The icing on the cake is that if you order a simple drink, refills are free so long as you bring back your mug. You keep asking Peter to go up to the counter because you’re worried the employees are going to get angry with you for abusing their policy by camping out all day, and no one can get angry with Peter.

And that’s sort of the sticking point, isn’t it?

Peter is a good guy. He’s nice, he works hard in school, he pays rent on time. Obviously he has this other thing going on on the side, but that doesn’t make you like him any less. It’s not fair that he should have to give up sleep and put himself in god-knows-what dangerous situations just to live. Lately, the crescents under his eyes are nearly as bad as yours. You’re worried about him. 

“You do photography, right?” 

Peter looks up, blinking, from where his attention had gone back to his laptop. He’s working on something he told you about during the walk over, some report of some sciency thing. You think he could tell you weren’t grasping it even as he explained it to you. 

“I take pictures sometimes,” he says, doing a side-to-side sort of nod. “Not really the same thing.” 

“But you’re good.” 

It’s not a question. You’ve seen the photos all over Peter’s room. They’re stuck to the walls with scotch tape like he’s not even proud of them, but they’re incredible. Candids of a graying woman you imagine to be Aunt May in different locations of the same lovingly cluttered home. Stills of people in the motions of their day, on the subway and lounging on front steps and smiling at dogs. Angles of the city that make you feel like you’re flying. 

Peter makes a face. “Eh…” 

You huff a laugh at his humility. “I’m just saying, have you ever thought of charging people for that?” 

“For…”

“To take pictures of them. Or to buy your pictures, either way.” 

“I don’t know.” Peter shrugs. He looks almost like he might be blushing. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to pay for that, and anyway I’m not sure I have the time to, like, monetize it or whatever.”

“I could probably help,” you say casually. Take a sip of your coffee to sell it. 

Peter watches you, unabashed in his staring even when you won’t look back at him. “Yeah? You’d do that?” 

You lift your shoulders. “Sure.” 

“How come?” 

You meet his gaze, though it sends tingles from your ears all the way down your spine to do it. The brown eyes waiting for you are just as warm and thrice as sweet as the drink in your hand. “Because I want to,” you say. 

Peter’s mouth kicks up in the corner. “Noted,” he replies. “Thanks.” 

You make a mumbly sound of acknowledgement, going for your coffee again. Your roommate’s grin worsens. 

“Hey.” He bumps your ankle lightly with his under the table. “You want to learn something about protein misfolding and Alzheimer’s?” 

“No.” 

“Yeah, you do.” Peter shuts his laptop, setting his elbows on it to lean closer to you. “So, when proteins lose their functional shape…” 

—

Lately, the only place you can find sleep is in places it shouldn’t be. Slumped over the table of a study room, in the chair of the plasma donation clinic, in your sunlit living room between classes. When Peter finds you, you’ve started a small puddle of drool on your textbook. The fluorescent lights of the library press at your eyelids, obscuring any awareness of time in a distant outside world. 

Peter says your name with something soft curled around the syllables. 

Your eyes burn as you open them to find him crouched by your chair, one hand on your textbook and the other floating a few inches above his knee like he’d been thinking of reaching for you. His hair is sticking up the way it does when he’s run his fingers through it. 

“Peter?” 

“Hey. Hi.” He clears his throat, blinking something away from his expression. “Glad you still know my name. Since, you know, you seem to have forgotten where we live.” 

“What’re you doing here?” 

“I’m hoping to save the librarians some hassle.” His mouth curves, pink and lovely, into a little smile. “Ready to go?” 

You peel yourself off of your textbook, allowing Peter to close a pencil in it to mark your page before dropping it into your backpack. You feel like you’re moving through molasses, back clicking as you stretch; you must have been sleeping deeply. 

“What time is it?” you yawn as Peter helps you into your coat. He shoulders your backpack without saying anything. 

“One-thirty.” When you blink blearily at the near-desolate library, he touches your shoulder gently to direct you toward the elevators. You try to take your backpack from him, and Peter only hikes it up further on his shoulder. “They’re gonna put posters of you up at some point. I think you’re here more than anybody else on campus.” 

You send him a droll, sleep-addled look out of the corner of your eye. “I don’t think you get to talk about staying out late.” 

He doesn’t look at you. “No? Why not?” 

“Because you’re always at the—” You yawn hugely. “At the lab.” 

Peter huffs a laugh. If it sounds a bit relieved, you’re perhaps too tired to judge. As you step into the elevator, he hits the button for the ground floor and steps back beside you to put an arm over your shoulders. “Touché.” 

You stand still in silent uncertainty as the elevator descends. This is closer than you and Peter have been before. It feels a slight shift from bumping elbows in the kitchen or accidentally brushing each other’s knees under your table at The Daily Bean, though maybe that’s just you. Regardless, it’s going to be a cold walk home; Peter’s body is emanating an enviable warmth through his coat, and you’re just sleepy enough to consider leaning a bit on him as you walk. You stay where you are. 

“How’d you know where I was?” you ask as the elevator doors open. Peter steps out with you tucked under his arm as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s almost two in the morning on a Thursday.” He waves to the librarian at the desk, pushing the front door open for the both of you. “Where else would you be?” 

“Ha ha,” you mutter. “But, like, how’d you find me?” It’s a big library. Five floors, dozens of tables, and you’d been hidden away in your own private corner chosen specifically for how rare it is for any other student to stumble across. You suppose someone outside might have seen you through the window by your table, but even that seems unlikely. It’s higher up than most people think to look. 

“I’m an efficient search committee,” says Peter. He adjusts his hold on you when the wind picks up and you step closer unconsciously, hand slipping down your arm to encourage further sharing of his warmth. “Cold?” 

“Yeah. It wasn’t this bad when I left.” 

He makes a half-smug humming noise; you feel its vibrations kiss the top of your head. “That’s what happens when you stay out this late, I guess. My Uncle Ben used to say nothing good happens after midnight.” 

“Have I called you a hypocrite yet?” 

“Only in implication.” 

“Well, you are.” 

Peter laughs, the sound wonderfully crisp. “Did you at least eat?”

“It’s not your job to feed me, you know.” 

“Seems like someone’s gotta do it.” 

“Well, for the record, I did.” 

“Glad to hear it.” 

Peter seems to gather that if you walk all the way home he’s going to end up carrying you for at least part of it, so you go down into the subway to wait for the next train. You fall briefly asleep on his shoulder waiting, and again in your seats once you get on. It’s a feat, considering you’re only a stop away on this line, but both times Peter rests his chin on the top of your head like he’s surrendered to the idea of keeping you there. 

It’s only after he’s half-dragged you up the stairs to your apartment and is digging your key out of your backpack (why he doesn’t seem to have his, you don’t bother asking) that you say, “I’m sorry you had to come all the way to campus to get me.” 

Peter makes a quiet scoffing sound, jiggling the handle until the door gives way. “I didn’t have to. I don’t mind, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“You’re always doing things for me, though.” You shuck off your coat, tossing it over the back of the couch as he does the same with his. “You’re either making me food or picking me up from places or bringing me my stuff…” 

Peter’s eyebrow twitches, a teasing curve to his mouth that fits his voice to its shape. “So what, I’m not allowed to do things for you? You’re gonna rob me of that?” 

“Do you have a hero complex or something?” 

You think it’s obvious you’re teasing him back, but Peter’s expression flickers with something that makes you wonder if he didn’t catch the levity in your tone. He recovers fast. “Maybe.” 

“I’m just saying,” you try on a bit of sincerity, “you don’t have to.” 

“Hey, I know.” He moves closer, eyes dark in the low light. Neither of you have moved for a light switch, your apartment cast in the cool blue tones of the moonlight coming in the window. “I really don’t mind. I like doing things for you.” 

“But,” you ask, hesitating, “who does things for you?” 

Peter’s eyebrows lift slightly, as though he’s surprised you’d ask. When his voice lowers, there’s something about the roughness of it which tugs at a memory. “You do.” 

You feel yourself frown. Yes, you try to do things to make Peter’s life a bit easier, but that’s half out of a sense of gratitude for all he already does for you and they’re never really sizable things. A few extra pancakes left in the fridge when you know he won’t wake with enough time to make breakfast before class, a pack of twizzlers snagged from the bodega when you notice he’s running low. Is that as much care as Peter gets? It can’t be. 

You’re about to tell him that he deserves better, but when you open your mouth you realize he’s right there, and letting yourself list forward is just as easy. 

Peter kisses you like he’s breathing you in. Slow at first, the beginnings of an inhale, and then in great pulls. He cups the side of your face, stepping forward, crowding you, his other arm winding around your waist to keep you from falling when you move backwards into the couch and nearly tip yourself over the edge. A few seconds later and he’s changed his mind, sending you both over so you collapse down onto the cushions in a heap, him all on your side and you all on his. One sleepy, confusing tangle. 

“I thought you wanted me to go to bed,” you mumble against his lips. 

“Who said that?” Peter rolls you sideways, putting you to the inside of the couch so he can push your hair away from your face. “Tomorrow’s Friday. It’s basically the weekend already.” 

“Could’ve probably stayed at the library then.” 

“Too cliché.” 

His hand coasts up your back, and you find you’re out of cleverness. “Yeah?” 

“Mhm. Plus, what would the librarians think of you? You’re a big name over there.” 

“You’re such a hypocrite.” 

Peter sighs into your mouth. “Tell me about it.” 

—

Maybe it should be awkward, but it’s not. You and Peter already live together, already have your routines and your in-jokes and an ease of moving about each other in a small space, so adding kissing to the mix really doesn’t feel like so far of a leap. 

It’s not fireworks. Or butterflies or cartwheels or any of that. It’s…easy. Like slipping into a warm bath. You feel yourself unspool one inch at a time, until coming home from class to lay yourself down in Peter’s lap and go over flashcards with him is as natural as breathing. 

“It’d be over in Chelsea, so I could stay here and take the bus.” Peter’s got his glasses on, which always make you want to kiss him hard enough to get them all askew, and his hands are wandering your legs and waist as he talks, not helping matters. “And they’re doing this really cool stuff with ion channels that I could get involved in…” 

He’s telling you about an internship he’s applying to for the summer. You’re sitting in his lap trying to look engaged and not humiliatingly wanton. Really, you like the sound of this internship. It would mean you’d both get to stay in the apartment for the summer, since you’re returning to a previous internship in the city, too, and of the options Peter’s told you about this one offers the best pay. You may not understand ion channels or space radiation or half of what he talks about, but you love the idea of anything that might supplement his supplemental income. 

“Didn’t you say your internship’s in Greenwich?” Peter asks, touch coasting up your back. 

You hum in the affirmative. 

He grins, flashing a dimple you want to poke your tongue into (because you’re a nonsensical, depraved thing). “We could meet in the middle for lunch.” 

“That would be nice.” You give into your baser urges and lay a soft kiss on the side of Peter’s nose. The frames of his glasses dent into your cheek. “Where would we go?” 

“I know a good sandwich place on Eighth and Hudson,” he murmurs, pushing his glasses up into his hair to kiss you properly. Damn him. His voice hums against your lips. “Maybe lunches there sometimes, dinners at Chelsea Market.” 

“Chelsea Market?” You smile, and Peter’s quick to kiss the corner. “Are we made of money in this fantasy?” 

“Duh. We’ll have high-roller internships—” 

“Speak for yourself.” 

“—and those of us who are possibly being taken advantage of for their cheap labor and wonderful, perfect—” He mushes his lips to your face with each word. “—really very valuable brain will luckily have a lovesick biophysics intern to sponsor them.” 

You hum, sliding your finger along the curve of his glasses behind his ear. “Where am I gonna find one of those, you think? Should I start loitering on park benches reading genetics books and looking confused?” 

For someone so gentle and who spends so much of his time in labs, Peter is surprisingly strong. You’ve discovered this several times over now, enough to want to goad it out of him when you can, and still it surprises you to find yourself flat on your back against the couch cushions less than a second later. You’re giggling breathlessly before Peter even gets to you. 

“You think you’re so funny,” he mutters, a far cry from menacing as he smooshes wet kisses into the underside of your jaw. 

“Or I—I could try hanging around the three-in-one shampoo at the discount store—” Peter squeezes your waist, and you gasp out a laugh. “—or hoard all the city’s ramen so they come to me.” 

“Okay, you know I eat better than that, you traitor. Are you trying to get yourself cut off from my culinary resources?” 

You squirm, pushing at Peter’s hands and enjoying how useless it is. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“Also” —he breezes right past the threat, because you both know he wouldn’t— “if you have a problem with my hair, all you’ve gotta do is say something. Does it smell bad?” 

He sticks the top of his head in your face, the soft ends of his hair tickling your nose. You stick your face in dutifully to take in a pull. You know the scent of Peter’s three-in-one (you live together, you’ve read the bottle), but somehow his hair always manages to smell like fresh laundry, too. You have every intention of feigning shock and disgust, except you’re overtaken by a rush of affection and the teasing mood leaves you. 

You press your lips to his forehead. “It’s perfect.” 

“Wow. Even with three-in-one in there?” 

“I’m surprised, too.” 

Peter tilts his head up, bumping your noses together. “Guess you don’t have to go on the search for some other biophysics guy to fawn over you, then.”

Fawn. That’s exactly what Peter does, fawn over you, but it’s somehow worse that he does it knowingly. 

“Maybe not,” you say, “but you know I’m not just going to let you get my lunch every time.” 

“Oh, yeah? How are you gonna stop me?” 

“I don’t know.” You heave a long, thoughtful sigh. “I guess probably start selling your photos to make my own way in the world.” 

Peter laughs. “I think probably one of the most adorable things about you,” he says, lips to your cheek, “is that you think those are worth something. They’re all yours, pretty girl.” 

“They’re definitely worth something. I’m going to make millions.” 

“Sure you are.” 

“You’ll see, when I move out of this place into a penthouse and you’re still just scraping by on your measly STEM salary.” 

Peter watches you with an analytical gaze. You’re playing at levity, but he knows by now when you’re hiding your sincerity away, and he also knows what you’ve been pushing for for weeks now. 

“Why do you want me to sell them so badly?” he asks. 

You shrug. “Because,” you say, “I’ve never seen the city the way I do when I look at them. I think other people would like that, too.” 

He mushes your hip in his hand affectionately. “They’re not that original. I’d be one of a thousand people trying to sell pictures of New York.” 

“Yeah, but yours are good.” 

“You’re so stubborn,” he mumbles, pushing his face into yours to kiss you with a vengeance, “and cute. I just don’t have the time, sweetheart.” 

“I can set you up a website.” It’s not said in haste. You’ve been trying to think up ways to get this idea off the ground for a while now. “That way you don’t have to do anything, I’ll just list them for you and handle the shipping when people buy them.” 

Peter blinks at you. It’s clear he’s caught offguard, and it aches a bit that you offering to help him out is still so unexpected. You’ve been trying to do it more—though it’s near impossible to keep up with how often Peter helps you, and it seems like he ups the ante with every attempt you make—but you wonder if Peter will ever get used to the feeling of someone wanting to do things for him. You can relate to that particular discomfort. 

“Would that make you happy?” he asks after a moment. 

“It would,” you reply honestly. 

He hesitates. “I would want to choose which ones you put up. And I don’t want you to be disappointed if they don’t sell…” 

“I won’t be disappointed.” You wave him off, already reaching for your laptop despite still being trapped underneath him. “They’ll sell like hotcakes.” 

“What even is a hotcake?” Peter muses, though he moves when you nudge at him, allowing you to sit up and open your laptop. 

“Pretty sure it’s an old-timey word for pancakes.” 

“Do pancakes sell famously well?” 

You cut him a dry look. “Then they’ll sell like Mets merch, Peter. Is that better?” 

The distracted look in Peter’s eyes diminishes, replaced by a more familiar one. “I think you’re the hotcake they were talking about,” he says, smarmy. 

“Are you saying I sell?” 

“No! No. You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“Yeah, walk that one back, Parker.” 

—

You’re halfway to a dream about holiday break and Peter’s fresh-laundry smell when the fire alarm goes off. It knocks you out of your study fugue state and knocks your coffee clean over, making you gasp and fumble for your laptop. It’s gotten all over your lap, too, but you don’t have time to think about that, ignoring the burn and the shrill wailing in favor of wiping your keyboard off on your shirt.

A moment later, and the coffee is no longer your laptop’s paramount threat. The sprinklers go off. You stow your laptop in your bag, hugging the whole thing to your chest like you can shield it with your body. It’s then that you remember what a fire alarm means. 

You’re not the only brain dead, half asleep straggler in the library who hasn’t been quick to action. There are other students just now making their way to the stairwell door; you grab your notes and follow suit. 

The alarm is deafening in the stairwell. It bounces off the walls in a painful, ceaseless screech, punctuated by flashes of bright white light. Coming down from the top floor, you’re joined by a throng of others as you descend. People shove; a girl shouts her friend’s name; someone else stops by the railing, halting the flow around them as they try to make their way back up to some forgotten item. Most heads are ducked, the sprinklers still raining down and water dripping from chins and noses. You say an apology that gets swallowed up by the cacophony when you step on someone’s foot. You wince when someone else steps on yours. You curl around your backpack and keep going. 

You’re near the back of the push down the stairs, so when Spider-Man arrives your only indication is the change in tone of the shouting below you. Cheers go up with the siren’s shriek, and you peer over the railing just as a stream of webbing shoots past you, sticking to the ceiling. The spandex-clad vigilante follows it up. He goes slowly, scanning faces as he goes by. 

“All good? Everybody okay? Let’s make our way down in a neat and orderly fashion, folks. No need to push. Where’s the fire, am I right?” 

If he wanted to go put out the fire, or even to sweep from the top floor down to make sure no one’s still not evacuating, there are surely quicker ways, but you’re a bit warmed that Spider-Man is taking the slower route to check that you’re all okay. He’s risen nearly to you now, and while some of the students around you have stopped or taken out phones, you’re still trying to get out of here. Of course, now that you’re looking at Spider-Man and not your feet, you fall straightaway onto your ass. 

It’s embarrassing. You narrowly avoid hitting your chin on the stair railing; someone near you gasps. Your tailbone and your pride both feel terribly bruised. 

“Oh, shit. Hey. You okay?” 

It doesn't help matters that you’ve pulled Spider-Man’s attention, too. 

He swings neatly over the very railing that nearly concussed you a moment earlier, reaching down to pull you upright. 

“Yeah, you’re okay. Nothing feels broken, right?” He skims touches over your elbows, your waist. It’s all too much at once, an overwhelm, but you step away quickly when he lays a probing hand at the small of your back. 

“What?” Spider-Man’s voice rings with concern just loud enough to be heard over the alarm. “That hurt?” 

You’re shocked speechless. Does he just go around touching everyone like that? It feels intimate to you. 

“Oh.” He seems to get it. His demeanor changes, a few more inches of space appearing between you. “Sorry. Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine,” you say. 

“Can I, uh.” He looks up in the direction he was heading, then back to you. “Can I give you a lift down?” 

You feel yourself frown. “I can make it on my own.” 

Spider-Man breathes out a dry chuckle. “I forgot how suspicious you are of people who want to help you.” 

You blink, biting your tongue against the question that rises to it. You remember me? It’s difficult not to feel flattered, but you’re also just baffled. Spider-Man saves dozens of people every day, and yet he remembers a conversation with a girl he only walked home on an uneventful night?

“Just let me take you to the ground floor,” he asks. “I won’t be able to relax if I think there’s some injured bootstrapper hobbling their way down the stairs.” 

You don’t remember deciding to agree, and you certainly think you’re going to argue his bootstrapper label more than comes out, but you find yourself clinging to spandex-clad and surprisingly warm shoulders a minute later, Spider-Man’s hold far from unwelcome now as he lowers you gently to the ground. 

“Come on,” he says, ignoring the people who stop and stare in favor of guiding you outside. 

You think it’s probably a good sign that there isn’t smoke visibly pouring out of any windows you can see. The library’s fire suppression system may have worked fast enough to put the fire out before it grew too large. Spider-Man keeps you close, maneuvering you both through the gathering crowd and past the arriving firefighters to the curb across the street. 

“What happened here?” he asks you, something achingly familiar about the gentleness of his tone as he looks down at your lap. Whereas most of your clothes are speckled with dampness from the sprinklers, across your thighs is a dark, prominent splotch. 

“Coffee,” you answer resignedly. 

