eva

He was the guy who swung between skyscrapers, stopped criminals, helped strangers, and gave people hope when they needed it most. Everyone loved Spider-Man. They saw him as a symbol, as someone who would always show up when things got bad.

The funny thing was, the person who needed saving the most was Peter Parker himself.

But he had gotten used to that too.

He had gotten used to being alone. To coming home to a small shithole apartment after patrol. To eating dinner in silence. To having no one to text after a bad night or no one waiting for him when he came back bruised and exhausted.

Being a hero meant losing things.

Peter knew that. He had accepted almost everything.

Almost.

Because there was still one thing that haunted him more than anything else.

You.

Ned. MJ. His old life. The people he had lost.

But mostly you.

Because unlike everyone else, Peter knew exactly what he had lost. He remembered every conversation, every laugh, every stupid little moment that meant nothing to anyone else but everything to him. He remembered the way you looked at him before everything changed. The way you always believed in him, even when he struggled to believe in himself.

You were the person he loved.

And the worst part was that he never really told you.

High school Peter Parker was always convinced there would be more time. More time after the next bad guy. More time after the next crisis. More time when things finally calmed down.

He always thought he could tell you tomorrow.

But tomorrow never came.

Even after four years, Peter still found himself doing the same thing.

Lying on his bed late at night, staring at the ceiling for a little too long before eventually reaching for his phone. He never really meant to do it. It always started as something harmless, just checking the time or replying to a message he probably didn’t need to answer.

Then somehow, he would end up on Ned’s Instagram.

Ned had posted a lot over the years. Videos from his and MJ’s first year of university, random moments between classes, graduation pictures, and little memories Peter knew he would have loved to be part of. He watched them all, sometimes more than once.

He saw Ned and MJ laughing together, celebrating things Peter wasn’t there for. He saw moments that felt so normal, so ordinary, and somehow that made them hurt even more.

Because Peter could picture himself there.

He could imagine sitting next to them, making some stupid comment that would annoy MJ, laughing at one of Ned’s jokes, complaining about assignments, pretending he wasn’t secretly enjoying every second of it.

A normal life.

The one he was supposed to have.

And then there was you.

Honestly, Peter didn’t know much anymore.

You had always been private on social media, even before everything happened. You never posted every detail of your life unlike Ned, never shared too much, and Peter used to love that about you. You had this way of keeping parts of yourself just for the people who mattered.

Now, it meant there was almost nothing for him to find.

The only thing he knew came from Ned, from the few times your name came up in conversation.

You went to Oxford. Your dream school.

Peter remembered how often you talked about it. The way your face would light up whenever you mentioned it, the way you had already planned everything before you even got accepted.

And you made it.

You actually got everything you wanted. At least someone was living their dream life.

That night was the same as every other night. 3:22 a.m.

Peter was lying on his bed, phone in his hand, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram even though he knew he should have been sleeping, but sleep never came easily anymore.

Not when his mind was always louder than anything else.

His thumb moved automatically until a new notification appeared. Ned had posted a new reel. Peter clicked on it instantly. It was almost pathetic how fast he did it.

The video loaded, and there was Ned, smiling at the camera with a grin that was somehow even bigger than usual.

“Hey guys!” Ned said, sounding way too excited for it being so late. “I know I’m posting this super late, but something really special happened today.”

Peter stared at the screen, barely blinking.

Ned laughed a little before continuing. “Or, to be more exact, someone special came back home!”

Peter immediately sat up.

The tiredness that had been weighing on him seconds ago disappeared completely. His entire body went still as he watched the screen, suddenly feeling like he was back in high school again, waiting for something important to happen.

Then Ned turned the camera.

And there you were.

Peter forgot how to breathe.

You looked the same.

But somehow, you looked different too. Older. More confident. Like life had continued moving without him. But your eyes were the same. The same warm, familiar eyes that Peter had spent years trying not to think about too much.

The same eyes that had looked at him like he was someone worth believing in.

“Y/n!” Ned called out from behind the camera.

You turned around, laughing as you walked into the frame.

Then MJ appeared beside you, and suddenly it was the three of you together again.

Ned, MJ and you.

A version of his life that only existed in old memories now.

“Hey guys!” you laughed.

Peter felt something in his chest tighten.

It was such a normal moment. Just a simple video of friends being happy.

But to him, it felt like watching a life he was supposed to be living.