He hisses. “Hot?” 

“Not cold.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No, not really. I think the sprinklers cooled me off.” 

You try on a smile there. You think maybe Spider-Man mirrors it, his tone lightening some. 

“Is your butt okay, too?” 

“My butt’s none of your concern.” 

“Hey, I concern myself with every butt in this city. You’re all under my care.” 

It feels ridiculous, laughing while your university library is still being evacuated and alarms are still going off. It’s also nice. The laughter gathers like bubbles in your chest, fizzing and popping and disrupting the tension in there. You wonder if this is how Spider-Man does what he does, if it’s what makes him so good at it. 

“I’m fine,” you tell him. 

“Promise?” 

“Yeah. Don’t you need to…” You look at where the firefighters are running into the building. 

Spider-Man follows your gaze. “Yeah,” he says, though he doesn’t move. He glances between you and the building a few more times, fingers twitching at his sides. “I, uh.” 

“Thanks for your help.”

The dismissal is clear, and it seems to snap him out of it. 

“Right. Okay.” He finally takes a step back. “Stay put, okay? Don’t go anywhere. I’m serious. Just, I have to—you stay here.” 

“Okay,” you say. He’s already shot away on a web, and with the sirens and the shouting, you aren’t sure if he hears you. 

You aren’t sure why Spider-Man would ask you to wait. Does he plan to come back? He seemed flustered; he might not have meant it. You’re resting your head on your knees with eyelids growing heavier, but it seems rude to leave when someone rescues you and then asks you to wait up. 

“Hey.” You jolt when a hand lands on the back of your neck. “Hey, hey. It’s just me.” 

Peter’s a sight for sore eyes. His grin is tentative as he sits on the curb beside you, all soft brown eyes and hooked brows. The apprehension goes out of you in an instant. 

“Hi,” you say, warmth filling your chest. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” Peter rubs between your shoulder blades, looking you over. “What happened?” 

“There’s a fire in the library.” 

“Yeah, I think they put that out.” He offers you a small smile. “I mean what happened to you? What’s this?” He sets a hand to your thigh, over the wet spot on your jeans. His brows rise. “It’s warm.” 

“Yeah, I…” You shake your head, breathing out a sigh. “I knocked over my coffee when the alarm went off.” 

Peter frowns. “Ouch.” 

“How’d you even know about the fire? I thought you were at the lab tonight.” 

“I, uh.” He seems distracted, still looking concernedly at your burnt jeans. “I saw it on the news.” 

“Already?” 

“Yeah, the school sent out a text alert. Hey, don’t you want to get those pants off?” Peter gives you a look in exchange for the one you give him. “Not like that, you delinquent. Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean let’s go home and put some ice packs on your or something, okay? Are you good to walk?” 

You’re shaking your head before he’s finished talking. “Pete, I’m fine. But I have to…” The words shrivel up, humiliated with themselves, before leaving your mouth. 

Can you really tell Peter that Spider-Man asked you to wait here for him? Peter might like you well enough to make out from time to time, but you can’t imagine they make rose-tinted glasses thick enough to look past anything that sounds so pathetically made up as that. Why would the city’s favorite vigilante, with his very busy schedule, want you to stay put so he could come back for you after saving the day? It’s a good question. Peter said the fire is out; if Spider-Man was coming back, surely he would have already?

“What’s up?” Peter asks you. His voice is gentle. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” You shake your head to clear a nagging thought. “Let’s go home.” 

You stand on your own, though Peter’s hands hover while you do and he gets an arm around you as soon as he’s allowed. You walk tucked close to his side, his thumb rubbing absently over your hip. 

“How’d you know I was gonna be here?” 

“Well, it’s quarter to midnight on a Friday. I was gonna go around checking the clubs first, but…” 

“Asshole.” 

“Nerd.” 

“...Did you really come looking for me?” 

“Duh. And it’s not like I was far, the lab’s just across campus. Hey, did you hurt your butt somehow?” 

“What?” 

“You’re walking funny.” 

“I am not.” 

“Yeah you are, it’s like…it’s sort of a hobble. Did you?” 

“You’re making this up.” 

“I’m not! What happened to your butt?” 

“I am not hobbling.” 

—

You find out the next day that the fire was started by some idiots who tried to smoke and then freaked and tossed their still-lit blunt when they heard someone coming. If it had fallen onto the carpet or a table it might have gone out, but of course it landed right on the corner of a bookshelf, seemingly endless kindling spread out in front of it like the promised land. The fire was put out quickly, but not before most of that shelf went up and not without incurring water damage on everything else in the library. 

You read the news article and seethe while Peter applies burn cream to your legs, doing it for you because he claims you’re neither gentle nor patient enough with yourself to do it nicely. His touch is featherlight. 

It’s Saturday, and so Peter succeeds in cajoling you into spending the day in bed, napping and touching and musing in whisper-soft voices about what you might order for dinner, but Sunday you heed the university’s call for help. 

The library is all but destroyed. The carpet needs to be ripped out, some of the furniture needs to be recovered or replaced, hundreds of books need to be inspected and salvaged. The librarians and janitorial staff can’t do it all themselves. 

You may be selfish (Peter calls it single-minded), but this isn’t something you’d normally concern yourself with; you’ve got your own shit to deal with, impending exams and a now-glitchy laptop that could use some attention. It bothers you that this was your library, though. You’ve spent a lot of time tucked away in its stacks, Peter’s spent nearly as much navigating them to come drag you home, and if the fire had been more serious you could’ve been in real trouble. You feel like you owe it something, a little bit. At least a few hours of your time. 

Peter comes to help, because Peter doesn’t need a sense of obligation to step up. He’s made of better stuff. 

You go through the shelves with other volunteers, sorting books into bins based on how damaged they are. Peter gets tasked with bringing old furniture out into the sun, stuff that should have been replaced decades ago but the school is still going to try to save, even if it’ll probably smell like mildew forever. You get periodically distracted when he walks by with some musty armchair and you can see the shapes of his biceps through his shirt. At lunchtime you run home to make sandwiches, and you and Peter eat them on the same curb he found you sitting on two nights prior, the sun on your faces and breaths clouding in front of your mouths.

You call it quits when it gets dark, though some of the volunteers switch the lights on and stay. Peter buys you both hot chocolate on the way home. He waves you off when you try to pay and teases you about being extra careful because you’ve already had enough hot drink incidents for one week. 

Despite knowing you have heaps of studying left to get through, you feel strangely energized. Peter sits down in his couch dent when you get home and pulls up his notes, and you can’t stop thinking about the library. There’s got to be a more efficient way to dry the books. Who’s making sure the staff gets meals, when they’re there supervising all day? And surely there’s a more durable flooring than carpet to put in a library. If they take it down to the hardwood, and then people donate old rugs to help swallow sound…

You go back. It becomes a part of your routine. You go to class, you study, you help at the library, you bring Peter something to eat at the lab, you study some more. Peter goes for dinners at his Aunt May’s and comes home with tupperware intended specifically for you. At night, he tries to help you fall asleep, experimenting with different things he’s read to see what works. On some of those nights you end up faking it so that he feels accomplished. Most nights, you don’t, so that he’ll stay with you for longer before eventually saying he has to go to the lab or to the bodega or to wherever before slinking off. Those nights you think you sleep the least, though it’s hard to be sure. 

You and two other students haul a donated couch up the library stairs. You learn how to wedge paper towels between the pages of the most waterlogged books, a tedious but rewarding process. You get friendlier with the librarians than you ever have been, which Peter finds ironic considering you spend half the time you used to there. One of them is married to one of your professors, and your efforts earn you a bit of extra credit, a small miracle you’d never have dared to hope for. 

“What’s this?” Peter asks one afternoon at The Daily Bean. You’re meeting between classes for a quick study session; you haven’t seen him since you left him sleeping early this morning to go to the library. Rain falls in gentle patterings outside the window, fog clinging to the panes. Autumn is having its last hurrah. Thanksgiving is next week, and the city tends to grant everyone’s wishes for snow soon after that. The last of the leaves have been shaken from the trees, and now they squelch rather than crunch under your feet. 

You look at where Peter’s turned your hand to the side. “Oh.” You roll your eyes, rubbing at the white so that it flakes off. “It’s paint.” 

“They’re making you paint now?” 

“Yeah. I guess they figure if they’re already gutting so much of the building, may as well do a full remodel.” 

“Is it starting to feel like they’re just using you for free labor?” 

“Oh, definitely,” you laugh. 

Peter’s dimples frame his smile in parenthesis. “You don’t seem mad about it,” he says. 

“No, I’m resentful.” 

“You are?” 

“I am.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yup.” 

“You seem resentful.” Peter’s grinning for real now, his eyes warm. Sometimes you think you’d say anything to get him looking at you like this. It’s addicting. “You seem ready to revolt.” 

“I might.” You take a sip of your coffee. “No, I don’t know. I don’t mind it.” 

“Aw,” he says. “You’ve gone soft.” 

“I have not. Don’t think I’ve abandoned my get-rich-quick scheme. The website is up.” 

Peter blinks. “My website?” 

“My website,” you correct him, teasing, “since you won’t sell your own photos yourself. I’m just waiting for the go-ahead from you on which ones to put up.” 

“Yeah,” he says, quieting. “We can do that.” 

“Soon?” 

“Tell you what, pretty girl.” Peter takes your hand, kissing the side of your pinkie just before the paint starts. It sends goosebumps all the way up your arm. “You find some time to pencil me in between your studying and being the school’s go-to laborer, and we’ll do it.” 

You have to look away from your roommate’s sweetheart brown eyes. He’s still holding your hand. “I’d probably have less studying to do later if we actually did some now.” 

“You can’t study now. This is a date.” 

“It is?” 

“Yeah, duh. Did you think we were actually going to study? That’s just how I get you to come to these things, loser.” 

—

“Is it, like, the suit and tie kind of dinner or the nice sweater kind?” you ask.

Peter’s exhale suggests he’s trying to be quiet about his amusement, but not very hard. “You could show up in yoga pants and my sweaty t-shirt, and she’d still think you were gorgeous.” 

“Could you try to be a little less biased?” 

“If I was being biased, I’d tell you to wear my sweaty t-shirt and forget the pants.” 

“Peter, I’m serious.” You step out of your room and into the hall where he can see you. “Is this going to be okay, or should I pick something nicer?” 

Peter turns around from where he’s standing in front of his own mirror trying to subdue a cowlick. He’s wearing a sweater and jeans, which is reassuring. It’s also new. You’re used to seeing Peter in his pajamas, or in rumpled sweatshirts he threw on in a rush to get to class, but this is…well, your roommate cleans up nice. His handsomeness is no surprise, but the new effect on you is. The green of his sweater somehow makes his eyes look an even softer color as they take you in. 

“You look beautiful,” Peter says. 

Your cheeks tingle at the bald reverence in his tone. You finger the hem of your dress. “It’s okay?” 

“Come on.” He huffs a laugh. “Are you kidding me?” 

“No.” But Peter looks like he wants to eat you, and he’s dressed more casually than you are, so you think you have your answer. You move on before he gets any ideas. “I’m thinking of trying to throw together a pumpkin pie,” you say, going to check on your rolls in the oven. Peter tails you. “I’d have to run to the bodega, though. Do you think we have time?” 

Peter leans against the counter. “What would you have to get?” 

“A pie tin, crust, pumpkin puree, eggs, and…um, I think there might be milk…” You take out your phone to check. 

Peter steals it from your hand, kissing the frown that comes to your lips. “Don’t sweat it. Your rolls are going to be more than enough.” 

Your frown persists. “It feels rude to only bring one thing and let her do everything else.” 

“It’s not rude. Are you kidding? Aunt May’s had me mooching off her since forever, she’ll be psyched that you brought anything at all.” 

“I already owe her for probably a dozen meals.” 

“Sweetheart.” Peter puts his arms around your shoulders, drawing you into a lazy hug. “You’re freaking out.” 

“I’m not freaking out.” 

“You are. And it’s sweet,” he allows, kissing your temple, “but you don’t have to. May’s already obsessed with you. She’s asked me, like, six times this week if you like green bean casserole.” 

“I like anything she makes,” you mumble. 

“I know. Kiss-ass.” 

You can’t deny it. You want Peter’s aunt May, this woman who’s fed you for the better part of a semester and now invited you to Thanksgiving at her home, to like you, obviously. And part of you suspects that Peter’s reassurances aren’t entirely empty. It’s hard to imagine anyone who raised a boy this kind being anything but loving and generous. You’ve seen pictures of Aunt May in Peter’s room; she has eyes remarkably like his, considering they’re related by marriage, and smile lines etched onto her face the way only genuine warmth can scar. It’s not so much that you’re worried she’ll dislike you for wearing the wrong thing or using the wrong fork, but she’s something to Peter and it’s becoming harder to deny that Peter’s something to you now, so you can’t help but want to make a good impression. 

“Not trying to be a kiss-ass,” you murmur, circling your arms around Peter’s waist, “but you look really nice.” 

Peter smiles. “See, that’s exactly the kind of thing a kiss-ass would say.” 

“I know. It was a risk I had to take, because I needed to tell you.” 

You get squished to Peter’s chest. You suspect it’s so you won’t see him fluster. 

“Don’t tell her the rolls were frozen, okay?” you plead. “The story is I made them from scratch.” 

“Right. With, like, yeast and wheat?” 

“And whatever else goes into bread, sure.” You squeeze him back, but your grip slackens when Peter hisses. “What?” 

“Nothing.” His voice buoys with false levity. “Sorry.” 

“Peter, what?” You retreat enough to see him, hand skimming up his side. “Are you hurt?” 

“It’s nothing,” he says again. His hand comes up to cover yours when it lands on his ribs, and you know without asking that’s the sore spot. “I just, I fell yesterday. I’m a little bruised up.” 

You look up at him. Your concern feels like a tender thing, like your guts are spilling out into the space between you. It makes you a bit sick. “What happened?” 

“I was, uh, skateboarding.” 

“You were skateboarding.” 

“Yeah.” Peter’s shrug looks bashful. “I haven’t done it since high school. Turns out it’s not exactly like riding a bike.” 

You don’t know if you believe him. You want to. You really want to, you want to think Peter would never lie to you, but you know already that he does. It used to be something you could ignore, but now it makes you too sad to bear thinking on. 

“Please be careful with yourself,” you ask him. 

Peter catches the sobriety in your tone. “I’m fine,” he says, more sincerely now, cupping your face. “I won’t do it again. Anyway, maybe I’m tougher than I look, did you ever think of that?” 

You chuff a laugh. “You’re not.” 

“Mean.” He kisses you. “You’re a meanie.” 

“Kiss-ass, meanie. Pick something to call me and stick with it.” 

When you arrive at Aunt May’s, she already knows who you are, but Peter introduces you anyway. This time, he calls you his girlfriend. 

—

On occasion, when you know Peter’s gone on one of his late-night errands, you also take the opportunity to do away with the pretense of sleep. Finals are nearly done. There’s nothing you can do for the library at night, though repairs are nearly completed and the school expects for it to reopen at the start of the spring semester anyway. There’s really not much for you to do, but your head drives you out of bed with an itchy sense of urgency nonetheless. 

This time of year, your apartment is well lit all through the night. The wattage of the city has increased tenfold, lights of white and red and gold twinkling at all hours to entice tourists and holiday shoppers into storefronts. Peter insisted on getting you a cheap tinsel tree, too. It glows warmly in the corner of your living room. 

You hear Peter’s window slide open somewhere around two-thirty. It’s a bit earlier than he usually comes back, but you hope he’s in to stay. You know Peter knows that you wake up to find him gone at least some of the time; but you don’t ask, and so neither does he. It’s…an ache. 

You imagine the silence sometimes like a physical thing, a weight balanced on a string that stretches between the two of you, pulled tight. You feel it some times more than others. You hear the slide of Peter’s window, and the string tugs at the center of your chest, impeding on your breathing room. A dull, familiar ache. 

You know from experience what will happen now. Peter will sleep in his room for the rest of the night. You might hear another few sounds—a shoe being tossed into the closet, the groan of bedsprings. He’ll come out in the morning to find you—maybe asleep, maybe still awake—on the couch, and he’ll chide you between playful kisses so as not to seem too serious, and you’ll pretend not to resent his hypocrisy, though really it’s not the hypocrisy you resent. 

You don’t expect him to come out of his room. 

You almost wouldn’t know it was him if not for the way the figure steps carefully over the squeakiest of your floorboards. Peter is wearing sweatpants and a bulky hoodie, so rumpled you almost wonder if he threw them on just now. He cracks the door to your room, peering inside. 

“Peter?” 

Peter turns on his heel lightning-fast. “Hey,” he says. He looks flustered, face mostly in shadow but the whites of his eyes are lit in your tree’s glow. “Hey, hi. What’re you doing up?” 

“I couldn’t sleep.” Your voice sounds shockingly normal for the tension crackling through the room. Peter shifts on his feet. “Are you okay?” 

He shrugs, giving a quick shake of his head as though unsure why you’d ask. “Yeah, I’m just—I had a weird feeling, so I wanted to see if you were okay. Nightmare, I guess.” 

“Oh. Sorry.” 

“So you are?” 

“Huh?” 

“You’re okay?” Peter’s acting twitchy, and it’s making you nervous. Of the two of you, he definitely seems the least okay. 

“Yeah, Pete,” you say gently. “I’m fine.” You open your arms in invitation, and Peter hesitates a moment before stepping forward. It’s a bit of an awkward hug, you half twisted to reach over the back of the couch and him bent over to get to you, but you make the most of it. 

“What’s going on?” you murmur, raking your fingers through the hair at his nape. It’s sweaty, like he’s been running. You don’t really anticipate a genuine answer to your question, but it feels important for Peter to at least know you care enough to ask. 

You feel his head shake. “Nothing,” he says. He gives you a squeeze, some other half of an excuse probably already on his tongue, but before he can get it out you both jerk apart. 

“Ow.” Your skin burns where Peter’s wrist pressed to it. 

“Shit. Sorry, baby, let me see.” 

You turn around, allowing him to pull the collar of your sleep shirt down enough to look at it. “What was that?” 

“I have, uh. I was just tinkering around with something in my room—you know me, tinkering—and this thing I was messing with sort of exploded. I didn’t realize it was still hot, I’m sorry.” He blows a bit of cool air on your skin. You turn to try and see for yourself. “Hold on, I think we still have some of that burn cream.” 

But in turning, you can now see the light on his face. “Peter,” you breathe. 

Peter must hear something in your voice, because he stops mid-pivot. The weight between you heavies. You feel the strain on your lungs. 

“What happened to your face?” 

His expression twinges. You wonder that it doesn’t reopen the cut on his lip, or if that slow seep of blood is all it can muster anymore. Your boyfriend’s jaw is marred with an ugly splotch of color, already darkening in the center. The cheery glow of your Christmas tree shows in unforgiving starkness the dried blood crusted around his nostrils and the bruise of his nose. 

“This?” Peter smiles, and now his lip does reopen. He hardly seems to notice. “I, uh…well, it’s embarrassing, but I fell out of bed.” 

“Peter.” Your voice thins. 

“I know, it’s so stupid. Didn’t put my arms out to save myself or anything, just boom—face to floor.” 

“Peter,” you say again. “Just tell me what happened. Please.” 

“I’m telling you.” He’s smiling still, like you’re silly, his silly girl, but you can see the strain around his eyes. “Babe, I think you’re more tired than you notice. Let’s go to bed, okay? I actually have to go out and get a replacement part for the thing I exploded, but—” 

“Don’t.” Your eyes are burning. You see Peter see them, his smile dissolving at the edges. “Please just tell me the truth. Who’s doing this to you?” 

“Sweetheart—” 

“No, I—I got it at first, because we’d just moved in and you had no reason to trust me. It wasn’t my business, and I got that. I didn’t—I was fine with letting you do whatever you wanted to.” Tears blaze hot paths down your cheeks, but you refuse to break Peter’s stare long enough to wipe them. “It just seems like it keeps getting worse, though, you know? Or maybe it was always this bad and I just didn’t know, but now—I don’t know, I don’t really know what this is, but it’s different than it was at first. We’re not strangers anymore, right? You can trust me. Please, I just—” Your voice splinters. “I just want to help.” 

Peter’s looking at you with something desperate in his expression. You can see the whites of his eyes again, and his chest is moving like he’s breathing harder than he needs to. He takes a step back, and the string between you pulls taut. It feels sharper than an ache now. 