“Y/n finally came back from uni!” Ned announced proudly. “And listen, guys… this girl graduated from Oxford!”

You immediately looked embarrassed, laughing as you shook your head.

“I did!”

Peter smiled slightly without even realizing it.

Then you looked at the camera, suddenly confused. “Wait, who are we even recording this to?”

MJ laughed beside you. “That’s just what Ned likes to do. So probably to nobody.”

“Shut up, MJ!” Ned protested. “Someone definitely watches these!”

Peter froze.

Because someone did. He had watched every single one.

Every video. Every update. Every tiny piece of a life he was no longer part of.

But now you were back.

Back in New York. Back in the same city as him—his city.

And for the first time in four years, Peter allowed himself to wonder something he had stopped letting himself think about.

Maybe there was still a chance. Not for things to go back to the way they were. He knew they couldn’t. Too much had happened. Too much had changed. But maybe…Maybe he could meet you again. It probably wasn’t the safest thing to do, but Peter never feared danger. He was Spider-Man, after all.

Patrol usually helped.

Most nights, it was enough to drown out the thoughts. Swinging through the city demanded too much focus to think about everything he’d lost. There were always people to help, cars to stop, robberies to interrupt, cats to rescue from places they had absolutely no business climbing.

It was easier to be Spider-Man than Peter Parker.

Tonight had been quiet, though.

Almost suspiciously quiet.

Peter had just finished stopping a convenience store robbery in Hell’s Kitchen and was making his way back toward Queens. It was well past midnight, the streets below calmer than usual, lit only by the glow of traffic lights and the occasional taxi.

He landed on the cornice of a building overlooking the city, letting his legs dangle over the edge. For once, there was nothing demanding his attention. No police sirens. No cries for help. Just New York stretching endlessly beneath him.

His thoughts drifted to you. They always did eventually.

You had only been back in the city for a few days, yet somehow you were all he could think about. He wondered how you were settling in after four years away. Whether Oxford had lived up to everything you’d dreamed it would be. Whether coming back to New York felt like coming home, or if it felt different now.

He wondered what your plans were.

If you had already found a job. If you were planning to stay in the city for good. Then, against his better judgment, another thought slipped into his mind.

Did you have a boyfriend?

The question made his stomach twist.

You’d been gone for four years. Of course it was possible. More than possible—it was normal. You had moved on with your life, met new people, built a future that had nothing to do with Peter Parker.

You deserved that.

Still, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering. He let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head at himself.

It didn’t matter. None of it did.

You didn’t remember him, and he had promised himself years ago that he wouldn’t interfere with the life the spell had given you.

He was just… curious.

That was all. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

The sound came before his spider-sense.

Tires screeching against asphalt.

Peter’s head snapped toward the intersection just in time to see a pair of headlights cutting through a red light. Too fast. Way too fast.

There was someone in the crosswalk.

His body moved before his mind did.

A web shot from his wrist, catching the side of a nearby building as he threw himself forward. The city blurred around him, wind rushing past his mask as he dropped toward the street. The driver wasn’t slowing down.

“Come on…”

He hit the ground running.

One arm wrapped tightly around the pedestrian’s waist while the other shielded them both from the impact with the pavement. Peter twisted instinctively, making sure he took the fall instead. They rolled across the sidewalk just as the car sped past, missing them by inches before disappearing into the night.

For a moment, all Peter could hear was his own heartbeat.

He pushed himself onto one elbow immediately.

“Hey,” he said quickly. “Hey, are you okay?”

The person beneath him was breathing too fast, hands shaking as they stared blankly at the empty road.

“I…” Your voice caught in your throat. “I didn’t… I had the light…”

“I know.”

“I-I looked both ways.”

“I know,” Peter repeated, softer this time.

You were beginning to panic.

Your breathing became quicker with every second, your eyes fixed on the intersection as if you were still watching the car come toward you.

“It almost—”

“It didn’t.”

“But it—”

“It didn’t.”

Peter carefully moved back just enough to give you some space, keeping his voice as calm as he could.

“Look at me.”

You did.

“You’re okay.”

You swallowed.

“You didn’t get hit.”

A shaky breath.

“You’re on the sidewalk.”

Another breath.

“You’re safe.”

Slowly, your shoulders began to relax.

Peter stayed exactly where he was, waiting until your breathing settled. He’d talked enough terrified people through panic attacks to know rushing never helped.

“There you go,” he murmured. “Just breathe.”

You nodded weakly.

“Thank you.”

“It’s okay.”

“No…” You let out a nervous laugh that sounded more like relief than amusement. “I would’ve… I would’ve died.”

Peter’s chest tightened. “You didn’t.”

Silence settled between you.

Finally, you looked up at him properly. Peter did the same and the world stopped.

You.

It was you.

Every thought disappeared from his head. Your face. Your eyes.

The tiny scar near your eyebrow that you’d gotten in sophomore year after tripping over Ned’s backpack.

He knew every part of you.

It had been four years since he’d been this close. His breath caught beneath the mask. All he wanted—all he had wanted for four years—was to reach out and touch your face just to know you were real.

To pull you into a hug and never let go. To tell you that he missed you. To kiss your forehead the way he’d imagined doing a thousand times but never got the chance to.

He wanted to tell you your name. Tell you his.

Tell you everything. But he couldn’t. Because none of those things belonged to him anymore. Not when you looked at him with the same grateful smile you’d give any stranger who had just saved your life.

Not when, to you, he was only Spider-Man.

Peter suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“…You…” escaped his mouth before he could stop it.

You tilted your head.

“What?”

He stared for one second too long before forcing himself to look away.

“You…” His voice cracked slightly. “…should be more careful.”

It sounded stupid. He knew it the second he said it.

You blinked, then gave him a sheepish smile.

“I’ll be more careful.”

Peter nodded quickly.

“Good.”

He pushed himself to his feet before he could do something he’d regret. His hands were trembling. He wanted to help you stand. He wanted to hold your hand just a little longer.

Instead, he took a step back.

“I- I should… go.”

“I didn’t even thank you, ” you said with a small laugh, still trying to recover from the shock.

Peter’s heart broke all over again.

If he stayed another minute, he’d forget every promise he’d made to himself.

He’d tell you everything.

So he fired a web toward the nearest building.

“Take care of yourself,” he said quietly.

Before you could answer, he was already gone.

He didn’t stop swinging until he was three blocks away. Only then did he land on a rooftop, pulling off his mask as he tried to steady his breathing.

His hands still shook.

Not because of the near accident.

Because, for the first time in four years, he’d held you in his arms.

And for one impossible moment… it had almost felt like nothing had changed. Until he’d looked into your eyes and remembered the truth.

You weren’t his anymore.

It started like every average Monday.

Peter went to his usual flower shop, the same one he visited every week to buy flowers for May. Or, well, what was left of her.

A name on a tombstone.

He’d gotten into the habit after she died. He didn’t really know why he kept doing it. Maybe because it was the only thing he could still do for her. Maybe because buying flowers felt better than doing nothing. Either way, every Monday, he came here.

He walked slowly through the store, looking over the flowers while trying to decide what to get this week. Roses were too much. Daisies felt too cheerful. He was considering tulips when a familiar voice reached him from somewhere down the aisle.

Peter froze.

He knew that voice.

He turned his head.

You. Again?

For a second, he just stood there. Then he blinked, almost afraid you’d disappear the moment he looked away.

You didn’t.

You were still there, standing a few aisles over with your phone pressed between your ear and shoulder, one hand holding a small bunch of flowers while you looked over the different options.

Peter stared. He probably shouldn’t have.

It was becoming a problem how often he found himself doing that.

“What do you think?” you asked into the phone. “Sunflowers or lilies?”

Peter’s eyes immediately dropped to the flowers in your hand.

He wondered who you were buying them for.

A friend?

Your parents?

A boyfriend?

The thought made something unpleasant twist in his stomach.

He tried to look away and he failed.

You listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone for a few seconds before groaning dramatically.

“MJ! It does matter!”

Peter almost smiled. Of course it was MJ. You were always close.

He wondered what it felt like to have you close, to know you. To know which flowers you liked.  To know what you’d been doing for the last four years.

Peter knew almost none of that. Not anymore.

He watched as you listened again, your expression slowly becoming more annoyed.

“Okay,” you finally sighed. “I’ll take the lilies.”

You lowered your phone slightly and looked at the flowers in your hand.

Peter smiled to himself.

Lilies.

He wondered if you’d always liked them. Probably.

There were so many things he used to know about you that he didn’t anymore. Somehow, seeing you standing there arguing with MJ over flowers made that hurt more than he expected.

Because it was so normal.

You were just you.