“I have to—” 

“Don’t go,” you cut him off. 

Peter’s face pinches. “I have to. I have to, I’m sorry. Please go to bed.” 

“Why?” Your shoulders jump, something in you crumpling as you realize there’s nothing you can do to make him stay. Your nose runs. “Just stay here.” 

He glances toward his bedroom, then back at you. He must have left the window open; you can feel the night chill beginning to permeate your apartment. Peter’s fingers twitch at his sides. 

“Please,” you try again. 

Sirens wail outside, and Peter takes another step away from you. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I have to go right now. I’ll be back, okay?” 

You don’t reply, watching through blurred vision as he goes. 

It takes you less than a minute to come to a decision after that. You’re still leaking from your eyes and nose, so you grab a wad of toilet paper from the bathroom, cramming it into your pocket before throwing on a sweatshirt over your sleep clothes and shoving your feet into shoes. 

Peter’s not on the fire escape when you stick your head out his window. You have no clue how he climbed down so fast. You push the window closed and go out the front door. 

Your neighborhood is less quiet tonight. The sirens that make up the city’s constant white noise are closer than usual, louder, echoing down alleyways to reach your peaceful cluster of buildings. You think half-humorously that they might create an opportunity for Spider-Man to pay a visit; maybe if he’s not too busy, you can get him to help track down your runaway boyfriend and scare some sense into him. 

You hate to think of what could compel Peter to come back out here tonight, when he was already so beat up and he clearly didn’t want to. You don’t understand what role he could play. Is he making things for someone? Is that why he had that exploding thing on his wrist? Peter’s skilled, and smart, but you don’t think he’d get mixed up in anything that required him to pass off dangerous technology to anyone who wouldn’t be responsible with it. Unless he had to, at least. 

You’re so furious with him. You tear off a square of toilet paper, blowing your nose. If he gets any more hurt than he already is, you’ll tell Aunt May on him, you swear to god. 

It’s almost funny, considering how much better lit the streets are, that you don’t notice anyone around until the gun is at your back. 

“Purse,” says a voice at your ear. 

“I don’t have one.” Your voice wobbles, but mostly because of the whiplash. Christ, what a shitty day. “I don’t have anything on me.” 

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” The gun presses harder into your back. “Phone, then.” 

“I don’t have one.” 

“Don’t lie.” 

“I don’t! I left it at home.” 

“You know what—” 

“What?” Comes a voice from behind you both. A familiar voice. 

For a millisecond, you could swear it’s Peter, your heart clenching, but you turn after the mugger does to find Spider-Man standing a few feet away. As soon as the gun is trained on him, white webbing jams the barrel and it’s cast harmlessly to the side. 

“I don’t think she’s lying, man.” Spider-Man moves toward you, firing webs on the way that plaster the mugger’s feet to the concrete. “I think you just picked the wrong girl tonight.” He jerks his head at you, and you get his meaning instinctively, stepping out of the way as he moves close enough to give the mugger a shove. The other man goes careening backwards. As soon as his hands land on the ground, webs ensure that’s where they stay. 

Spider-Man takes your elbow in hand, guiding you away. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m…” Something’s nettling you. You wish for Spider-Man and he appears, is that how it works now? You have the feeling like you’re forgetting something. “This is where I live.” 

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound very amused. “I know, but why are you here? What’re you—” He pulls the waist of your pajama pants up from where they’ve started to slip. “Sweetheart, it’s freezing out. Couldn’t you at least have put on a real coat?” 

Sweetheart. 

Your voice sticks in your throat. 

“Your fingernails are gonna fall off,” Spider-Man goes on in a familiarly chiding tone (playful, so as not to seem too serious). He walks you out of the alley, ignoring the calls of the man stuck to the pavement. “What do I have to say to get you back inside? I’ll come with you, how’s that?” 

“Peter?” 

Spider-Man looks over at you. Eyes of all white, and yet everything said in the tilt of his head. “I was going to tell you when I got back,” he says, still walking towards your building, “but of course you had to go out and find trouble. You probably think I’m full of shit now.” 

“Peter,” you say. Not a question this time, but an exhalation. Something released. 

“I’m not making it up, though, I really was going to tell you. I would have told you before I left, but there wasn’t really time, I could hear the cops having a shootout and I really felt like I had to go—I actually only came home because my web-shooter caught a stray, so I needed a backup…” 

You’re reeling, you think. Or swooning. You’ve never figured out the difference. Spider-Man’s (Peter’s. Spider-Man’s?) hand has found its way around your waist, keeping you propped up against him. Silly, to be treated like you’re the delicate one when you know for a fact he’s all bruised and bleeding under that mask. There are probably other injuries you don’t know the half of. 

When Peter stops, you don’t understand why until you realize you’re standing in back of your own building. You’ve crossed streets without noticing. 

“I thought we’d take the fast way up,” he says. 

You manage a “hm?” before he’s tightening his grip on you and you’re sling-shotting up six stories. Peter sets you down on the fire escape. You grip the railing when he lets you go, the cold metal digging into your palms as he jimmies open his bedroom window. He has to gently uncurl your fingers to usher you inside. 

It’s clear one of you is more practiced at going in and out of windows than the other. You half-crawl onto Peter’s bed, stumbling a bit in an attempt to avoid getting your shoes on his pillow, whereas your boyfriend slips gracefully through and is laying down before you’ve managed to turn around. He pulls the window shut so that it hardly makes a sound. You wonder if it’s habit. 

“You okay?” Peter asks as he pulls off his mask. 

You stare. “Me?” 

He looks chastened, but says anyway, “Yeah, sweetheart. You’re shaking a little.” 

“I’m…” You reach for him. Your fingertips lay themselves over the bruised bridge of his nose. Peter’s eyes are sorry. “I’m surprised.” 

“You also just had a gun pointed at you.” 

“So did you. You probably have guns pointed at you all the time.” 

He shrugs, as though this is more or less true. “Are you mad?” 

“I don’t know what I am,” you admit. “Probably, a little.” 

“Is it okay to ask for a hug?” 

“Am I going to hurt you?” 

“No,” he promises, reaching forward to bring you to him. His lips mush to your cheek. “It looks worse than it is. Perk of the spider mutant thing, I heal fast.” 

You’re still careful with him. You hug him with your arms around his shoulders, feeling the strange texture of the webbing spread over his suit. There’s a strangeness to your senses; it feels like a tuning fork has been struck, everything reverberating and trembling its way into alignment. Your heart trembles with it.

“This isn’t what I was expecting,” you hear yourself say. 

“It’s not? I sort of thought you had it all figured out.” 

You shake your head. 

“Well, you’re taking it a lot better than I expected. If that helps at all. I kind of thought you might freak out.” 

“I don’t know how much freak out I have left.” You intend to stop there, but the next admission comes tumbling from your mouth unbidden. “I’ve been worrying for a long time.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Peter sounds genuinely apologetic, and so doting it makes your chest tight. He rubs your back like he can feel it happening. “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t want to drag you into this, but then it seemed like you were gonna find out no matter what, and…honestly, I just thought I’d get matched with a roommate who didn’t give a shit.” 

“Bad luck.” 

“Yeah, maybe. Not really.” He pulls back enough to kiss you, bumping his nose against yours affectionately. “Hey, maybe it’s too soon, but there might be a pro to the whole dating Spider-Man thing.” 

You look at him. A face you know as well as anything, and from the neck down a suit you’ve seen mostly in news clips. He’s your boyfriend; he’s Spider-Man. He’s your boyfriend who’s Spider-Man. 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“If you really like those pictures in my room, I can bring you to the places where I took them from. It’s not, ah, something most of the public can access. Special privilege only.” 

“Oh.” You nod slowly. “Yeah, that’s cool.” 

“Too soon?” 

“Maybe. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that you work for the cops.” 

“Uh, okay, I don’t work for the cops, I work with them. I’m not some narc.” 

The incredulity in his tone is so distinctly Peter that you come back into yourself. All of the trembling pieces settle into alignment. 

“Right, it’s just. I don’t know.” Your lips give a small tug. You see a familiar amused curiosity ignite in familiar warm brown eyes, and you press a quick kiss to his lips before delivering the news. “I’ve been picturing you more or less at odds with the law. I was pretty sure you were a drug dealer.” 

You rouse enough to hiss when Peter brings a wet washcloth between your thighs. 

“Hey,” you say, almost scolding. It makes a laugh bubble up in Peter’s chest, which he generously swallows. 

“Sorry.” He tucks his grin inside your knee, kissing softly. “I’ll be quick.” 

He sweeps the cloth through your folds, and you hiss again, one leg coming up protectively as though you can’t help it. Now, Peter frowns. 

“Is it really that sensitive?” he asks you. 

He guesses he couldn’t blame you. You and Peter spent more time teasing each other tonight than you have in a while, and you weren’t exactly begging him to go easy on you. Your labia are as kiss-swollen as your mouth, maybe more.

The look you give him says you know he knows. “Yeah.” You heave a sigh, like speech is exhausting, your eyes drifting shut again. “I’m sore all over. Aren't you?” 

Peter is, but he also spends his free time doing acrobatics and heaving himself around by his arms. If he twinged a bit walking to the bathroom and back, he bets you’re feeling worse. 

He rubs over your hip consolingly. “Wanna take a bath?” 

You think on it for a while. You’re tempted, Peter can tell. “I don’t feel like getting up.” 

“I’ll carry you.” 

You hum somnolently. “Thanks, but you…” You fumble for Peter’s hand. When you find it, you squeeze his fingers, his sweetheart. Peter squeezes back. “You have to get up early for work.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t mind.” He catches his voice softening, as if he’s trying not to disturb your sleep when really he’s trying to keep you awake. He doesn’t do anything to correct it. “I’ll have coffee either way. Let me give you a bath, pretty girl.” 

It’s a visible effort to open your eyes. You look at Peter like he hung the moon. “Sure?” 

He grins. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

“You’d do that?” 

Peter groans, his head dropping to your leg. He lets his voice buzz against your skin. “Are you serious? God, I know you’re tired, but let’s use our brains for a second.” 

He picks his head up to take yours between his hands. You look slightly more awake than you were a moment ago. 

“I would do anything for you,” he says. “Got it?” 

Peter watches your surprise meld into a more startled kind of pleasure. He kisses it right off your lips. 

“Dramatic,” you accuse, settling back into your pillow as Peter stands to start your bath. 

Both of you had gotten facefucked by whatever fucking alien fuckdust those fucking fucks were throwing out and-

Fuck, fuckity, fuck fuck fuck. 

According to the ever-so-helpful boy band that called themselves Avengers, you were both stuck ‘waiting it out.’ 

Waiting out. Fucking sex pollen. 

New York’s finest. Constantly saving the universe. Can’t figure out how to unfuckdust a couple of mutants. 

You really should’ve burned their little compound to the ground when you’d had the chance. But you were trying to grow. And becoming a better person. 

You leave Spidey in a comfortable spot on your carpeted living room floor. He had gotten the worst of it, whereas you only got the aftermath. His skin is still rippling, his muscles still twitching. The outline of his thick cock still pressing insistently through his spandex. He was so impossibly hot against your skin, you could feel his sweat through your suit. 

It shouldn’t have turned you on to have remnants of him on your skin, but your clit throbbed still at the feeling. 

“Please…”

It had been his constant plea since you’d left the Avengers tower. His low, rough voice was the backdrop to your racing thoughts. 

You couldn’t let Spider-Man have what he wanted. You didn’t even know who he was behind the mask. Quite frankly, you didn’t want to know. You had done a lot of messed-up things to survive. A lot of really fucked things to innocent people. The idea that behind that silly little red mask could be your victim's face made your stomach lurch. 

Although you were, pathetically, falling for him. The only man to ever be nice to you, you fall all over. He’d think you were desperate. He’d be disgusted that you took advantage of the situation. 

He was giving you a chance that other supes would never. An opportunity to do good. If you sat down on his dick, like he’d whispered in your ear to do, it would ruin everything. 

You groan. Your symptoms hit you all at once now that you’re not distracted. You’re on fire. Your head is pounding. You can hear your blood in your ears. Your lower stomach is cramping, creeping into your lower spine. 

Water. You need water. 

Spidey groans when you leave the room, and you curse yourself for renting an open concept. No door through the walkway. Nothing was blocking the lenses in his mask. His eyes are still watching you, burning holes into your back, your ass, your thighs, as you walk to the kitchen. You reach up on your tippy toes to reach for the glass cabinet above the sink, flexing your calves. 

He lets out a pornographic sound that sends shivers all over your body. Your nipples harden. He smells good. Even from a room away, he smells inhumanly good. You know he's a sweaty, disgusting mess. You know it’s the weird alien pheromones making you think this. But you want that smell on you, all over you. Christ. You grip the sides of the counter till your knuckles are white under your gloves. Until all the blood rushes to your bent fingers and tiny pricks of pain move through you. 

“Hey, Webs,” Your voice sounds wavy, too sultry, “D’ya mind shutting the fuck up a little bit?” 

There is not a hint of sarcasm in him when he says, “Sit on my face, then I’ll shut up.” 

You swallow thickly, your body trembling. It sounds like a fantastic idea. You’ve never seen his face, beyond just the bridge of his Roman nose, pretty lips, and insane jawline. You diddled your skittle to that vision every night since you first saw it. Every subsequent time after sent a hot rush through you. 

You knew he was fucking gorgeous under that mask. And you were not. You were a monster. And this was all too much. 

Water. Focus on water. Ignore him. 

“I wanna taste you so bad.”

You turn the handle on max, letting the icy cold water hit the basin. All the glasses clink unceremoniously together while you refile through the cabinet. It isn’t enough to blot out his voice. Your clit throbs in time with the pounding in your skull. You pick a random clear glass, one painted with red acrylic hearts. 

The fucking irony. 

“I’ve thought about it for so long. Sliding my tongue into your warm, wet cunt.” 

You shove the cup under the water, letting it overflow. The water spills over the lip of the cup. It soaks through your glove, making it cling to your skin. You let out a soft moan. The coolness of the water and Spidey’s dirty talk making your nerves dance across your skin. 

“Bet you taste amazing. Bet I could make you cum over and over just from riding my face. I’d make you feel so good, baby.” 

Alien pheromones. Alien pheromones. A-Lee-In Farrah-Moans. 

That’s what's making him talk this way. The man living underneath them doesn’t want this, doesn’t want you. He’s in pain, and the only way to stop it is to get some release. 

You are not special, you try to remind your foggy mind. You were just the first person he saw after the dust took hold of his mind. You take a large gulp of water. It sloshes over, the coolness hitting your cheek. It’s nearly enough to make you cum. 

Nearly. 

Sweat drips down your forehead. The heat inside you is getting more unbearable by the minute. Your skin is starting to flush under your suit. You think about how Webs must be feeling, under all that skin-tight spandex. It has to be uncomfortable. 

Your back arches slightly at the memory of his throbbing cock pressing, insistent and needy, against your ass. 

“Go ahead,” He’d whispered into your ear, “Just sink back onto it, baby. I’ll do all the work, just let me use your pussy.” 

So dirty. If you hadn’t been standing in Tony Stark’s lab, in front of Stark himself, you may have considered it. 

“You want some water?” You offer weakly. 

He laughs. It’s not like his normal laugh. The witchy cackle he lets out when you have a particularly good zinger that catches him off guard. No. This one comes out dark, comes from deep in Spidey’s chest. 

You take it as a yes. But you’re a little scared to get too close. 

You. Mercenary. Trained assassin. Anti-Hero. True Chaotic Neutral. Guns and bombs and knives and swords and silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids all in a row. Scared of a tied-up supe. 

Humiliating. 

You approach him with what remains in your glass. That smell. Spicy and sweet, and warm comes off him in waves. You bite back a moan as it assaults you, tries to pull you under. 

“I’m only gonna lift your mask enough for you to drink, okay?” You say gently, “No secret identity snooping.” 

“Take it off.” 

“What?” 

“Take my mask off.” 

You let what he said sink in. He wants you to see him. See his face. Remember his face. It would be sweet if you weren’t in this situation right now. If nausea weren’t running parallel to your arousal. If you weren’t you and he wasn't him. 

You let out a nervous laugh, “No can do, Spider-Bae. We pinky swore I wouldn’t try to find out your identity anymore. Pinky swears are legally binding.” 

“I’m suffocating,” He whispers, “I trust you. You’ve proven I can trust you. Please. Take it off. I want you to see me.” 

He sounds so desperate. How can you say no? 

“You know, once I take it off, I can’t put it back, right?” You try to let some brevity into your voice, but it doesn’t sound any less tight: “I can’t unsee your face if you regret this.” 

It’s only half a joke. And it isn’t even funny. 

“I know, baby. Please.” 

Your thighs squeeze together. You know that he notices, but it’s a reflex you can’t help. You swallow around the lump in your throat as he lifts his head enough for you to remove what made you strangers. 

You were right. You were so right. Your stomach nearly heaves at the knowledge of how right you were. 

He is so fucking beautiful. Handcrafted to devastate you. Giant brown eyes, pupils blown. Flushed cheeks, pouty lips. Thick brows, flawless skin. Eyelashes Bambi wishes he had. That face, with the body you can see outlines of in the suit. 

You’re fucked. 

You. Are. So. Fucked. 

You’ll never be able to see him again after this. You want to sit on that modelesque face and ride off into the sunset. You also want to throw yourself out the window and let New York traffic take care of the rest. Your body is full of static. Your brain is screaming. 

“Hi,” he says. 

It’s the first time since this whole thing started that he’s sounded like himself. You nearly want to cry. 

“Your hair looks really stupid right now,” And it does, all wild and sweaty, sticking up in a million different directions. 

You bring the cup up to his lips, using your free hand to support his head, “Drink your water, Websy.” 

He drinks, drains the glass nearly instantly. His throat bobs with each swallow, and somehow even that causes you to squirm. A little bit dribbles out of the corner of his mouth. Not thinking, you swipe it up with your thumb. 

He moans, his hips raise for you. Those pretty brown eyes nearly roll into the back of his head. 

“Touch me. Please. Fuck, I’ll do anything. Please, just touch me.” 

He’s leaking precum already, it’s staining the front of his suit. He’s in pain, he’s uncomfortable. He’s straining against his binds, looking up at you pitifully. Only you can fix this. And fuck if you’re not a sucker for big brown eyes. 

Fine. It’s fine. What’s a little handy jay betwixt friends? 

“Okay, Spidey. Settle down, let me take care of you.” 

You take your glove off. His breathing gets heavier. The suit comes apart at the waist. Spidey was a practical man, and you could appreciate that. You slide down his leggings, tacky with his sweat and cum. His cock is free to scare the living day lights out of you. 

It’s big. It’s thick. It’s twitching at you, lazily dripping pre cum down his flesh. 

Your cunt drips at the sight of him looking so wrecked already. Your bottoms stick to you. You’re almost certain you’ve leaked through them, that your slick is dripping onto the carpet. That Spider-Man can see you reacting to him without him having to touch you. 

You wrap your naked hand around him, feel his cock jerk. Velvet soft, blood hot. He drips onto your skin. 

“So all of you has to be perfect? Even your dick? That doesn’t seem fair.” 

He smiles, rolls his hips into hand, “Your skin is so soft. Is every inch of you that soft?” 

You don’t answer, just focus your efforts on pumping his cock. Each pass is slicker and slicker. Your suit is stuck to you in more uncomfortable places now. Your mask feels like a prison. You’re panting alongside him, you realize. Breathing heavy every time his pretty cock reacts to your touch. 

“You enjoying yourself?” God. What an asshole. Of course you were. He hums, “You like that I’m hard for you.”

That last part was a statement, not a question. 

“Let me out of these webs. Let me touch you.” 

“Wasn’t part of the deal,” You’re pulsing between your legs. You want so badly to be touched. 

But you’d given up any hope of anything like this. This was already melting all the boundaries of your relationship. You couldn’t take too much from this. Couldn’t enjoy yourself too much. Because Spider-Man won’t just pull away once this is over. He will sprint in the other direction. 

“Baby, you’re soaking wet. You’re taking care of me. Let me take care of you.” 

“God, Webs, you really gotta stop talking like that. Making me distracted…” 

You hear them tear. The webs. 

He could’ve done that this entire time. What a dick. You freeze, just for a moment. But then he’s up. 

Then he’s close, too close, his hand on his cock. You stumble backwards onto the carpet. 

“No fair…” You say, with no heat, no real anger. 

“Your hand’s not gonna be enough. You know that.” 

You do. Your entire body is one, continuous nerve that thrums with pain, with desire, with an all-encompassing heat. If all Spidey did was finger you, it wouldn’t make a dent in the cramps, the brain fog. He’s feeling worse than you. You can’t imagine anything worse than feeling like this. 

You need each other. 

Spider-Man looks at you, pure lust in his eyes, “You don’t have to take off your mask. You don’t have to tell me anything. But I need you. I want you. It has to be you.” 

You whimper. A full-blown, whiny, high-pitched noise that pulls out of you without your permission. You sit back up on your hands. 

“What happens after?”

“We cross that bridge when we come to it,” He grunts out, “Take your pants off.” 

You want to say something cutting, funny. But nothing comes, even though the material writes itself. Instead, you stand, leaving Spidey kneeling on the floor. 

You are not practical. Your suit does not come off in two pieces. 

It comes off in one. 

It seemed like a good idea at the time you designed it. You’re not sure now. You reach around to the hidden zipper and pull it down your back. The open, cool air whispers across the heated skin of your back, turning your skin to gooseflesh. You push the material down your arms. 

Spider-Man’s eyes glaze over as your skin is revealed. His tongue peeks out to wet his lips. Oh. He…he likes what he’s seeing. Okay. Okay…

You swallow, but your throat is still dry. You push the material down your hips, your thighs, your legs until your suit, your armor, is a puddle on the floor. You step out of it. 

Standing here, completely bare, you feel foolish. 

“Jesus…” Spidey whispers, “You’re-“

“I can put it back on,” You say, too fast, “If you want, I can go to one of the bedrooms. Get you set up. “

“No, don’t, please.” 

Spider-Man crawls to you. 

Spider-Man crawls to you. 

He presses his forehead against your thigh, nuzzling against your flesh. It sends your nerves alight all over again. 

“So soft,” He mutters to himself, “So soft, so perfect.” 

He presses a kiss against your skin. Then another. Until he is pressing his lips against your inner thigh, traveling upwards. 

“H…Hey, Webs-“

“Peter,” He whispers, heated, “My name is Peter.” 

His cheeks flush, his eyes close as he loses himself in you. He kisses dissolve into licking, moaning at the taste of your skin. Peter. Fuck, his name is Peter. And you know his face. A face that is dangerously close to your pussy. 

“Peter,” His name tastes like honey in your mouth, “Are you sure?” 

“Lie down on the couch.” 

You do, your legs open despite yourself. The heat inside you puppets them to fall open so Webs-no, Peter, can see your dripping cunt. 

He takes his place between your legs like you’ve done this a million times before. Like it’s where he belongs. 

He takes his shirt off, tossing it aside to mingle with your suit. He takes that pretty cock in his hand again, rubbing it against your wet slit. Your head tilts back, pleasure blooming in your belly. 

“I’ve had dreams like this,” He whispers to you, “Not with the aliens, but…seeing you like this.” 

“…Am I anything like your dreams?” You let out a breathy, nervous laugh. 

He presses the head of his cock into your warmth. The stretch is delicious. You moan, feeling your body tingle, your stomach tighten. 

“Better than my dreams,” He pushes in slowly, “So much better, baby.” 

“Oh, God, Peter…” 

He bends to kiss across your collarbones, your chest. Every single inch of his cock fits inside you perfectly. Like you were missing puzzle pieces, made to fit. You’re happy to have your mask still on. Tears of overwhelm fill your eyes. You blink hard to banish them. 

Your body clings to his. Relief. You feel his own body trembling against you. 

“My name sounds so much prettier when you moan it,” He takes one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking it gently in his mouth. 

You gasp, arching into him. Your fingers move into his hair, pulling against his scalp just a bit. He lets out a pleased little groan. 

He starts thrusting slowly into you. Like, even through his pollen-addled mind, he’s worried you’ll break. That, combined with the obscene noises of your bodies coming together, makes you want to show him yourself. 

Fuck it. You have nothing else to lose. 

“Peter,” You moan, pulling at his hair, “Peter, I need you…I need your eyes up here…” 

Your nipple falls from his mouth, but his hips don’t stop. Thankfully. You can soak up the last few moments of your time together. But. If he didn’t hate the way your body looks, quite the opposite, it seemed, maybe he wouldn’t hate your face. His eyes are where yours might be. 

“You showed me yours…I show you mine?” 

“You don’t have to. Don’t feel pressured.” 

“You should see who you’re sticking your cock into, Peter,” You breath through your nose, “It’s only fair, right?” 

He doesn’t answer, just focuses those Bambi eyes on your face. 

You rip it off. You’re unceremonious, otherwise you’d never do it. Still, your eyes are squeezed shut. You may never open them again. Peter’s reaction never allowed to hurt you. His rejection is not allowed to fester. 

You feel his cock shift deeper inside you, feel him lift your legs up and over his hips. You feel him lean over you, his lips brushing against yours. 

“Hi,” You say. 

“Your hair looks really stupid right now,” He replies before pressing his lips against yours. 

His tongue tries to breach your lips immediately. You gasp, and he takes advantage. His tongue moves against yours, heat rushes deep into your stomach, dripping into your cunt. 

You’re sure your hair is going to look even stupider with his fingers running through it, over and over. His thrusts pick up tempo. 

He pulls away from your lips to whisper, “Look at me, baby. Look at me, please.”

He presses his forehead against yours. You do look. His eyes are so intense, so laser-focused on you. 

“Such gorgeous eyes,” He says, and you can’t tell if it’s for you or himself, “All of you. Every inch of you. Perfect. Made for me. And you made me wait for so long…” 

“Peter…”

“Don’t you feel how right this is?” 

He reaches between your legs, teasing your clit between his fingers. You jolt, your hips pushing up against his hand. 

“I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t want you,” He groans, pressing his face into your chest again, “That I would want to do anything but worship you.” 

You’re a panting, squirming mess again. How are you supposed to form a coherent sentence? 

“And I’m going to,” He presses against your clit more directly now, more hot pressure tightening in your stomach, “I’m gonna make up for all the time I haven’t been inside you. Every moment I ever wasted not pleasuring you.” 

He keeps hitting your G-spot, over and over, like some deep, feral part of him knew where it’d be. His mouth lingers on the flesh of your chest. His hands are constantly wandering over your skin, touching and debauching every inch he can. 

“Gonna cum,” You whimper. 

“Tell me your name,” He groans out, “Tell me your name and I’ll let you cum.” 

He doesn’t need to add the threat. Your name rolls off your tongue and then onto his. He kisses you like he’s trying to get the exact flavor of your name right. His hips start slamming into you, targeting that spot within you that has your air constricting in your lungs. His fingers press against your clit, moving fast, in tight circles. 

You jerk your head back, barely can get the words out, before you’re cumming all over him. Each and every muscle tightens as you gush around him.

He says your name, his thrusts getting sloppy. He says your name like it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. Like a prayer. Reverent and soft. 

Peter cums inside you, saying your name through the ringing in your ears. 

“I’m never letting you go.” His eyes are alert as he says it, his smile gentle, “I hope you know, you’re stuck with me, gorgeous. I meant what I said.”

But your heats not over yet. Peter is supposed to be home soon, but you’re still wearing your comfort blanket around your shoulders while cockwarming the toy that usually speeds this suffering along. 

You’d texted him earlier, before the heat dragged you back into a feverish haze. Tried to warn him. You aren’t sure if he got it. 

You wished he was here with you. 

You wished you hadn’t moved out of his bedroom. You wished you were surrounded by his comforting scent. You wished you didn’t have to make due with intertwining pieces of his spare Spidey suit into your nest. 

You wished you’d let him do what he’d begged you for. 

But you hadn’t. 

So now you have to suffer and pretend you don’t want him to help you. 

Your hips rut against the toy, lifting you gently before you sink back down onto the fake knot. 

You wonder if his room still smells like you. Like the combination of your scents.

 You’d had trouble sleeping when you first moved in. You noticed he did too. So you offered to cuddle him, purr against him, to help coax him to sleep. 

That’s all it was supposed to be, in the beginning. Both of you were touch starved and skin hungry. He was an Alpha who had lost the only Omega he’d ever claimed. You were an Omega who had been nearly destroyed by the Alpha that had tried to claim you. You were both hurting, you both already trusted each other. 

A little bed sharing, some cuddling, didn’t hurt anyone. It didn’t mean anything. Just like the scenting didn’t mean anything. Or the kisses. Or the touching. Or the hands moving under clothes or the words whispered into skin. 

Until it did mean something. It had started to mean a lot, actually. Suddenly, neither of you could stand to be without the other. During patrol, he spent more time worried about your safety than his own. At work, he’d text you nonstop or linger just outside your cubicle to make sure your breaks could be at the same time. 

The affection started showing up during daylight, where anyone could see. You started wearing his clothes. You showered with him so he could leave his scent on your flesh. 

You almost let him fuck you. 

Almost. 

He’d rut between your thighs at night, after eating you out. You’d be dripping wet still and it made the glide easier. You would squirm and twitch and grab at him from being so overstimulated. But he didn’t mind. He’d press against your cunt as tight as possible without going inside. 

He’d bruise your scent gland with kisses, sucking, bites. Just to make a mess of you. Just to feel you leak onto his cock. And he’d tell you things while feeling you up. How beautiful you were. How good you smelled. How perfectly made your body was. How lucky he was to be able to touch it. 

How you were His Omega. 

“My Omega. Mine. My good girl. My precious Bug.” 

He’d cum on your tummy or your thighs. Or in your mouth, if you’d let him. He’d rub his cum into your skin so his scent would stay on you. So other Alphas would know, even without a mark, you belonged to someone else. 

You were blissfully unaware, still, that he wanted you to be his mate. Even after all of his sweet pretty words and obvious actions. You loved him and he loved you. That was enough. 

So when he asked you that night in bed, when he’d nuzzled his nose into the most sensitive part of your body and asked if he could have your next heat. If he could have you. If he could claim you and be your Alpha.

 It should’ve been an obvious answer. 

You whimper. You rub your clit in a lazy circle. 

But you said no. You took all of your things and moved back into the empty guest bedroom. You didn’t kiss him again. Didn’t allow him to touch you for more than a few seconds. 

You destroyed your Alpha in one word, and took your hard earned relationship with it. 

It’s been six months since then and you’ve regretted it every day. 

But this is how it started last time, didn’t it? An Alpha pressing a salve against your wounds. Saying all the right things. Making promises. Only to hurt you, betray you. Make you into the not quite human thing you are today. 

You bite down on your lower lip hard as an inconsequential orgasm runs through you. It makes the puddle you’re kneeling in wider but certainly doesn’t fight the fever burning in your veins. 

Today is day eight. Would you have to wait seven more before the pain went away?

Tears start to prick at your eyes. You move your hips as a familiar scent fills the air. 

Warm, clean cotton. Summer night air. Cinnamon sugar. 

Peter’s smell. The one you used to smell every night before sleep.

He’s home. He didn’t get your text. 

 The tears fall down your cheeks. The only thing, the only person who could make this go away is-

“Peter!” 

The scent gets more intense. You swore the door was locked but it’s open now, hanging on only by a single hinge. 

There he is, blurry in your vision. You blink back tears to see his shaking form. He’s breathing hard, his pupils blown. 

He must’ve showered at Stark Tower. He’s in his civvies, his skin clean. You whimper, wishing you could’ve scented him when his smell was at its peak. 

You cover yourself with your blanket cape, but it’s already too late. He’s at the edge of entering your nest in the time it takes for you to blink. 

“Peter…Alpha…” You cry out again, “Hurts so much…”

He rests his palm against your cheek, you instantly nuzzle into it. He kisses your forehead. That tiny gesture has you arching your back into him. He coos at you, to comfort you. You pant, the ache starting to subside just a little. 

“Smell so fucking sweet, Omega,” His voice is ragged, like he’s hanging on by a thread, “Tell me what to do. Tell me how I can help you.” 

You look down between your legs, where the toy is buried into your wet, puffy cunt. You look back up at him. 

It isn’t the same, but maybe it could help if it’s him using the toy on you. 

His lips twitch. Of course he wanted a different answer. 

“Take it out and give it to me.” 

You shake off the blanket, exposing yourself to his hungry gaze. A subtle growl vibrates in his chest. You move onto your back, spread your legs, and slowly inch the toy out. Your cunt doesn’t want to let it go. It hits every oversensitized point inside you coming out. You’re already coming again when the head of the toy slides out of your body, shiny with your slick. 

You’re gushing down your thighs, whimpering like a pup, and filling the room with your pheromones. Peter lets out a pained groan. The hot burst turns into a small trinkle running down your legs. Your lower body twitches. 

“I feel fuzzy…” You say, in your fucked out voice. 

“Because I’m here, Bug,” He rumbles, “Crawl up in your nest for me, on your knees.” 

You do as you're told. He follows behind you. You let out a soft, affirmative noise in the back of your throat. Let him know he can be here, he can stay. You tuck your arms under your chest, lift up your hips. His fingers splay you open. You shutter as he croans out in approval. 

“Gorgeous,” He whispers. 

He feeds the head of the toy back into your pussy. The new position makes you gasp, makes you feel like he’s pressing it into your stomach. Your g-spot is right there where you hadn’t been able to reach and Peter is pressing into it easily. 

He waits till the toy bottoms out before he starts moving it in and out. He’s slow at first, the noise of your wet cunt mesmerizing him. His eyes are laser focused on the slit between your legs and the slick lazily dripping out of it. 

“You're taking me so well, Omega.”

You keen at the praise. Your scent turning brighter, sweeter at his approval. His own scent is starting to morph into something sharper. More dangerous. 

Rut. 

You know he misses your taste. He’d said as much when you’d rejected him. He’d asked to still be able to lick you if you needed it. You’d said no then. Told him you’d already confused him enough. You had wanted to starve his affection to make sure he’d move on. 

But now he’s kissing along your lower back. His tongue reaches out to lick the salt off your skin. You whine, your stomach tightening. 

“Can I clean you up?” He mutters into your skin, “Just off your thighs, honey. Please? Just a taste?” 

“Yes…” 

His head is between your legs before you finish your answer. A long, hot strip moves up your inner thigh. His breath is labored against you. Every pass of the toy inside you, every change in tempo, makes you wetter. Makes your slick drip out of you, run down your flesh in idle streams that he noisily cleans off you. 

He certainly sounds starved. He kisses, sucks, licks all over your legs like he can’t get enough. Like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get your arousal on his tongue. It makes you wish his mouth was against your cunt. You wiggle your hips. 

He moves the toy a little faster inside you. You shake your head. He stops moving entirely. You shake your head harder. 

“Tell me what this pretty pussy needs, Bug.” 

You press your tongue against the roof of your mouth. Your clit throbs, reminding you it desperately needs attention. You can’t speak. You press the tips of your fingers against your clit, rubbing it in tiny circles. 

A sharp pain runs through you suddenly. You gasp as his fingers brace tight against your hips and his canines sink into your inner thigh. A small amount of blood dribbles down your leg. 

He licks that up too. 

“Peter…”

“Don’t touch what’s mine, Omega.” 

Your head fills with fluffy radio static as the subtle Alpha Command settles into your hindbrain. Of course. Your pussy is for your Alpha to touch. It belongs to Peter. Always has. You don’t question it. 

You just spread your legs wider so he lay between them. He captures your clit in his mouth, sucking it while he thrusts the dildo in and out of you. 

“Oh…God…” 

Your arms tremble. You don’t know where to move your hips. Down to grind against Peter’s eager mouth or back into the toy slamming into you. You pant, heat pooling in your stomach like never before. 

He flicks his tongue against your needy, engorged nub. Your hips twitch involuntarily. The toy moves faster inside you. Breathing gets harder. Sweat breaks out against your flesh, your chest getting tight. 

“Alpha!” 

Your pussy clenches tight around the toy. Your legs flex, you try to squirm away from him but he pulls you right back against him. Your mind whites out. 

The room is still spinning when you realize that he’s holding you against his bare chest. Peter replaced the toy inside you with his fingers. You coo gratefully at being kept full. Your head slumps against his shoulder. His skin is molten hit against your cheek. 

His cock is hard and throbbing against your lower back. His pants are still on somehow. His shoes kicked off somewhere in the ether. 

His shirt is on the ground, obviously wet. The toy is on top of it, forgotten. 

His fingers move languid inside you. He kisses along your hairline. 

“I missed you.” 

You laugh softly, “Yeah?” 

He moves to kiss your neck down to your shoulder, “I missed you everyday since you shut me out.” 

And all the mirth dies inside you. He scents your neck. 

“You called out for me. You called me Alpha.” 

“I did.” 

He swipes at your clit with his thumb, strumming lightly. 

“You know what I thought, while I was gone?”

You hiss at the overstimulation but your hips still move, “What?” 

“I thought you had another Alpha lined up for your heat.” His voice is low, grave. 

That thought had never occured to you. It was going to be Peter or noone. You were always going to suffer alone. For his sake. 

“I thought I’d come home and you’d be gone. Or worse, that our home would stink like someone else,” He nuzzles further into you, “Was distracted the whole time. Angry. A little rougher than I should’ve been. The thought of someone else taking what’s mine. Seeing you. Hearing you. Tasting you. Fucking you. It was driving me insane.” 

“Why would there be another Alpha?” 

“You gave me everything I wanted for a year and then cut me off completely with no warning signs,” He nips at your jaw, “What else am I supposed to think?” 

“You scare me, Peter.” 

You moan when he slides his fingers out of you. 

“I scare you?” 

He moves to sit directly in front of you. You miss his warmth immediately. You swallow. His eyes are mostly pupil still but his eyes are glazed slightly. Like he’s preparing for another rejection. 

“I love you,” You try to look past him, “And it scares me. The last Alpha I loved as much as you…”

“Hurt you,” He whispers, “They hurt you really bad.” 

You nod. You don’t want to speak. Your words will come out warbled and thick from tears. 

“Bug,” He takes your face in his hands, “I’d die before I ever hurt you the way they did. It would feel like killing myself if I ever put you in danger.” 

His eyes soften. They almost sparkle in his conviction. You lick your lips and those same eyes travel hungrily to your mouth. 

“I believe you, I just…” 

“It’s only been you, Omega,” He sighs against your lips, “Since…she’s been gone. You’ve been the only Omega who has made me feel this way.” 

The realization sits in your stomach like a stone. 

“You owe me nothing,” He swallows, “I won’t be able to control myself if I try to help you through this heat. I can spend my rut at Aunt May’s. You can let me know when it’s safe to come back. But I don’t want you to choose that route because of some bastard who didn’t deserve you.” 

There’s one. Two. Three beats of silence. Peter exhales, moves like he’s leaving the nest. If he leaves you alone, your omega won’t want to survive. You let out a distressed chirp.

He immediately gathers you back into his arms. 

“Settle Omega, I’m still here.” 

“Do you promise?” You swallow hard, “That you won’t leave me?” 

You hate how small your voice sounds. He looks at you, nuzzles his nose against yours. 

He offers you his hand, his pinky outstretched. You smile softly and interlock your pinky with his. 

He kisses you. You don’t need any convincing for you to open your mouth or legs for him. You taste your cunt on his tongue while he lays you back into your nest. It makes your pussy pulse, drip. The heat is ready to pull you back under. 

“Alpha…”

“I know, Omegamine. I know. You’re so empty. Let me fix it.” 

He starts to undo his belt. You swallow hard again. You knew his cock was bigger than your toy, You know his body like the back of your hand. But your stomach still flips when his pants and boxers come down. His cock is heavy in your hand, the cockhead already slick with precum. 

The knot at the base of his cock hasn’t inflated yet, but its size is intimidating. He used to hold it down when he’d cum on you so it wouldn’t inflate. Now it would inflate while it was inside you. You stroke the hot velvet flesh of his cock. 

“How do you want me?” 

“Lay on your side, like you used to before.” 

You smile up at him, “Feeling nostalgic?” 

He swats at your butt as you get in position. You giggle while he slides up behind you. 

“Leg up on me, Bug. Over my hip. Just like that, sweetheart.” 

You feel him against your cunt. Your body reacts the way it always has but Peter doesn’t press against you. He presses into you. 

“O…oh G…God…”

“Better than silicone?” He whispers in your ear. 