Buying flowers on a Monday morning, talking to your best friend, completely unaware that someone three aisles away was watching you like you’d just walked out of a four-year-old dream.

He still watched you.

Peter started panicking as soon as he saw you handing the cashier the money. He quickly paid for his flowers and followed you outside.

And followed.

And followed.

Every corner you took, he took as well. Every street you crossed, he crossed a few seconds later, keeping enough distance that you hopefully wouldn’t notice him. He kept telling himself there was a reason for it, that he wasn’t doing anything that bad, but even he knew better.

“This is so wrong,” he muttered under his breath.

He should stop and he knew that. He could go home, put May’s flowers on her grave, and forget this ever happened. He could let you live your damn life and stop acting like he still had any right to know where you were going or what you were doing.

Instead, you turned another corner.

Peter followed.

“Just until she gets home,” he whispered to himself.

He immediately realized how terrible that sounded.

It sounded reasonable in his head. Safe, even. He wasn’t going to bother you. He wasn’t going to talk to you or follow you inside. He just wanted to know where you lived.

He was only making sure you got home safely.

That was what friends did, right?

Except sometimes Peter forgot that you weren’t his friend anymore.

Not because you had chosen not to be. Not because you had done anything wrong.

You simply had no idea who he was.

Peter was the only one carrying around four years of memories, the only one who still remembered the late-night conversations, the inside jokes, the almost-relationship that never got the chance to become anything more.

To you, he was just Spider-Man. You didn’t even know who he was beneath the mask. You never saw his face.

To Peter, you were the person he’d spent four years trying to forget.

Maybe that was why he kept ignoring the obvious.

Maybe it was easier to pretend you were still someone he was allowed to worry about.

“Okay,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Definitely not making this better.”

Still, he kept walking.

Peter was just starting to feel slightly less ridiculous about the whole thing when his phone suddenly buzzed.

Not just buzzed.

It practically screamed. That stupidly loud alert sound filled the air, making Peter flinch as he quickly pulled his phone from his pocket.

CRIME DETECTED—0.6 MILES AWAY.

Peter stared at the screen.

“No.”

The phone buzzed again.

MULTIPLE HOSTILES DETECTED.

“No, no, no.”

He looked up immediately.

You were still walking ahead of him, completely unaware, already turning down another street.

Peter looked at his phone. Then at you and then back at his phone.

Of course. Of all the possible moments for New York to need Spider-Man, it had to be now.

He tried to keep you in sight while his brain desperately searched for another solution. Maybe the police were already on their way. Maybe someone else could handle it. Maybe, for once, New York could survive without Spider-Man for five minutes.

He looked down at his phone again.

Then back up.

You were gone.

Peter stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, looking around frantically. The crowd had swallowed you completely.

“Fuck!”

He stood there for another second, hoping you’d somehow reappear.

You didn’t.

His phone buzzed again.

Peter sighed, already reaching for the mask hidden under his jacket.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Crime first.”

A week later, Peter found himself doing it again.

He really needed to stop and he knew that. After the whole flower-shop incident, he’d promised himself he wasn’t going to follow you around anymore. It was weird. It was intrusive. And, more importantly, you didn’t even know him well enough to understand why some random guy kept appearing wherever you went.

This time, he went to the flower shop again. He’d already bought the flowers for May and visited her grave earlier than usual, so technically, he had no reason to be here. None at all.

How did he know you’d be here?

He didn’t. He just had a feeling.

Well, his spider-sense told him otherwise.

Peter casually walked into the shop, trying his best to look like a completely normal customer. He wandered over to the orchids, picking up a little card and pretending to read it while his eyes occasionally drifted toward the rest of the store.

He wasn’t looking for you. Obviously.

He was just…

Looking around.

And fuck. There you were.

Peter immediately looked away, pretending to be extremely interested in an orchid he’d been staring at for the last thirty seconds. You were behind the counter, talking to one of the employees before grabbing your bag.

Then you disappeared through a door he’d never noticed before.

A few minutes later, you came back out.

“Bye, Gwen! See you in a week!” you called, waving before walking toward the entrance.

Peter’s brain caught on one thing.

See you in a week.

A week?

You worked here.

It made sense. You’d always loved flowers. Peter remembered that much. He waited a few seconds after you left before putting the orchid card back where he’d found it.

Then he followed.

He really, really shouldn’t.

He was Spider-Man. A superhero. A guy who spent his nights stopping actual criminals. Not a stalker.