“Yes, fuck!” You tremble, your body shaking in relief. He isn’t even all the way in but it’s already doing more than your efforts all week. 

He bottoms out, his hips pressed against your ass. Your cunt clenched around him. He pants hard against your scent gland. 

“God, Omega. Your body is fucking perfect. You’re so fucking tight…” 

He licks up your neck, around your ear. You cry out for him. He thrusts his hips, aiming as deep and as hard as he can inside you. 

You reach around, your fingers moving through his hair. You turn your head to line his mouth to yours. He’s licking the inside of your mouth, slamming his cock into you, and you’ve never felt more like an animal. 

You’ve never felt more right. 

The sound of your conjoining bodies fills the room. The smell of sex, of your conjoining pheromones, tinges the air like smoke. 

Something in your body, in your mind, in your soul feels different. You’ve been waiting your entire life for it without knowing. 

Complete. You feel complete. 

You pull yourself away from Peter’s lips to breathe. He sinks his teeth into the flesh of your shoulder. The white hot pain settles in your core. 

“Do you feel it too?” 

“Yes,” He licks the blood from the wound he leaves, “Yes, honey. I’ve felt it from the moment I saw you.” 

“Can I touch myself?” You whimper to him, “Can I touch my clit?” 

He growls softly. Another bite on your upper back. This one doesn’t bleed but you can still feel the sharp indentation of his teeth. You whine, grinding your hips up against him to get his attention. 

“Lemme touch!” 

He rumbles deeper in his chest. You settle almost immediately. He presses kisses along your shoulders. 

“Touch your clit, baby. Let me see.”

You do, you try to be as slow and careful as possible. The opposite of his thrusts. He laughs in your ear, biting gently on your lobe. 

“Is that really how you wanna touch yourself, Omega? Come on. Let me see you. Really see you.” 

You rub harder, faster. More in line with him. You touch yourself like he would’ve. You can hear him start purring as he watches your hand move. 

“There you go, honey. Doesn’t that feel better, baby? From the way you feel around me, it must be. You’ve tightened up so much, Omegamine. Like you’re close to cumming again…” 

You are close to cumming again. His dick is hitting all the places the toy never could. Your clit is so over sensitive now, you only need a little more stimulation for a little longer to finish. 

“You’re so fucking perfect. I knew you were made for me. I’m gonna ruin your cunt everyday for the rest of your life.” 

“Promise?” 

“I promise, pretty thing,” His breath is hot against your scent gland, “You’re never gonna be empty ever again. My Omega…” 

Time stands still. The birds outside stop chirping. The noises from the city die out. Your ears ring as Peter’s canines finally sink into the back of your neck. The ringing turns to drums. But those aren’t drums, are they? 

It’s your heartbeat moving in time with Peter’s. 

He grabs your leg for leverage, his knot sinking into your pussy. 

You squirt all over him, almost soundlessly. Some many sensations fight for control over you but you mostly feel full. 

He cums deep inside you. He’s gonna be locked into your cunt until he’s completely drained. Until you're pregnant. Or there’s a damn good chance you might be. 

You lay back against him. The fever from before subsiding. Your brain fog lifting. When you turn to kiss your Alpha, you taste your own blood. 

He purrs, his hands wandering across your body before landing on your stomach. Your fingers intertwine with his. You start purring back. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too,” You smile over your shoulder at him, “I hope you know that you’re not getting out of fixing that door.”

He got to touch the untouchable-make you cry out and cum and squirm. He did that. He had been the first to do that.

He’d wanted to fuck you-either with his fingers or his cock-but you were way too spent. He teased you relentlessly in the shower-chasing water droplets that ran over your body with his mouth, touching you all over, kissing you roughly against the shower wall.

You were irresistible, adorable, as you shied away from him, trying to keep his hands above your waist.

“I don’t think…I can’t…”

You could. You could come again. Over and over and over until you couldn’t stand. But he didn’t want to push you. That had been your first orgasm with another person. Stamina could be worked on later.

You were in your head, too. He could tell. You were never the most talkative but there was something going on between your ears he desperately wanted to know about.

Did you regret it? What happened?

Fuck. Did you not trust him anymore?

Was there a way for him to regain that trust?

-

He corners you in the kitchen, the smallest room in the entire apartment. It was very easy to do, given how small you were in comparison to him.

“We have to talk.”

“About what?” You turn away from him, trying to organize the groceries you bought on your measly paycheck. There wasn’t much, and he could tell you were avoiding him. You could only pick up and put down the same clementine before it became personal.

“About…that.”

“No, we don’t.”

His heart breaks a little.

He thought he’d made his case very clear and apparent.

He was in love with you. Had been for a very long time.

“I haven’t felt the way I do about you since…”

The silence lingers heavily in the kitchen. Your spine is ramrod straight, shoulders tensed. And you’re not looking at him.

Looking like a perfect soldier. Looking like you weren’t human, but a perfect robotic clone. The portrait of frigidity.

His stomach twists. Okay. Alright.

“Forget I said anything. We can just…we can go back to where we were before.”

“Can we?”

The knife between his ribs twists. Wonderful. Great.

“I don’t see why not. We can just..forget this happened.”

“Peter…”

He brushes past you, “Gotta head out.”

“Peter, wait-”

“‘Ts fine. There’s nothing left to say, fresh restart. Factory settings. Just…stop.”

And you do stop. You watch helplessly as he crawls out of the window and into the frigid night air.

-

Peter was avoiding you entirely.

You attempt to wait up for him, now that he’d made a habit of going on patrol without you. But more than once, you would fall asleep.

You found yourself missing him. The smell of his skin, his hair tickling your nose, the feeling of his arms around you while you slept.

The few times you saw each other in the apartment, he was curt if he made conversation at all. Not even a good morning or good night, just ‘hey’ and ‘bye.’

You’d rather be in the basement at Oscorp getting your brain scrambled than deal with this pain.

-

You had gone on your own patrol and had gotten back way past mid morning in an attempt not to run into Peter. You’d changed into your civies and walked through the front door-

There’s a stranger in your apartment.

She must have not seen you or if she’d seen you, she didn’t care. The entire apartment smells like breakfast-smoky and sweet alongside the bitter sting of coffee.

And she’s wearing Peter’s favorite t-shirt.

It’s fucking Lucy. Lucy from fucking accounting. She couldn’t figure out how to use the copy machine. The goddamn copy machine!

And she was in your shared apartment.

She had slept here, had slept in Peter’s bed, your bed.

She fucked your Peter.

The kitchen isn’t that large, the aisle blocking off the living room is short enough that the two of you make eye contact as soon as she turns her head.

“Lucy, I told you to-” Peter’s voice comes from behind you.

“Get the fuck out of our house.”

How dare he. How fucking dare he. Fucking sleep with some random girl beause you wanted space? You wanted his friendship back and he fucks LUCY?

Her lips are parting, like she wants to say something. Her hand is on her hips, like you’re just some girl in competition. Like you didn’t know how to break her neck in a millisecond, like you didn’t have the training to ruin that pretty face.

In an instant, she was an enemy and your programming slams into overdrive. You’re up and over the counter in a millisecond, the t-shirt bunched into your first.

Superhuman strength is a blessing and a curse. You only mean to maybe shove her lightly.

What you do instead is leave a Lucy sized hole in the cheap door to your apartment. She lands at the end of the hall. Every door on the floor is flung open, revealing shock and amused faces alike-all of them turned to you.

-

“You’re so lucky we weren’t evicted,” He sighed, “And that Lucy was only a little bruised.”

A little bruised was an understatement. Lucy has a contusion in her shoulder that’ll take weeks to heal.

You tried not to look too pleased at the news as you helped Peter install the new door.

“She’s lucky she was only bruised,” You breathe through your nose.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Why did you even bring her here? Couldn’t you guys shack up at her place or something?”

“I didn’t think you’d be back before morning.” He actually has the grace to look guilty, maybe a little sad.

“Whatever.”

More silence.

You chew diligently on your bottom lip until he speaks.

“I’m sorry. It’s been weird these past few weeks. I think…I think it’d be best if I moved out?”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on, you’re actually comfortable like this? We nearly fuck, we kiss. You mauled my one-night stand! You push me away, you try to reel me back in. Forgive me for getting mixed signals!” His hands move into his hair, running his fingers through it, “I can’t do this anymore, I really can’t! Seeing you, it’s like…it’s fucking torture. I can’t do it.”

“You don’t talk to me for weeks and this is what you have to say!? You think this is easy for me?! God, Peter! I don’t know how to feel about you! I’m a fucking lab experiment gone rogue! I’m barely a person! What part of that screams girlfriend material to you!”

“I’ll let the landlord know I’m getting off the lease. I’ll be out at the end of the month.”

“So that’s it?”

“I can call Stark back, so you aren’t by yourself. I know you hate that. I don’t want you to have to be alone. We just…can’t be alone together. Not like this. Not until I’m over this…”

“Fuck you, Peter Parker.”

The new door slams, the hinges cracking.

-

You’re awake for hours, waiting for him to come home. You smell him before you see him.

Blood. You smell blood, thick and salty, and wrong on Peter.

His suit has been shredded along his abdomen, the blood making the spandex cling to the open wounds.

He nearly falls through the window and you catch him before he hits the floor. Guilt is swift and immediate.

Wordlessly, you help him to the bathroom. He doesn’t fuss, doesn’t put up a fight.

You peel off his suit gently, careful of the-are those claw marks in his chest? Before you can grab the first aid, his fingers are loosely wrapped around your wrist. He pulls you towards him. Pressing you against him, his sweaty bloody body touching your skin. He lets out a tense breath.

“Peter-”

“Just let me hold you. Just for a little bit.”

You can’t say no to him. You let him run his fingers through your hair, rub your back. Gently, you lay your head on his shoulder, trying to be careful of his wounds but selfishly trying to soak up all the emotion and touch you haven’t felt in weeks.

“I’m sorry,” He breathes out after a long stretch of silence.

“I..I’m sorry, too.”

“I kept trying to push you.”

“I was trying to protect you from me.”

He takes your face in his hands. His blood feels tacky on your cheeks. He brings your foreheads together, his breath warm against your lips. You remember what it was like to kiss him. How he’d begged for it, begged for something so simple as that.

The thought makes your body pulse in ways you don’t want to think about. Not right now. His thumb rubs against your cheek, leaving your flesh tingling in its wake.

“I don’t need you to protect me. Let alone protect me from something I want.”

“I told you before, you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

He chuckles weakly before letting you go. You grab the first aid kit out of the medicine cabinet but still feel his eyes tracing along your back. When you turn, he doesn’t shy away from his staring, a goofy smile still plastered on his face.

“I wanna kiss you again.”

“Peter, can you focus?”

“So mean to me,” He pouts when you come near him, “I’m injured and you won’t kiss me better?”

“You’ve lost a lot of blood. Healing factor is making you loopy. Sit up straight, I’m going to disinfect your wounds.”

“Yes ma’am,” In the same scratchy voice that he had when he-

Ugh. You are not thinking about that right now. Even if he’s being too handsy, running his hands over your hips, up your sides. Trying to pull you into his lap.

“I can smell it, ya know? Super senses.”

You want to dose him with the rubbing alcohol bottle just to get him to stop talking. His blood was clotting nicely and you’ve since surmised that most if the blood on him wasn’t him as you feared.

“Smell what?” You dab him gently instead. A tight, clean gauze dressing and the deep marks should go away in a few days. You apply the clean cotton and begin to wrap him up, seconds away from applying skin safe tape.

“When your cunt’s wet, when I turn you on. Like now. Can smell it, always have. That’s how I know you want this too, you’re just scared.”

Your noses touch when you look at him earnestly, “I am scared.”

“I’m scared, too,” His fingers move through your hair, his eyes scan your face, “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t wanna lose your trust.”

It feels good. The silence surrounding you doesn’t feel as oppressive knowing that you’re both in it together. Your eyes close without your permission, lounging once again the comfort of just having Peter touch you again.

“I trust you, Peter.”

You feel his face move further toward you, his lips inches away from yours.

“Say that again,” he whispers breathlessly, “Please, say that again.”

“I trust you.”

-

It was the closest thing to confirmation he was ever going to get, but he’d take it.

His lips press against yours, a soft peck. Another and another until he can feel your body relax. He’s been so starved of you, greed fills him when your lips part. He lifts you up, possessive hands firm on your ass.

God, you were soft. So soft and warm. He wants to devour you, piece by piece.

He puts you on the bathroom counter, your legs hike up over his hips. Your pussy is pressed against the tent in his pants through your thin sleep shorts.

He won’t pull away. His lips leave yours only briefly to catch his breath. Your shaky hands move through his hair and he shutters.

“Missed you so bad,” He whispers, “Missed you so fucking bad.”

His hands move up your shirt, his warm hands traveling up to your bra and then running back down to your thighs.

You whimper, your flesh breaking out in goosebumps. His lips trail pecks from your mouth, across your cheek, and down your neck. The soft noises you make control him. You’ve never experienced pleasure like this and he wanted to be the only one to give it to you.

The only person you’ll ever have. The idea of anyone else seeing you melt like this makes him suck the sensitive skin of your neck between his teeth.

“Peter-“ Slightly desperate. Begging almost.

He pets your hair, “Shh, baby. I’m right here. Do you feel me?”

He pulls your hips tighter to him. Your fingers dig into his shoulders. When you hiss between your teeth, he can feel himself leak precum.

“Y…yeah…” You move minutely against him, “Yeah, feel you. Feels good…”

He kisses you again, just to taste the words. He pulls away just to get your shirt off. New skin for him to put his mouth on. He unhooks your bra easily, how starved he was for your flesh. He mouths along your collarbones, leaving bruises with his mouth that would linger on your skin.

He kisses down your chest. Your nipples are hard and pink and distracting.

“Peter, Peter, I-“

His tongue swirls around a nub, the other is tortured by his fingers. He pulls it away from your flesh. You try to move your chest further into his face. Christ, you’re so fucking adorable. You gasp and writhe.

Fuck, you’re getting so wet too. He can feel it against him, dampening the front of your panties and his Spidey suit.

His cock aches. He needed to be inside you, couldn’t take getting pushed away again. He was going insane. He was going to jump out of his skin if he had to wait any longer.

“Get down.”

“Wha?” Your voice is thick and heavy. Your eyes are glazed over. It’s making it so much worse.

“Get down, lean over the counter.”

For the first time in weeks, you do as you're told. Your panties are around your ankles before you realize it. He spreads your ankles apart.

Your pussy is pink and glistening. His mouth waters while he admires it. You whine.

“Nah baby, don’t be embarrassed. Most perfect thing I have ever seen…” He kisses along your shoulders, down your back.

His hand moves between your thighs, “You’ve never had anything inside this sweet pussy, have you?”

Your cheeks are flushed, “No…”

He smiles, reaching around your front and pressing against your clit.

“Oh my god-“

“Breathe, baby,” He presses the tip of one finger against your opening, “Gonna open you up so I don’t hurt you. It’ll feel good, I promise. Just breathe.”

One finger slides in instantly. In and out, hearing the sound of your soaked cunt. He can see your legs lock at first as you feel the awkward pressure. You relax again when you get accustomed to one finger. Another slides alongside and you keen as the press against that spot inside you.

“Too much…” You whimper.

“Pretty girl, I know you can take more,” His fingers speed up slightly as you leak against him, “Fuck, you’re so tight. Been dreaming about you cumming around my cock…”

Your eyes flutter closed, your mouth opens just slightly. Your hips move back against his fingers. You might be trying to say something, but the only thing Peter can hear is-

“Ah, ah, fuck, please…”

Your face in the mirror is gonna make him lose it. He gently tilts your head back.

“Look at yourself,” He whispers in your ear, eyes locking with yours in the reflection, “Look at what I’m doing to you…”

Another finger, his free hand returns home to your clit. You don’t avert your eyes, even though you really want to. Watching your own skin flush, your pupils unfocuses, your jaw slack.

“‘m so close…so close…”

Embarrassing for you, arousing for him.

He pulls his hands away from you. You whine, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “No!”

You feel the tip of him press against your hole. Protests die in your throat. He’s big. So big, you don’t know if he’ll fit. He might tear you apart. You feel so empty though, open and ready. If he doesn’t do something, your heart is gonna explode in your chest.

You trust him.

He’s trying so hard to be patient. You’re a fucking velvet vice around the head of his cock and he wants to feel you all around him. He pushes in farther, letting out a strained moan.

Your breathing picks up, your eyes squeeze shut. He knows before you say. He can feel your walls pulse, your thighs quivering-

“Cumming, Peter, fuck I’m gonna-“

He nearly finishes right there and then. Your cunt tightens impossibly around him, trying to milk him for all his worth. Your body crumples, nearly hitting the floor. He holds you while you shutter through it, kissing along your temple.

He guides you gently to the floor, laying you on your back before boxing you in with his own. He guides your thighs over his hips.

He slides in much easier after your first orgasm. By the time he’s fully seated inside you, you already accept your fate. He takes a minute to look where you're conjoined, your puffy pussy taking all of him.

He pulls out just enough before slamming back in, watching your face. Your groan, your head lulling back. He does it again, and again. Shallow, slow thrusts to get you used to the weight of him. He’s seeing stars behind his eyes, watching your face contort while he overstimulates you on purpose.

“You’ve got more in you,” He pants out, “I know you’ve got more in you.”

Those swallow thrusts change into deeper, faster ones. Hitting that spot inside you over and over. Your skin glistens with a light sheen of sweat, his blood is drying on your body. The sight of it is making him insane. Peter leans over and starts sucking bruises into the soft flesh of your neck. His teeth trace your jugular.

“One more,” He breathes in your ear, “Gimme one more…”

Your abs are twitching underneath him, whimpering and whining and clinging to him. You say his name over and over, like it’s the only word that exists in your brain.

His thrusts get more sloppy, feeling your own second impending orgasm build pushes him toward the edge.

“Gonna cum inside you…” Not a question, a statement.

No going back.

You only cry out, seeking out his mouth to drown out the embarrassing noises you’re making. He licks into your mouth just as you tighten and gush around him again.

With one final thrust, he cums deep inside you. He bites down hard on your lower lip.

Now, he’s got your blood on him. No matter how small the amount.

“I love you,” He whispers against your skin, “I love you…”

You nod, struggling to catch your breath. You lean your head against him.

“If you love me, really, you’ll help me clean up.”

He laughs. It’s the prettiest sound you’ve heard in weeks.

“Fine,” He presses a noisey kiss to the crown of your head, “Shower?”

“A shower shower,” You say, “No funny business.”

“I promise nothing.”

“Christ, Peter, at least wait until I can stand…”

There's sweat somewhere in the back of your neck, you're sure of it. "I didn't say that."

"No?" He props his chin on the backrest of his chair, eyes now fixed in your direction and glinting with something you have never seen before. "I could've sworn I heard you saying you wanna shut my mouth."

"Nope. Hearing things once again, Parker. All I did was question whether you have the capacity to ever shut that trap of yours."

The image is born without your permission at his words, though. You wanna shut my mouth.

They echo.

You wanna shut my mouth.

How would you go about that?

You shiver.

He pouts. Sometimes, Peter does that—one of his annoying habits that drives you up the wall, or simply drives you to stand up as you are right now. Standing up in the middle of your table because that boy can get under your skin, no matter where you are, no matter how sober or not, apparently.

"That's mean. Why are you so mean to me?" The question is delivered with a smile.

You roll your eyes and bat away the hand of your friend who's pulling on your jacket in a silent request for you to sit back down. "I don't know. You awaken that part of me like very few people do." It was the truth, and it also wasn't.

The truth—the embarrassing and mortifying truth came with a weight you had no desire to even think about right now, in the middle of the bar while surrounded by your friends and once again arguing you Peter. The overlying excuse, on the other hand, had its own truth—even before The Incident, Peter already got under your skin.

His existence meant danger before you knew about his stupidly witty mouth and his clever brain. Before you shared classes with him, only to discover how funny he was underneath all those clapbacks.

"How can I put it back to sleep, then?" He lifts both arms in mock surrender, dropping a bit of his drink on the friend next to him. "I didn't even—oh, shit, my bad Lia, wasn't paying attention. I didn't even do anything to you this time!" He redirects his attention to you after his apology, and there it is—the sweet, and yet cocky smile that drives you up the walls. "I was here, talking to my friends, having a nice time, and you decided to meddle in our conversation. What did I say this time that pissed you off so much?"

This time, the clapback belongs to you and it's at the tip of your tongue. "Ah, so you're the only one who can meddle in other people's businesses, is that it?" Even his friends laugh at it.

Peter winces a little through his smile, and there you are, smiling as you bicker with him once again.

How many times have you ended up here? Wanting his clever mouth to be shut while talking to him at the same time? Prodding and poking whenever you get the chance.

"Fine. I'm a meddler. I can admit to that, but can you admit that so are you?"

"I don't have to admit anything to you," you replied just for the sake and pleasure of being difficult.

Peter was still smiling. He did the nose scrunch thing once again, and you hated how your entire chest responded to that stupid habit of his. "You like being difficult."

"And you like being mouthy and loud about it."

"I'm seriously wondering what I said this time that was so wrong that it earned your rage." He gestures with the empty hand this time. "We're at a bar, milady! And although it seems our old married couple bickering seems to entertain the masses even here, I'm pretty sure you're as tipsy as me. You were supposed to be having fun."

I am right now. "Who said I'm not?" It was harder to keep your smile and facial features organized into something neutral or sarcastic with alcohol in your system.

Peter's smile widened. "I'm taking that as the admission, then."

"Admission to what?"

"How much you adore pulling my pigtails." As if the words were not enough, Peter pretends to tug a chunk of his hair and feigns wincing in pain. Somehow, the smile's still there, in his eyes, in the corner of his mouth.

This time, you roll your eyes and sit back down, too bothered by how much his glee affects you. "You wish, Parker. Just—you could try keeping your shitty and wrong opinions to a low volume, at least."

From this distance — there are two tables filled with people between you and the object of your conversation — it's a bit hard to tell, but you're sure his friend makes a comment about you two under his breath.

Peter either misses it or chooses to ignore it. "I'm gonna have to insist, then. What was it that I said so wrong this time, milady, hm? Maybe I'll even apologize."

"Why don't you two stop half-screaming from across the bar and go talk somewhere else? Jesus fucking Christ, every Monday and Wednesday this shit." It's someone from one of the tables between you both.

The guy's friend says loud enough for you to listen. "Leave them to it. You know how they are."

And he replies with, "Of course I do! Everybody fucking does. Every week. Just fuck already, for fuck's sake. And stop talking over fifteen thousand other people!" He adds that last bit with a directed look at both of you.

Just fuck already.

It mixes in your brain with you wanna shut my mouth and suddenly—yeah. "I'm going outside," you announce to your friends.

"What?! Babe, no. We were in the middle of our ratings," she gives you puppy eyes, but you're already coming around the table.

Rating every Tolkien character from least to most fuckable would have to wait until after your freak out.

"I know. I'll be back. Keep on without me," you need air. Also water.

In the back of your neck, there's the prickly and distinct feeling of being observed as you wander to the bar and order a bottle of water. "Actually, make it two, please?"

He's observing you as you walk out of the bar to the back alley where all the smokers gather. Without a glance in his direction, you can confirm that Peter Parker has observed every step you take before you are out of his sight.

The air does you good, though.

It's chilly, and it smells like cigarettes instead of back alleys, and it's a trade you'd make any day.

None of the people smoking bother you.

Drinking the water does wonders for calming your nervous system down on any given day, but today, words are rolling around your head, and they are enough to turn your brain hostage.

You wanna shut my mouth.

Yes. Groaning, sipping bigger gulps from your bottle, you can admit to yourself, under the blanket of darkness and surrounded by complete strangers, you would love to shut Peter Parker's mouth.

Maybe the confession is too much for a brain without its usual filters because it breaks a dam.

It's a domino effect: one image of you shutting his mouth inside the bar created directly by his own words, melts and gets mixed, shuffling into another image.

In this one, both of you are in the classroom you share, and yet there you are, still shutting his mouth.

Suddenly, all the instances where you and Peter have ever shared the same place are flooded by those: shutting him up, quieting him, making him lose words, making Peter unlearn all the clever things he knows until he has nothing but blabber to say or whimpers to release, noises, gasps, your name, your name—

The prickly sensation on your nape returns, and you react as if being stung.

Tense. Waiting for it, knowing it's coming, there he is, your brain offers, but you're too much of a coward now to look.

He approaches anyway.

"Permission to come closer?" He asks.

What a fucking nerd. Not that you are far from one, but you snicker at the comment, curse yourself mentally and maybe under your breath, but allow it anyway. The side eye you give him tells him just as much.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

She's loud, mouthy, insanely clever, beautiful, and all the things Peter keeps telling himself he only observes.

It's easier said than done.

Easier in class when it can be pivoted towards something purely academical, or at work when he can pretend it's harmeless due to the distance, or at night as he swings from building to building and she's only in his mind, and not his life.

It's harder when he's been drinking with his friends and she looks even prettier without all the walls so hung up tight.

Alcohol makes people's filters go down.

Not his—Peter doesn't have a filter, never did, and ever since the bite his body responds to very little things, at the same time as it responds to absolutely everything.

His body responds to her.

Gods, if only bickering with her weren't so damned adictive.

When their little scene causes other people to complain and she leaves, Peter curses under his breath, leaves his glass on the table and gets up before he can even think about what he's doing.

His hearing picks up on Lia's 'oh, fucking finally' and the way Jorge responds with 'I know, if they don't get it out of their system I'm doing something insane like locking them inside a cupboard, I don't fucking know' and he thinks oh...

Maybe it's not 'easy', then.

Maybe it's been only 'obvious' and 'ridiculous' so far.

Too bad—Peter's got no other way of flirting. He can admit it as he navigates the sea of bodies to make his way outside now; they have been flirting.

He's been, at least. Despite his promises to himself that Peter Parker had no right to flirt with anybody, that he had no right to make anyone his anything ever again, that's what he's been doing — they've been doing? — and everyone's been watching, annoyed or amused, entirely aware of what's going on.

The alley is filled with smoke that come out of the three groups standing in their little circles, but his gaze fixes on a very specific body standing alone against the wall, chugging a half emtpy bottle of water.

Fuck it.

He approaches, shoving both hands inside his hoodie in hopes of maybe not being so flamboyant and expressive. Not flirting too much.

(Who is he still trying to fool?)

"Permission to approach?"

Her response is a snicker, and Peter notices her body language switches to straight up shoulders without even glancing in his direction.

"Hi, Parker."

"Hello, milady."

"What can I do for you?"

Shut my mouth, apparently. Peter holds the teasing for now and his eyes wide in surprise when he sees a bottle of water being lifted in his direction. He takes it. "Thank you." Does she think he's tipsy? Probably. "Sorry if I annoyed you in there."

"No, you're not."

He smiles before he takes the first sip. "Eh," he is sorry... a little bit. "I kinda am."

Another snicker. She finishes her bottle of water. "Hard to believe ya."

"Why is that?"

"I think you love pissing me the fuck off."

Peter laughs. He hasn't gotten used to how foul mouthed she is just yet. It's been more than a year but it still makes him laugh and think about what his uncle would've said if he heard how much such a pretty lady can curse.

Probably something old fashioned enough to make her say even more curse words.

"I..." he thinks carefully of his next words and feels the entirety of his neck tingling, then warming when her eyes set on his face. "... like how passionate you can get while arguing."

At that, she takes a second. Then, she answers with, "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Means that you get involved in arguments and discussions in nice ways."

"Nice ways? What we've been doing is nice?"

"It hasn't been?"

She stops, and Peter's seen enough to recognize when a smile is being held back. "You're crazy."

He smiles. "So are you."

"It seems that way." A sigh. "Peter..."

"Yeah?" His heart speeds up. She never says his name. That is the distance—his delusion about all of your exchanges being nothing... and the way you never say his name. He wants to hear it again. Desperately. One single time of his name out of your lips, and he already wants to hear it again.

God, what are you doing to him?

"I'm sorry," you say.

Peter stops in his tracks, his entire body still. "I—what?"

"You heard me, don't make me say it again."

"I know I did, I just—why? I don't get it. You've got nothing to apologize for."

Your eyes are not as glassy as they were inside the pub, and when you look at him, Peter feels something pull him a step closer.

There's a distinct vulnerability in the way you're staring that he's never seen before, or maybe never saw from this proximity to be able to identify.

"Don't I?" your voice is low and he misses the way you were speaking to him in there. He shakes his head, and takes one more step. He ignores the way this is the closest you two have ever been, and tells his speeding heart to shut the fuck up because it's too loud. You lick your lips and—fuck, maybe it's kind of impossible to tell his heart to do anything in your presence other than react to every miniscule action of yours. "I've been told I'm a... what's the term? Raging bitch, I believe, a few times."

His laughter is loud and honest, and it makes him happy when his eyes open and he sees that it pulled a smile out of you. "Oh—fuck, I'm sorry. That was hilarious."

"You think me being a raging bitch is hilarious?"

"No!" He's still laughing, but he's also warm enough to feel it in his face from the way you're staring at him from under your lasher. He mentally takes note that you made no comment on the proximity. He relishes in that fact. "No—I just think it's funny how much men are fucking crybabies nowadays." He chuckles when your eyes widen in surprise and your smile does too.

"Who said it was only men who called me that?"

He says your name in a tone that says 'please'. "I don't go to the same course as you but we do share two classes, remember?"

"Yup. We bicker in them every time."

"Exactly. I might've heard it once or twice when someone said something about people I know. About you." He might've also told them off every single time, but he keeps that part to himself—for now, at least. "They're raging bitches if you ask me."

The way you laugh should be printed and bottled. "They really are."

"Not me, though?" He's fishing, and from the way you look at him, you call it immediately.

"Parker."

"Oh, no!" He groans, hands flying out of his pockets straight to his face. "Back to Parker, fuck me!"

You laugh again, and Peter cannot get drunk, but he is. All your little 'fights' and arguments have never been real—you two enjoy playing the devil's advocate when in each other's presence but you've always been aware the other one is a decent person, he's aware of that. He knows you don't actually hate him because Peter's seen how you react around people you hate. Around men you hate, especifically.

"I can't call you by your name?" You ask, being difficult.

There it is. The thing you two do—be difficult with one another. "That's my surename."

"Which is part of your name."

"I know, but Peter sounds so much nicer."

"Hmmmm, I don't know. I'm quite fond of Parker."

His smile is wicked when hearing those words. "I'm printing that out and putting it on a T-shirt."

You try to fight a giggle and lose it. Peter had no clue what he was expecting out of tonight—frankly, he just wanted to please one of his friends by doing something he rarely does (or has the money to) and go out for a bit, and suddenly, there you were.

Suddenly, here he is. Laughing with you.

"You're actually ridiculous."

"But not a raging bitch?"

You punch his arm, laughing. "Stop!" Peter's heart spikes once again at the contact. "I hate it when you're funny."

"So what I'm hearing is that you hate me?"

Peter's cheeks hurt by now. He's been here for what? Two, three minutes tops, and his cheeks hurt because he's unable to stop smiling.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It's the smile that's doing it—your heart is attempting to murder you, or maybe Parker is, because he's been smiling non-stop and it's doing things to your insides that you're unable to stop now.

This might be flirting.

A part of you — the insecure girl who still lives somewhere in your subconscious — tells you there's no way Peter Parker is flirting with you.

The women who grew to have at least some confidence in reading basic signs and body language says his tilted head and side smile are more than enough.

You test the waters.

"You're not that funny, Peter," and there it is—his squirming when you say his name in a low voice.

He groans again. "God, you're such a shitty liar."

"So you're back to insulting me now?"

His laughter is so nice it's unfair. "Fine. Fine!" He throws both hands up and bites his lip and your brain's sirens go off, spinning in red, blue, and screaming. "I'll just leave then. I'm not funny and I'm clearly bothering you..."

The bait is so ridiculous you're able to reel the laughter in this time, watching as he spins on his heels with the precise smoothness of his moves that always baffled you, and he starts walking away slowly with his head and eyes still on you.

You manage to hold back the desire to reach and hold him by his clothes, too terrified of what you'll end up doing if you touch him again.

You felt a jolt of electricity at the simple touch, and you keep your hands to yourself this time.

"You need a compliment from me this badly, huh?"

He stops pretending to walk away. "I would like at least the admission that I'm the funniest guy you've ever met. It's the least you could give me for making you laugh so much tonight. Plus all those times I made you laugh in class inside your head but you held it in because you gotta keep up your appearances, milady."

It's only one compliment he's fishing for, but you decide to throw everything up in the air and—well, fuck everything.

Peter is flirting with you, and maybe you've been stupid all along to think that the biggest crush you've ever had was once sided.

So you decide, for once in your life, to be brave.

He's waiting patiently, a small smile still in the corner of his mouth as he waits to see if you'll yield, and you dive into it.

"Well... you're not only the funniest guy I've ever met, but..." you speak slowly, watching as his shoulders straighten and his face sombers at the realization something else is happening here. "Also... the smartest."

And there it is.

You've done it. You managed to shut Peter Parker's mouth.

Matter of factly, his mouth opens up slightly, gaping at your words and his eyes widen at the sincerity in your voice.

Without waiting for his brain to catch up with what just happened, you decide that since you're wet already, might as well swim in this accomplishment.

I managed to shut up smarty pants Peter Parker.

"You're also sweet," you add, smiling in victory when his eyes widen even more. "I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking. You're also quite talented. I noticed all your seminars have pictures that you took, and they're really fucking good, y'know that?" He has no answer to your question, but you're flying high on how stunned he is. Too stunned to speak. "You've got a great sense of morality from what I've heard around campus. That's hard to come around in guys these days. I know that's one of those 'bare minimum' requirements, but—still. Hmmm..." you wonder how much more you can make his jaw fall, and decide to end on a high note. Pretending to just remember something, you go. "Oh! And..."

This time, it's you who steps closer.

There are only a few inches separating you two now, and you get to see that he's blushing from this distance — or lack thereof.

Even in the darkness you can see it, and if your heart was beating fast before, it's beating hard enough for you to feel it in your ears now.

"It doesn't hurt that you're also the most handsome guy I've ever seen. I know beauty's subjective, or whatever, but... to me. You're really pretty to me. I like when you're wearing your glasses, too."

The world spins and halts then, because Peter huffs out a single breath and the next thing you know, both of his hands are on your neck.

Then, his lips are on yours.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Your skin is feverish under his touch.

Peter knew it must be just his imagination, but your words drowned every thought he's had tonight—fuck it, it drowned every thought he's ever had in his whole life it seemed.

One of his hands slides through your side feeling every inch ofyour arm and then wraps around your waist, pulling you closer. As close as you can get.

He's rewarded by a groan, muffled against his mouth. Swallowed by his tongue.

There's your tongue, sliding with his with the precision and tempo of someone who's been doing that for years, despite it being only the first time. Peter moans when your hands squeeze him right back. He loves how strong you hold on to him. He loves how you fit your body inside his hold, squeezing yourself to push against him, grind against him, and he's whining into the kiss.

"Fuck—I did, I fuckin' did—oh." Your words are muffled by your sigh when he sucks on your earlobe.

"Did what?"

"I shut you up," your giggle is a little bit of a moan, and Peter manages to chuckle as he assaults your neck. "That feels good."

"You feel good," he grabs your waist tighter, being extra careful with his strength there, and then someone in the alley wolf whistles, reminding the both of you how not alone you are in here.

The realization hits you both at the same time, stopping the kiss, but not the desire.

Ignoring the taunting that comes next, he focuses on the way you stare at him with expectation.

Peter smiles and you beat him to it. "Your place or mine?"

He winces a little at the question, but then he's hit by those words that tattooed themselves all over his brain once again, the part where you went 'I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking' and he realizes how much you got under his skin by blurting out everything that you seemed to be thinking regarding him.

His face relaxes back into a smile and you're waiting for it, patiently. "Ah—I live with her."

"Oh! Your aunt."

"Yeah." He'd leave it at that, but he feels the need to add: "I did have my place for a while, but when she fell at work—didn't feel right. Didn't wanna leave her alone after that."

"Of course not." As simple as that, and said with a smile that makes him want to burn everything down, or maybe build a whole fortress around you. "Mine, then?"

Peter nods, then drags you away.

In the cab, Peter watches as you text your friends to let you know that you're alive and won't be coming back. He does the same, and feels with a jolt of electricity running through him the second your hand comes to rest on his thigh.

As a result, he's half-hard by the time the ride is finished and you two make it to your apartment.

"I have a roomate, but she's still at the pub," you lock the door behind you and he nods, understanding he can do as he pleases.

Peter sort of wants to make you scream.

There's a second of silence when you two are alone in the dark, and you throw your keys in the table next to the door.

Slower than the first time, he glues himself to you once again.

This time, there's nobody around to stop either of you.

First, he starts by undressing you.

Piece by piece of clothing, Peter unwraps you with the same care he unwrapped the first gift he got from uncle Ben that he knew was expensive. None of the harsh and rushed tearing—he removes the clothes, leaving kisses on every new inch of exposed skin.

A part of him wants to shy away when you decide to do the same with the exact same care, but your gaze pins him to his spot, unable to move or do anything to stop it.

He's burning.

Peter feels exposed—worse yet, he feels seen, and wanted, and where there usually would be jokes there's nothing but silence.

He enjoys how you drag both you to your room without detaching your bodies.

Then, something happens to break the silence—when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed and he sort of stumbles into it, his hands fly to his sides, dropping the picture on your side table on the floor.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbles.

You laugh at him, picking the frame up and putting it back on its place. "It's fine." You sit on his lap earning a groan from him—there are only a pair of briefs and panties separating your bodies, and the way you grind and wiggle to feel his hard cock makes him whine, too. "Hmmm."

"What?" you ask in a low voice. The silence spell was broken, and Peter's hands are all over you again.

His brain keeps screaming for him to be careful all the time, but that voice has to swim with all of the want and need he's feeling. "Such a baby."

Condescending tone—and he whines louder. Huh. "Shut up."

You chuckle, wiggling your hips slower, making a mess of his neck and chest with your mouth. "You want me to?"

"No."

"Thought so." The way you whine your hips makes your pussy fit along his cock and Peter hasn't felt this lightheaded in years. "Wanna ride you, Peter."

"Oh, fuck."

"You like it when I say your name, don't you?"

"I really do," and it sounds like a confession even to his ears.

"Hm. Maybe I'll have to make you earn that, then."

Peter refuses to admit he's a whining mess underneath you, but there's probably a stain in his briefs already and the desperate way he's bucking his hips into you while his hands grip your hips strong enough to maybe leave bruises says enough.

"You're mean," he sounds wrecked and you barely started.

Peter opens his eyes to see you smiling in delight.

"I think you like it," it might be the way your condescending tone is just right or maybe it's just you, but he does. Peter nods, defeated and desperate, and grinds harder. "Fuck."

"Yes, please."

"Patience."

"Okay," he yields in the same second. He'd allow you to hang him upside down right now. "Whatever you want."

"Oh, god." He's thankful for this, at least. He's not the only one wrecked in this room. "You're so good."

Peter has some objections to that, but they get lost when you get up for a second and then remove the last items of clothing separating both of you. He has to bite his lip when he sees you grabbing a condom because as much as his brain is screaming at him to fill you up until you're dripping down your thighs with his cum, there's no safe way to tell you he's unable to transmit any diseases.

"I wanted to give you a mindblowing blowjob, but I'll be honest—"

"Please sit on me," he begs.

The smile you offer him is the brightest thing he's seen in months. There's a laugh, too, and Peter's too high on your touch to even manage a smile.

The next two hours pass in a blur of limbs, sweat, tongue, slick, and muffled words tangled in moans, screams, whines.

Peter has to hold his strength and he loses that battle a few moments.

The second he snaps his hips up to meet your thrusts and is rewarded with a scream and a cry of his name, he moans even louder.

You moan so pretty, baby, you tell him.

That only makes him moan louder.

Don't do that, wanna hear you, you say when you catch him biting his lips, and he cries out at that.

"Oh god, god, please, Peter," you beg at one point, and that's when he first snaps.

He's been good—Peter's allowed you to sit on him at the speed you desire, torturing him by going as slow and as fast as you like, teasing him with smirks and playing with the head of his cock against your clit during a few moments, but when your thighs start to lose their strength and your knees weaken, you beg and that's all it takes before he flips you on your back and climbs on top of you.

Slides inside you again with so much ease.

Both of you are wet enough to make your whole sheets wet.