And yet, the second he stepped outside and saw you walking down the street, his feet moved after you.

He kept a reasonable distance. Probably.

You turned left, so did Peter.

You stopped to check your phone and Peter suddenly became very interested in a restaurant menu.

Then you kept walking.

Peter followed.

He could stop right now. Instead, he found himself thinking about something that felt almost normal.

He just wanted to know where his girlfriend lived.

Except…

Girlfriend wasn’t exactly the right word. You had never actually been his girlfriend. Not officially. Not really. You’d been something close to it. Something that Peter had never been brave enough to name because he’d always thought there would be more time.

A girlfriend who never got the chance to become his girlfriend.

And now you didn’t even know him.

He followed you all the way to the subway.

Peter stopped at the top of the stairs, watching you disappear through the gates, and for a moment, he finally let himself think about what the hell he was doing. He had two options now. He could leave you alone, turn around, go home, and put some distance between you again. It was the smart thing to do. The safe thing. 

You were safer without Peter Parker in your life, especially with everything that came with Spider-Man. The criminals, the danger, the constant possibility of someone finding out who he was and using the people he loved against him. And then there was Peter himself, which was probably the biggest problem of all. He had already spent four years keeping you safe by staying away from you. Maybe he should keep doing exactly that.

He took a step back.

He should leave.

He knew he should.

But then he looked down at the subway entrance again and thought about you disappearing into the crowd, going back to a life he knew nothing about. He wanted to know where you were going. Where you lived. What your apartment looked like. If you still listened to music on the way home. If you would get there safely. He told himself it was just curiosity, but even Peter knew that was a lie. He’d spent four years wondering about you, and now that you were finally back, walking away felt almost impossible.

Before he could think about it any longer, he went through the gates.

The train was already approaching, the sound of it growing louder as it pulled into the station. You were standing near the platform, looking down at your phone, completely unaware that he was even there. The doors opened, and you stepped inside.

Peter followed.

The doors closed behind him before he could change his mind.

He stood there for a second, staring at his reflection in the dark window.

“Great,” he muttered.

He moved to the other side of the carriage and sat down, making sure there were a few people between you. This was fine. Completely normal. People took the same train every day. There was nothing weird about it.

Except Peter wasn’t here because he needed to get somewhere.

He was here because you were.

He glanced over.

You had your headphones in, staring out the window as the city lights blurred past. You looked peaceful, completely unaware of the fact that Peter was sitting only a few seats away, trying to convince himself he hadn’t just crossed another line.

He should probably get off at the next stop.

Instead, he leaned back against the seat and looked at you again.

Maybe just five minutes.

Five minutes couldn’t hurt.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

The train eventually slowed down, and Peter looked up at the screen above the doors. Brooklyn.

You stood up.

Peter immediately sat a little straighter, watching as you pulled your headphones out and slipped your phone into your bag before the doors opened. You stepped onto the platform without looking back, and Peter waited a few seconds before following.

He kept enough distance between you that he could still pretend this was a coincidence if anyone asked. The station was busy, people moving in every direction as you made your way toward the exit, and Peter followed you up the stairs and back onto the street.

So, Brooklyn.

He hadn’t expected that.

You walked ahead of him, taking a left at the corner without hesitation. Peter followed, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, trying not to look like someone who had just followed a girl across half of New York.

The streets were quieter here. The city noise faded into the background, replaced by cars passing and people talking outside bars and restaurants. Peter watched you walk for another minute before you suddenly stopped in front of an apartment building.

He slowed down.

The first thing he noticed was the music. It was loud enough to hear from outside, bass shaking faintly through the walls. People kept coming in and out of the entrance, dressed up, laughing, carrying drinks. Someone nearly bumped into Peter on their way inside.

A party. Definitely a party.

You walked straight through the entrance like you’d been here before.

Peter stared after you.

So this was where you lived? Or maybe you were just visiting.

He should leave. Obviously. There was absolutely no reason for him to go inside. In fact, there were several very good reasons why he shouldn’t. But then he looked at the crowded entrance again. A lot of people went to parties like this. A lot of unknown people.

Which meant…

Peter could be one of them. He could just walk in and nobody would know who he was. Nobody would think it was weird. He could see you again, maybe talk to you for a few minutes, and then leave.

Completely normal. Absolutely not suspicious.

Peter nodded to himself.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s fine.”

He walked toward the entrance.