You're dripping enough to ruin every night of sleep he'll have for the following month, at least.

Then, there's the filth spilled back and forth between you two.

It turns out the sass and clever replies are worse in the dark and between four walls.

Peter whispers everything you seem to love hearing it, and it turns out, he does love being talked down by you—just a little.

You just do it so well.

"That's it—no. Slow down. That's it. Don't be greedy. Fuck—you wanted—oh, you want to please me so much, hm? So eager to obey. I like that. Don't go faster—don't cry, baby, I don't care—FUCK, just like that, Peter. Fuck me slow and I'll let you use me however you want, baby."

It gets to his head.

Peter's human — well, most of him is, anyway, and you seem to have the key to his guts.

All he can do is obey because he wants to obey.

Peter fits so well inside of you he grunts with the effort to not bury himself deep enough to live there.

Your voice whispering filthy, sweet nothings make a home in his brain, and he's almost crying by the time you grab his by the neck, strong enough to make him wonder if he will have bruises the next day, and say, "Fuck, I'm so close, let it go, Peter, fuck me, fuck me, it's okay."

He's almost sure he actually cries at that.

And then he does as he's told.

He lets go, and fucks you the way he secretly desired to every time you two exchanged looks. He fucks you while holding you by the neck, while holding onto your waist for dear life, while moaning and chanting your name over and over the same way you're screaming his.

Both of you get so lost in the pleasure that when you both cum, Peter thinks you two black out for a second.

He sort of wishes he could go to sleep inside of you, and that thought is the one that brings him back to life for long enough to eventually slip out and realize he'll have to be the one with the strength to clean you both up into enough shape that you can slide under a sheet and get some sleep, but he does all that on shaky legs and a foggy brain.

Peter's fucked.

Both of you are, and it goes beyond the mindblowing sex that just happened.

He pulls you into his arms and sleeps with that knowledge. That's a problem for when the sun is in the sky.

You're not wearing the mask (a lucky thing, otherwise this might have proven a pretty sexually confusing experiment) so Peter sees every ounce of mischief in your eyes when you tilt your head and smile. "Can I try the web shooters, too?"

"Totally." Peter flicks his wrists, latching onto your hips on either side. When he pulls tight, you have no choice but to stumble towards him, laughing as you fall into his lap. "Another time."

"Why not now?"

"Too much power."

You grin at him, positively impish as your legs shift to straddle him more fully. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Sorry, you've got to go through orientation first."

You set yourself down in his lap. Peter's hands travel from your hips down your legs, meandering, but your bravado slips when you hear a ripping sound.

"Oh, no." You twist your neck to see your backside. You arch toward him a bit in the process, which Peter is not mad about. "I'm sorry—"

"It's fine," he says. "I'll fix it."

You still look guilty. "I didn't think it would tear."

"I tear it all the time. Trust me, this is not the worst tear this thing has seen." Peter touches your jaw, angling you for a kiss. "Anyway, it looks good on you. Worth it."

You soften. "You think?"

You let Peter kiss you a while longer. Your fingers cup his face and curl in the hair at the back of his head. He knew the material of his suit was slippery, obviously, but he never really considered how that might feel for you until he experiences the sensation of you moving smoothly over the material of his jeans. He can feel your body heat through the spandex.

"Are you super sure I can't try the web shooters?" you murmur near his ear after a while.

"Hmm…huh?"

"I just think it would be fun."

​It all started after your meeting for the literary society. You’d had an eventful meeting and were thrilled that you found people you could genuinely converse with and have a good experience.

​Enter Bryson: tall, dark, and undeniably handsome. Coincidentally, the literary society's brand new member. Unbeknownst to you, he’d spent the majority of the meeting ogling you rather than focusing on the book and what everyone else had been saying.

​You’re packing up when he approaches you, tapping you on the shoulder to compliment you. “I just wanted to say that you were absolutely phenomenal today.” His comment makes you smile as you thank him. “Thank you, I tend to get really passionate about things like this.” 

It’s not a secret that you’re absolutely gorgeous and viewed as something of a secret gem of the English department. Long curly ginger hair pulled into a ponytail, a flowy white blouse accentuating your breasts, and a short black skirt, hugging your thighs. Bryson can’t help but look up and down, beauty and brains, you were his dream girl. 

​However, a dream girl who was more than taken. Peter creeps around the corner, surprising you with a bear hug and kissing you on the cheek. The smile that graces your face is big and wide and takes up your whole face. “How’s my baby doing today?” His deep voice tickles your ear. 

“Peter!” You giggle before turning to hug your boyfriend. He grips you tight, as if as soon as he lets go, you’re gonna disappear. Peter can’t help but notice the way Bryson’s looking at you, more so how he’s glaring at him. “Who’s this sweetheart?” He asks.

“Oh, Peter, this is Bryson, he’s just joined, Bryson, this is my boyfriend, Peter.” They awkwardly smile at each other, and you pick up on the tense mood. “Well, Bryson it was nice chatting but I’ll see you at the next meeting.” You go to grab your bag off the floor, which is taken by Bryson, who hands it to you. Peter then snatches it from the man, quickly guiding you out of the room. 

​

In Peter’s room at the frat, you’re raving on and on about how the meeting went, and Bryson’s name comes up too much for his liking. Now Peter’s more than aware that you’re not the greatest when it comes to picking up on when people flirt with you. However he can’t believe that Bryson flirted with you so openly and shamelessly. You’re wearing his initial on your neck for Christ’s sake!

You’re sitting on his bed, looking absolutely gorgeous. Peter grabs his TV remote from his desk and throws it onto the side of his bed. Peter’s lips find yours in the middle of your sentence, his hand gently grazing your neck as he pulls you in undeniably closer. 

He shifts so that you’re lying down, and he’s resting over you. Your eyes shine with confusion and want. His kisses turn desperate and messy, but you can feel the smirk. He pulls away briefly to tug at your skirt. “Mhmm.” You nod as well, letting Peter know you’re fully comfortable with what happens.

He tugs the fabric down in a swift motion, making quick work of your panties. You’re wet, absolutely soaking, and dripping. His pupils turn pitch black with want and lust as he observes, sitting back. “Fuck I forget how wet you get.”

​His voice sends tingles straight to your pussy. Peter leans down, kissing your clit before making out with your folds. His tongue leaves no spot unchecked, eating you out with precision and efficiency. “Oh fuck Peter.” You moan softly, being cautious of how loud you are. Hand grips the back of his hair, pulling him closer. “Fuck don’t stop.”  

“Wasn’t planning on its sweetness.” He chuckles, sticking one of his long, thick fingers into your sopping hole. Peter loved to take his time with you, but he still adored being rough. Making sure his finger reached the hilt before pulling it out, only to immediately slam it back in. He spits on your pussy watching as it slowly drips from your clit to your hole. 

If there were a class for eating pussy, Peter would be the top student. Another finger pushed into your hole, as you let loose a loud whimper. He doesn’t pause his movements; instead, reaching for the remote, he haphazardly threw it on the bed earlier.

Without missing a beat, he turns on the TV and turns it up so you can moan freely, the sound of whatever show is playing in the background concealing the desperation you’re letting out. “Fuck, ah,” Your chest heaves up and down heavily as your head falls back to the pillows.

Your thighs tremble around his head as a familiar pressure builds up. Peter smirks in your pussy before intensifying his pace and eating more fervently. Sucking on your clit, before flicking it with his tongue.

That’s all it takes for you to be gushing absolutely everywhere. You can hear the obscene slurps and gulps coming from Peter as your grip on his hair goes slack. When he emerges from between your legs, you’re embarrassed to see liquid dripping from his chin. “You taste so good, baby.”

He doesn’t allow you to close your eyes, though. A light slap to your thigh has you opening them and refocusing on the glorious form of your boyfriend. He’s standing on his knees as his face becomes conflicted. “What’s wrong?”

Your wrecked voice comes out in a whisper, “I don’t know whether to fuck this pussy or have you suck me off.” Peter sounds so conflicted, and normally you’d shy away from something so vulgar, but you’d figured he deserved a reward for making you squirt everywhere.

You sit up before slowly removing your shirt, teasing him. He groans when your fingers glide over your sensitive, hard nipples. “Can’t believe I neglected these beauties.” Peter murmurs, taking it in his mouth, sucking hard and kissing all over, leaving dark bruises in his wake.

A pillow is set on the floor for you to rest on, as you kiss his abdomen. Peter’s body is shaking as he eagerly waits for you to pull his throbbing hard out of his pants.

Delicately undoing his jeans, you smile as his cock springs out of his pants. “You’re bigger than normal.” You whisper, smacking his dick against your tongue before fully taking him in. “You miss me sucking your dick?”

Peter groans, hands clutching the side of your bed. When it came to you pleasuring him, he let you take charge. He didn’t care how you sucked his dick, because he was getting off solely because it was you sucking him off.

Your tongue licks his tip, swirling on the top, as your hand gently strokes his base. Keeping eye contact with him as it fully enters your mouth. “Fuck baby.” He whines, not an uncommon sound.

Your head bobs as you speed up. Peter can see you squirming as your pussy leaks on the pillow. He gently pulls you off his dick, dragging you onto the bed.

“Wanna cum in you.” He murmurs, kissing you deeply, mixing both your juices together. His hand travels to play with your dripping hole, and he can’t stop himself from chuckling.

“Sucking dick gets you really wet, huh?” You gently slap his shoulder, glaring at him. “Okay, my bad, my bad.” He lays another gentle kiss on your lips, taking his cock in his hands and guiding it in your pussy.

Nothing compares to the feeling of your warm pussy tightly hugging his cock as it slides in. Natural lubricant allows him to slide in one go. He rests as his pubic bone gently bumps against your clit. “Oh fucking hell, sweetheart.”

His hands grab the headboard as he hikes your legs up around his waist. “Are you ready for me?” Peter asks. All you can do is nod, every brain cell you have focusing on his huge cock resting in your gummy walls.

Peter pinches your waist to focus you back on him. “Baby, if you’re not gonna answer, I’m gonna stop.” His voice is serious. Peter always prioritized your wants and needs over his, especially during sex.

If you weren’t able to give him verbal answers, he’d stop until you were able to. So his threat brought you back to earth a little bit. “Fuck me hard, Peter, please.” You look up at him to beg, holding one of your tits in his hand, squeezing and playing with the mound.

Peter can’t hold back anymore, thrusting in and out of you quite harshly. Now, something you’ve come to learn and love about Peter is that he’s not just long, he’s so incredibly thick, too. It’s a miracle he was able to fit in your tight pussy in the first place.

Peter loves the missionary because he can see everything. The way your perfect brown spit-slicked tits bounce at each of his thrusts, the way he can see the imprint from his dick, and finally, how he can watch your face contort in pleasure. A nice addition was seeing the P necklace you wore gleam against your tits.

“Such a good girl for me, taking my dick.” He says bullying your poor pussy. Reaching down to suck on your titties some more, bruising them. “Fuck ngh Peter ahh.”

You can hardly mutter a sense as your brain turns to mush, and all you can focus on is Peter and his big dick. He laughs at how gone you are, wrapping his hand around your neck and pulling up so he can kiss you.

When you and Peter first had sex, he never would’ve imagined that you’d be an undercover freak. You love getting choked, him spitting on your pussy or in your mouth. Boy, did he love you even more because of it. His secret little freak. 

Your moans become more erratic, louder as Peter’s thrusts quicken. “Baby don’t squeeze relax and come, just come.” He coaxes, his happy trail running against your clit.

He releases his hold on your neck as you start to tremble. Your tits heave up and down as you bite your lip. “Cumming, cumming!” You whine, but his thrusts don’t slow.

“That’s it cum on my cock, baby.” He looks down at a white ring forming around his base. For a moment, he is still, taking a deep breath as he watches you go through the aftereffects of your orgasm. Dark skin glistening from sweat, pretty titties, slightly jiggling as you catch your breath.

You whine as Peter pulls out, slapping his tip on your poor, abused pussy. He looks you deep in the eyes, “You want some more?” You kiss him as a response, hips bucking up to him.

His tongue swirling around in your mouth as he devours you. The kiss leaves you dizzy, “Fuck me some more.” You slur so lost on his cock. Peter lightly slaps your ass before turning you over.

He grabs both of your wrists to place them behind your back, forcing you into a mean arch. Your chest flushes against the damp sheets, ass wiggling as you wait for him to put his cock back in.

“Naughty girl,” Peter says, slamming into you all at once. Resuming his brutal pace from before, the bedframe slammed against the wall. If his frat brothers didn’t know what was going on before, they definitely did now.

You’re meeting his thrusts eagerly, slamming your ass back on him, and Peter’s mesmerized watching the way your ass ripples, and it meets his thighs. “You’re such a nasty girl, aren’t you, baby? Such a nasty girl for me.” He murmurs, his grip on your hands tightening as his thrusts become erratic.

“Gna cum, Petey, gonna cum.” Peter laughs at how desperate you sound, leaning over to see tears leaking on the bed. “This pussy mine hmm? It belongs to me right?”

His freehand moves to play with your clit, sending you into a euphoric state, “It’s all yours, it’s all yours.” You repeat like a mantra as he fucks you through it.

Soon he’s stilling inside of you, white creamy load painting your walls. Peter waits for a minute before pulling out and grabbing a wet towel from his bathroom to wipe you down.

He can’t help but lick a long stripe up your pussy as it oozes a mixture of cum. You shriek into the covers, pussy shaking and too sensitive. Peter smirks before cleaning you up and changing you into a long t-shirt and some clean panties.

By the time he’s done, you're out, and he pats himself on the back for fucking you to sleep again. Peter’s grin grows larger as he sees the dark bruises on your neck; if you looked in the light, you’d be able to make out a handprint.

Restating his claim, reminding everyone that you were his. Peter slips on some pants before walking downstairs to grab some water.

“Holy shit dude she destroyed you.” One of his brothers commented. In the mirror, he can see dark red scratches along his back; he hadn’t even felt them. “By far she looks worse.” He says, leaving the astonished brother behind, and climbs up the stairs back to his room.

The next literary meeting, Bryson’s staring, not because of how gorgeous you look, but because of how marked you are. Making a mental note to never flirt with you again ge watches as Peter possessively wraps his arm around your waist.

His.

So you did what you did every year, opted out.

No red, no pink, no cheap paper hearts. Just your regular hoodie, headphones in, head down, ready to get through the day like it was any other Friday. That was the plan for tonight too: takeout, a rom-com you’d pretend not to cry over, and your faithful pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream. That was the plan. And you were sticking with it, no matter what. The slam of the lockers nearby snapped you out of your daydream.

You blinked, realizing you’d been standing there too long, caught in your own mental version of a black-and-white breakup montage. You turned toward the sound, already half-expecting to see more heart-shaped nonsense or a couple caught mid-makeout, but it was just your best friend, Peter Parker. He was stuffing books into his backpack like he was late for something, hair a little mussed, sleeves rolled sloppily to his elbows.

He looked like he hadn’t slept much, which, with Peter, wasn’t exactly breaking news, especially not lately, ever since he scored the Stark Internship. You’d noticed the late nights, the new bruises he never explained, the way he sometimes winced when he thought no one was looking. But there was something different about him today. A kind of restless energy buzzing just beneath the surface, like he was waiting for something, or holding something in.

Before you could get too caught up in decoding him, a familiar voice broke through your thoughts. “Sup, loser.” You turned just in time to catch MJ smirking at you, her hands tucked deep into the pockets of her oversized army jacket. Her hair was pulled back in a haphazard bun, earbuds draped carelessly around her neck like a lazy accessory. You couldn’t help the way your mouth twitched into a smile.

MJ had a way of grounding you, dragging you back to earth in the best and most sarcastic ways. You closed your locker with a metallic clunk and slung your backpack over your shoulder, matching her stride as the two of you headed toward the cafeteria. “Any pink-plans later?” MJ snickered, bumping her elbow into yours with just enough force to make you stumble a step. “You know I hate Valentine’s Day as much as you do, Michelle.” You groaned, theatrically.

“Just checking. Can’t have you catching feelings and making me participate in some disgusting heart-themed Pinterest night.” She narrowed her eyes, mock-serious. “Because I will burn it all down.” You held your hands up in mock-surrender. “I believe you,” You laughed, tugging the sleeve of your hoodie over your knuckles. “It’s the worst holiday. Manufactured affection, forced gift-giving, fake declarations of love… hard pass.”

“See, this is why we get along,” MJ smiled hooking her arm around yours. “We’re both deeply cynical with emotionally unavailable tendencies. Can’t forget out motto, expect disappointment and we’ll never be disappointed.” You shrugged. “Actually, I prefer to call it realistic,” You replied, shooting her a grin. “And emotionally self-aware.” MJ raised a brow, amused. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

You pushed open the doors to the cafeteria, immediately greeted by the smell of questionable pizza and the sight of pink streamers crisscrossed along the ceiling like some kind of Valentine's-themed crime scene. Someone was handing out candygrams near the front doors, each one tied with a glittery ribbon and a little plastic rose. You felt your stomach twist at the mere thought.

You noticed Peter had already found a seat by the windows, half-heartedly poking at something on his tray. He looked up just then, as if he felt you looking. His eyes caught yours, wide, doe brown, and tired. But there was something in them. A flicker. You weren’t sure what it meant. MJ followed your gaze, then glanced sideways at you, suspicious. “Please don’t tell me you’re catching feelings for Parker, of all people.”

You scoffed, a little too fast. “What? No. Don’t be ridiculous.” She didn’t look convinced. In fact, she narrowed her eyes in that signature MJ way, like she was two seconds from dissecting your soul under a microscope. At this point, you were pretty sure she could read your mind. The smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth was dangerously knowing. “You’ve got that look.” She stated matter-of-factly.

You folded your arms across your chest, the universal defense mechanism of a person absolutely guilty of something. “What look?” You challenged, raising a brow with as much faux confidence as you could muster. “The maybe-my-best-friend’s-cute look.” She deadpanned, her eyes flicking toward Peter again like she was collecting evidence. “I don’t have a look.” You insisted, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “You do. In fact, it’s happening right now.”

You flushed instantly, heat instantly rising to your cheeks. Your eyes darted away, landing on the nearby vending machine with sudden, exaggerated interest. But MJ wasn’t letting you off the hook so easily. Before you could protest further, she looped her arm through yours and practically dragged you toward the lunch table where Ned and Peter were already seated.

Their conversation, coming to a suspiciously abrupt halt the moment you and MJ got within earshot. Peter’s eyes flicked up to meet yours. He straightened a little in his seat, pushing his tray forward like he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Ned looked equally guilty, but less subtle about it. “Y/N! MJ!” Ned called out with a wide grin, waving you both over as if you hadn’t been on a direct path to the table already. You didn’t question it.

You slid into your usual spot across from Peter, MJ settling beside you with her book already reopened like she had better things to do than acknowledge everyone at the table. “Any plans tonight?” Ned asked casually, his tone too light to be anything but bait. “I’ve got a date with Ben and Jerry,” You smirked as you unzipped your bag. “And my bed.” Peter let out a laugh, which seemed to have caught him off guard, because he immediately coughed to cover it up.

Ned, fully aware of your annual anti-Valentine’s crusade, turned to MJ next. “What about you? Anything?” MJ didn’t even glance up from her book. “Why would I want to celebrate a holiday that promotes codependency and glorifies capitalist manipulation through artificial affection and overpriced florals?” You snorted, choking on the sip of water you’d just taken.

Ned nodded solemnly, clearly used to this answer by now, and launched into an explanation of the new Star Wars LEGO set he’d started building, a massive replica of the Millennium Falcon that, according to him, required “Jedi-level precision.”You half-listened, eyes occasionally drifting to Peter, who had been oddly quiet ever since you sat down. You shouldn’t have been surprised, because that’s when MJ struck.

“What about you, Parker?” She drawled, finally looking up, her tone all faux innocence. “Any Valentine’s Day plans we should know about?” You looked over at him just in time to see the tips of his ears turn pink, spreading color across his cheeks. Peter didn’t look up, just stabbed at the contents of his tray like they were suddenly a tactical threat. “Stark internship,” He muttered, shrugging. “Same as usual.”

You tilted your head, studying him a little more closely. That restless energy from earlier hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had doubled. His foot was bouncing under the table. His fingers were tapping an uneven rhythm on the plastic edge of his tray. Something was definitely off. MJ gave you a barely-there glance from behind her book. Just a flick of her eyes. But the message was loud and clear nonetheless.

He’s hiding something.

You engaged in idle conversation with Ned, letting him drag you into a very passionate rant about why Rogue One was the pinnacle of Star Wars cinema. You nodded along, offering a few “totally”s and “yeah, that makes sense”s, but your mind kept drifting. Not because Ned was boring, far from it, but because Peter had gone almost completely silent which was completely unlike him.

Normally he’d be adding sarcastic comments, laughing at Ned’s over-the-top dramatics, maybe even jumping in with a nerdy side tangent of his own. But now? You were lucky to get a grunt, or a tight-lipped smile. One-word contributions. Maybe two, if you were lucky. You wanted to ask what was going on with him, but the shrill screech of the final bell cut through the room. Backpacks zipped. Chairs scraped. People moved like a tide.

You waved goodbye to MJ and Ned, slinging your bag over your shoulder and weaving into the current of students heading to your last class of the day. That’s when you heard it, soft, just behind your shoulder. “Hey.” You turned to find Peter keeping pace beside you, his stride just a little too quick, like he’d hurried to catch up. His hair was ruffled from where he must’ve run a hand through it, and he was fiddling with the strap of his bag, knuckles flexing, fingers twitching.

You’d known him long enough to recognize the signs: Peter Parker was nervous. “What’s up, Pete?” You asked, eyebrows rising slightly, your tone casual even though your heartbeat was beating hard against your chest. He glanced around, eyes flicking to the packed hallway, then back to you. He opened his mouth, closed it, then forced the words out before he could second-guess himself. “D-Do you want to, maybe, go out with me tonight?”

You stopped walking. Hard. If Peter hadn’t gently guided you out of the flow of foot traffic, you might’ve been flattened by the stampede of couples hand-in-hand and girls with teddy bears bigger than their torsos. The contact, his hand on your forearm, steady and warm, sent a current of heat straight through your veins. You blinked at him. “What?” He looked like he might combust on the spot, rubbing the back of his neck, his smile twitchy and nervous.

“I mean, like… you and me. Dinner. Tonight. I thought maybe we could, you know, go out.” Your stomach twisted, not in dread, but in that dizzy, disorienting way when the world shifts without warning. “Did MJ or Ned put you up to this?” You asked, the question out before you could filter it. Your walls were going up fast, automatic. Peter’s face fell for a split second, but he shook his head quickly. “What? No—no, this was my idea. I wanted to do this. I’ve actually been… thinking about it for a while now.”

You studied him, trying to find the punchline, but apparently there wasn’t one. Just Peter, standing there with his wide, hopeful brown doe eyes, flushed ears, and slightly crooked smile that always showed up when he was trying not to panic. He placed both hands gently on your shoulders, grounding you with a reassuring squeeze. “Only if you want to,” He whispered softly. “It’s okay if not. I just… I thought maybe…”

You looked at him, really looked at him and all those pros and cons you’d silently compiled over the last few seconds since he had popped the question suddenly lit up like neon signs in your mind. Pros: he knew you better than anyone. He made you laugh when you didn’t want to. He always saved you a seat, even when he said he wasn’t going to. He looked at you like you were… something more.

Cons? Honestly? You couldn’t think of a single one. Your lips tugged into a small smile, mind already made up, like it was the easiest decision you ever had to make. “It’s a date, Parker.” You watched as his entire face lit up, the tension in his shoulders vanishing like fog in sunlight. “Really?” You nodded once, biting back a grin of your own. And before you could blink, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

Soft. Quick. Chaste, but it lingered. Just long enough to make your breath catch in your throat. “I’ll pick you up at five!” He called out, grinning ear to ear, already backing into the crowd. You stood frozen for a moment, students weaving around you, your cheek tingling from where his lips had been pressed. A date. On Valentine’s Day. With your best friend. Who you definitely, totally, absolutely did not have a crush on. Right?

It’s safe to say your closet was a war zone within minutes. Clothes clung to hangers like they were taunting you, while others were flung across your bed, draped over the back of your chair, or pooling on the floor like casualties of indecision. Denim, florals, sweaters, skirts, none of it looked right. Your makeup, usually tucked neatly away in drawers, was now strewn haphazardly across your vanity.

Lipsticks without caps, eyeshadow palettes cracked open, brushes rolling toward the edge like they were trying to make a run for it. You stared at the mess, chest rising and falling a little quicker than normal, fingers twitching uselessly at your sides. This wasn’t supposed to be this hard. It was just Peter. And yet, nothing you owned seemed to fit whatever it was that this night had become.

Anything you imagined yourself wearing was either too formal, too stiff, too casual, too “I tried way too hard,” or worse, “I didn’t try at all.” You held up a red sweater, squinted, then tossed it aside moving onto the next potential piece. You groaned, flopping back on your bed and burying your face in a pile of unfolded laundry. “This is so stupid." You muttered to yourself. But it wasn’t, because despite your best attempts at denial, your heart had been in overdrive ever since that kiss on the cheek.

Your fingers had brushed the spot absentmindedly at least a dozen times since. Now, every time you looked at the clock, a ripple of panic surged through you. You sat up, blowing hair out of your face, and tried again. Eventually, you landed on something simple but flattering, a soft-knit top in your favorite color and a pair of jeans that hugged your curves just right. You didn’t look like you were headed to a gala, but you also didn’t look like someone who was about to binge another rom-com in sweats.

Makeup came next, light, effortless, like you woke up like this even though you'd definitely sweated through at least one hundred outfit meltdowns already. A little mascara and eyeliner, your go-to gloss, and just the tiniest dab of blush to make you look alive. When you finally looked in the mirror, you paused. It was still you. But it was the version of you who, for once, didn’t dread Valentine’s Day.

The you who maybe, just maybe, was looking forward to this.

You were done getting ready by 4:00. Too early, probably. But you couldn’t help it. You re-sprayed a little perfume behind your ears. Lip gloss reapplied twice. By 4:30, you were already perched on the edge of your bed, checking your phone even though there were no new notifications. None at all. You told yourself he’d show up early, maybe even knock on the door at 4:45 just to be polite.

You checked the mirror one more time, tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and tried to act normal. Totally not spiraling. Then it was 5:00. Okay, technically not late. Not everyone was obsessed with punctuality. Maybe he got caught on the subway. Or traffic. Or… whatever Peter usually got caught in. So you cut him some slack. At 5:15, you refreshed your messages for the third time, just in case your phone was glitching.

You checked your ringer, turned it off airplane mode, then turned it back on airplane mode, because that’s what desperate people did when they didn’t want to believe no one was texting them. 5:30. The silence started to feel heavier, the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty, just abandoned. The kind that pressed on your chest, slow and suffocating. 5:45. You peeled off your jacket and let it slump onto your desk chair.

You kept the rest of your outfit on, though. Some stubborn part of you still hoped for the sound of footsteps up the stairs. For a sheepish knock and a “sorry, I got caught up.” 6:00. Your legs had started to go numb from sitting so still. Your phone sat face-up on your bed, taunting you. The city outside your window buzzed with life, laughter echoing from the sidewalks, couples walking hand-in-hand on their way to overpriced dinners.

The world was moving, and you were frozen in place, still waiting on someone who clearly wasn’t coming. By 7:00, your heart sank low into your chest, too exhausted to hold itself up anymore. You let out a breath that felt like it’d been stuck in your ribs for an hour. Your eyes stung, but you blinked fast, forcing the tears back with everything you had. You didn’t want to cry over this, not tonight. Not over him. Still, your throat felt tight as you stood up, walking slowly toward your door.

You reached for the purse you’d hung by the hook hours ago, so sure you’d be needing it, only this time, you quietly placed it back in your closet. Your boots echoed against the floor as you kicked them off one by one. You didn’t bother turning the lights on. You shut off your phone instead, one last look at the blank screen before pressing the button and letting it all fade to black. You peeled off the outfit you’d picked with such careful hope.

The top you thought he might compliment. The jeans you felt just confident enough in. You wiped off your makeup, the mascara smudged slightly beneath your eyes from tears you swore you weren’t going to cry. But you did. You climbed into bed in a hoodie and sweatpants, bundled beneath a blanket like it could protect you from the hurt clawing through your chest. It wasn’t just that he didn’t show. It was Peter who didn’t show. Peter, who knew how hard dating had always been for you.

Who knew how much rejection chipped away at you more than you let on. Who was supposed to be the one person you could trust not to leave you hanging like this. You'd put yourself out there. For him. And he had forgot. Your tears were quiet but steady, slipping down your cheeks and soaking into your pillow. It wasn’t loud sobbing, no, it was that low, ache-deep kind of heartbreak. The kind that made your chest feel hollow and your throat burn and your brain whisper I should’ve known better.

After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity, you swiped at your cheeks roughly with your sleeve and let out a bitter laugh. “Nope,” You muttered to no one. “Not crying over this. Not again.” You grabbed your laptop from your nightstand and queued up Me Before You. If you were going to cry tonight, it would be over Will Traynor, over Lou in those ridiculous bumblebee tights and her heartbreak in Paris.

That kind of pain made sense. Predictable. Scripted. It wasn’t supposed to feel this personal. You clicked play. And that’s when you heard it. A soft sliding sound, followed by the faintest thud of something landing just inside your room. Your heart jolted. The window. Your breath hitched in your throat as you slowly turned your head, blanket still pulled up to your chin. And there he was, Spider-Man. Climbing through your window like this was just a casual Friday occurrence.

Red-and-blue suit gleaming in the low light, a plastic bag dangling from one gloved hand. “Spider-Man?” You whispered, half a gasp. Half a question. Your voice cracked under the weight of surprise and disbelief. The white eyes on his mask snapped wide, comically so, like a cartoon. His whole body stiffened like he hadn’t expected you to be there, even though this was your room. “What the hell are you doing in my—”

You stopped.

His shoulders. His posture. The awkward, familiar way he froze like he’d just been caught sneaking in after curfew. Your breath caught. No, it couldn’t be. Something inside you shifted, recognition blooming like something you weren’t supposed to feel. He didn’t answer at first. Just stood there like a kid caught red-handed, one arm still holding the bag, the other halfway raised like he might wave.

You blinked, your stomach churning with something hot and bitter. “Peter Benjamin Parker,” You hissed, voice shaking as you sat up straighter in your bed, blanket clutched like a shield around you. “If that’s you behind that mask, so help me, God—” Silence. Then, his voice, muffled and hesitant, cracked through the air like a confession. “…Y/N, please, I can explain.”

You stared, eyes wide as he tugged the mask back and off his head with one hand still raised, almost like he thought you might throw something. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when you were suddenly staring at the boy you’d grown up with, the boy you trusted more than anyone else, standing in front of you in spandex and dried blood. God, you wished you had been wrong.

For a second, just one, your fury wavered. His face was bruised, his lip cracked open and caked with dried blood. His eyes, still soft and impossibly brown, carried this exhausted, haunted look that hadn’t been there a few months ago. Not really. You always assumed he was just overextending himself with school. Or the internship. But now it all made sense. The chronic exhaustion. The sudden strength. The sudden ghosting.

The constant injuries that came with vague excuses. How he’d somehow grown five feet taller overnight. It all just clicked. And yet, it didn’t stop hurting. You tucked your knees to your chest, arms wrapped tight around them, blanket slipping from your shoulders as you fought to keep your voice steady. “Y/N, please,” Peter coaxed softly, stepping forward. “I know it’s a lot to process—” You let out a scoff before you could stop it. “Understatement of the year.” You muttered, not meeting his eyes.

“I swear I was on time. I had everything planned. I even had Mr. Stark get us a reservation at that little Italian place you kept walking by after school, the one with the outdoor string lights and those little lemon desserts you said you wanted to try.” Your chest tightened. “I was on my way,” He rushed on, voice cracking with guilt. “And then this guy, some psycho in this rhino get-up, literally plows through Midtown. Police were nowhere close, and people were getting hurt, and I couldn’t just ignore it.”

He ran a gloved hand down his face, clearly exhausted, clearly frustrated with everything, including himself. “I’m not trying to make excuses,” He added quickly. “I hate that you thought I forgot. I hate that I made you feel like you weren’t a priority tonight. I’m so sorry. You don’t know how sorry I am.” You stayed quiet. Not because you didn’t have anything to say, but because you had too much to say.

You were hurt. Humiliated. Angry. And worst of all, underneath all of it, you understood. That’s what stung the most. You finally looked up at him, face unreadable, voice flat. “It’s fine, Peter.” That made him flinch more than if you’d screamed at him. “It’s not like you owed me anything, anyway.” You gave him a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. His lips parted like he was going to say something, but no words came.

You stood from the bed slowly, brushing past him toward your dresser. “You should go,” You murmured, not looking back. “You probably have another crisis to swing off to, right?” Peter shook his head so fast. “Y/N—” But you weren’t listening. The ache in your chest was suffocating, louder than his voice. Your own thoughts were clawing at you, stupid, stupid, how could you have thought this would be different—

Then, twip, a sudden tension yanked at your hip, and the world tilted. You stumbled, instinctively reaching out, and slammed straight into a broad, solid chest. One you knew by feel alone. Your hands found purchase on the firm muscle of his biceps, fingers digging in harder than you meant to. “Peter, what—?” You started, breath catching, eyes wide. But he didn’t let you finish. “It’s not okay,” He declared firmly, hands gently steadying you by the waist.

His voice was lower now, almost trembling. “It’s not okay because I meant what I said earlier.” You froze under his touch, blinking up at him, still trying to play catch-up as your heart sprinted. “I’ve been working up the courage to ask you out for months,” He swallowed thickly. “I planned everything, the dinner, the reservation, the speech, even the damn gift.” His voice cracked a little at the end. “I had this whole moment in my head. I was going to tell you how I feel tonight. I was going to tell you everything.”

He took a breath and stepped back just enough to gesture to himself, to the red and blue suit clinging to him like second skin. “This. All of it. I was going to explain. Because I didn’t want to lie to you anymore.” Your eyes darted between his face and his suit, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers still curled against the sleeves at his arms like your body didn’t want to let go, even if your mind hadn’t quite caught up.

“Y/N…” He whispered, eyes locked on yours, like he was searching for something in them, hope, maybe, or forgiveness. “You’re my best friend, but…” That pause. That heartbeat of silence. That sentence that shattered you before he could even finish it. “I don’t want to be just your friend anymore.” Your breath stuttered in your chest. And then— “Y/N, I love you.” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t second-guess. “I’ve always loved you.”

The confession was raw. It wasn’t poetic or perfect, it was real. Said with the intensity of someone who had run through hell all night and still showed up because you were the only thing that mattered. Your lips parted. But no sound came out. All the hurt, the disappointment, the unanswered texts, the hours spent alone tonight, none of it erased what he did, or how you felt.

Yet standing there in front of him, seeing the bruises he wore like a badge for a world that didn’t even know his name, and hearing those words… It made the pieces shift. Not fall back into place, but shift, like maybe they could. He took a cautious step forward, his hands rising again to hold you, not demanding, just asking. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” He repeated again, voice so soft it barely reached over the beat of your pulse. “But I swear, I meant every word. I love you.”

You didn’t answer.

Then, slowly, tentatively, your fingers slid from his arms to his chest, right over his racing heart. “Say it again,” You whispered. Peter blinked, surprised. “Please,” You all but begged, eyes stinging. And so he leaned in, forehead brushing yours, breath fanning against your lips like a promise: “I love you.” Your breath hitched at the words. Three of them. So simple, I love you, yet they cracked something wide open from inside you.

You stared at him, your heart hammering like it might tear itself out of your chest. His hands were still at your waist, thumbs stroking gently, grounding you. And then you surged forward. There was no hesitation, no overthinking, just raw emotion igniting like a match finally struck. Your lips met his in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was desperate, hungry. All the pent-up frustration, the hurt, the longing, the unspoken tension between you exploding into that one moment.

Your hands flew up to tangle in his curls as his mouth moved against yours like he’d been waiting for this, aching for this. Peter groaned softly, the sound muffled as your bodies pressed together, flush with heat. His arms wrapped fully around your waist, holding you to him like you might vanish. You felt the hard muscle beneath the suit, the way his chest heaved as your kiss deepened, mouths moving in perfect sync like you’d been made for each other.

You gasped softly as he walked you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed, forcing you to lay down as he followed hovering above you, mouth never leaving yours, cradling your face in both hands now like you were something precious. Something fragile he’d nearly lost. The kiss softened then, still heated but slower, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your lips with his own.

Your fingers brushed over the bare skin of his jaw, and you shivered from the electricity dancing along your spine. When you finally pulled apart, barely an inch of space between you, your noses brushed, breaths uneven and mingling in the small distance. Peter’s eyes searched yours, glassy and warm and a little wild. “I’ve wanted to do that since freshman year.” He whispered, lips brushing yours as he spoke.

You smiled, thumb tracing the corner of his mouth. “Guess we’re both just as clueless.” He leaned in again, slower this time, like a promise: I’m not going anywhere. And this time, when his lips found yours, it wasn’t rushed. It was everything. Everything you’d waited for. Everything he’d been holding back. It was the kind of kiss that pulled the breath straight from your lungs and made the rest of the world dissolve.

His fingers brushed your jaw with delicate reverence, but the way his mouth moved against yours was anything but tentative. When you parted your lips slightly, whether in a gasp or invitation, you weren’t sure, he didn’t hesitate. His tongue slipped past your lips, tentative at first, like he was asking permission even as your fingers tightened in his curls. The kiss deepened again instantly, a slow heat building in your chest as your tongues met, exploring, tasting, hungry for more.

You let out a soft, involuntary noise against him, half gasp, half moan. You felt him react immediately, one hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, drawing you in closer until your bodies were pressed together from chest to knee. You could feel the tension in him, the restraint, even as he kissed you like he’d been starving and you were the only thing that could satisfy him. His tongue moved with yours, teasing and coaxing, a little clumsy but oh so Peter, earnest, sweet, passionate.

The kiss was messy, hot, addicting. Your fingers tugged gently at the ends of his hair as his mouth slanted over yours again and again, like he couldn’t get enough. And maybe neither could you. After what felt like hours, breathless, lips tingling and kiss-bitten, you finally parted, foreheads pressed together as you both tried to catch your breath. Your fingers were still curled into the fabric of his suit, heart thundering against his chest.

"Kinda leaving me hanging here." Peter huffed, his voice rough with affection as he reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from your flushed face, his knuckles grazing your cheek in a touch so gentle it made your heart stutter. You raised a brow, eyes flicking to the plastic bag now lying abandoned on the edge of your bed. “Is there ice cream in that bag?” Peter blinked like he’d just remembered it existed. “It’s probably melting as we speak.” You grinned, and he smiled back, soft and shy, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“I love you too, Parker,” You whispered, the words landing between you like a spark catching dry tinder. His whole expression changed, like something sacred had just been handed to him. He leaned down again, lips parted, clearly intent on sealing the moment with another kiss. Only you pressed a finger to his mouth, stopping him with a teasing smirk. “But you’re definitely not off the hook.” His brows lifted in amused surprise.

“I demand a re-do. No interruptions this time. And a lot of Cherry Garcia ice cream to make up for tonight.” Peter laughed, the sound boyish and breathless. “You’ve got yourself a deal, pretty girl.” His voice dropped just slightly, low and fond, as he leaned in close again. “As long as you’ll also do me the honor of being my girlfriend.” You tilted your head, pretending to consider it, even as your lips twitched. “What does that entail?” You asked, faux curiosity laced in your tone.

The smirk that stretched across Peter’s face was positively wicked. His nose brushed against yours as he whispered. “Whatever you want it to.” That was it. You surged up and met his mouth with your own, kissing him again almost as if sealing the deal. His hands cupped your jaw, tilting your head as your mouths moved together with a new urgency, less frantic than before, but somehow deeper. More intimate.

Like now, with everything out in the open, there was nothing left to hold back. His tongue found yours again, slow and sure, as you pulled him closer, your fingers accidentally pressing against the spider emblem on his chest. You gasped when the suit loosened around his torso, revealing the defined lines of his chest and abs. The surprise only held you for a second before you pulled him in again, fingertips skimming eagerly across his skin. The bag with the ice cream lay long forgotten, but you didn’t care. You had something better.

You had him.

And maybe, just maybe, Valentine’s Day wouldn’t be so bad after this.

In fact, it might just become your favorite day of the year.