Then stopped. “What am I doing?”

He looked up at the building, already knowing he was going inside.

The second Peter stepped inside, he realized he had made a mistake.

The music was even louder than it had sounded from outside, the bass practically shaking the floor beneath his feet. The apartment was packed, people squeezed into every possible corner with drinks in their hands, someone yelling over the music from the kitchen while another group had completely taken over the living room. Peter stood near the entrance for a second, suddenly very aware that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing here.

Some random guy walking past offered him a drink, and Peter took the red cup before continuing deeper into the apartment. At least now he looked like he actually belonged here.

He wandered down the hallway and stepped into one of the rooms, only to stop almost immediately. The room felt strangely familiar, even though Peter knew he’d never been here before.

Star Wars Lego sets were everywhere. On shelves, on desks, on the floor. Some were carefully built while others looked like they had been abandoned halfway through. There was also the usual mess that came with too many people living in one place. Clothes thrown over a chair, empty cups on the desk, random things scattered everywhere.

Peter stared at the collection for a little too long.

“Um, sorry?”

He turned around.

Ned.

Peter’s entire brain stopped working.

“Uh—um, I like your Star Wars collection.”

You fucking dumbass.

Ned looked at the set. Then back at Peter.

“Thanks?”

Peter nodded.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

He needed to say something else. Anything else.

Instead, he gestured toward the shelves.

“This is… a lot of Lego.”

Ned laughed, glancing around the room.

“Yeah. My roommates say it’s a problem.”

Peter smiled awkwardly.

“Yeah. I can see why.”

So this was where you lived. You, Ned, and MJ. Three of you.

Peter’s eyes moved around the room again.

It was supposed to be four.

For a second, he could almost picture himself here. His backpack thrown somewhere in the corner, his own Lego sets mixed in with Ned’s, all four of you arguing over something stupid while music played in the background.

But that wasn’t his life anymore.

Ned looked at him expectantly, and Peter realized he’d gone completely silent.

“What’s your name?”

Peter’s stomach dropped.

Don’t say Peter Parker.

He couldn’t risk Spider-Man’s identity, even if Ned had no idea who he was.

His brain scrambled for the first name that came to him.

“Uhh—”

He hesitated.

“Lucas.”

Ned raised an eyebrow.

“Lucas?”

Peter nodded quickly.

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

Peter took another sip of his drink, trying to act like he’d just introduced himself normally instead of inventing an entirely new identity in front of his best friend.

“Nice to meet you, Lucas.”

“Yeah,” Peter said quietly. “You too.”

And somehow, hearing Ned say nice to meet you hurt more than Peter expected.

“Ned—”

Peter’s head snapped toward the doorway.

You walked in.

His entire body went still. For a second, the noise from the party seemed to disappear completely—the music, the people shouting from the hallway, the laughter coming from the living room—all of it faded into the background as Peter looked at you. 

You were wearing a small smile, clearly looking for Ned, until your eyes landed on him. The smile didn’t disappear, but your expression changed slightly as your eyes scanned him for a second too long, like you were trying to place him somewhere in your memory.

You didn’t recognize him. How could you?

Peter forced himself to breathe.

“Hey,” you said, looking between him and Ned. “Who’s this?”

Ned turned toward you. “This is Lucas. I just met him. He was admiring my Star Wars collection.”

Peter almost winced at the name. Lucas. Right. That was him now.

You looked back at Peter and gave him a polite smile. “Hi, Lucas.”

Peter swallowed. “Hi.”

God, even your voice sounded the same. He wanted to say your name. He wanted to hear himself say it again, just once, the way he used to. He wanted to tell you that he knew you, that he knew your favorite flowers and the way you took your coffee and the stupid little face you made whenever you were trying to remember something. He wanted to tell you that he’d spent four years missing you.

Instead, he took another sip from the red cup, suddenly very interested in whatever was inside it.

Ned pointed toward you. “This is Y/N.”

Peter nearly laughed.

I know.

He knew everything.

Or he used to.

“Nice to meet you, Lucas,” you said warmly.

I’m Peter.

The words were right there. He wanted to correct himself so badly. I’m Peter.

He almost said it, his lips parting before he stopped himself. Because what would happen if you knew? You’d probably just look at him the same way you’d been looking at him all night, like some random guy at a party. But Peter knew better than to take that chance.

So he forced a small smile instead. “Nice to meet you too.”

The words felt wrong coming out of his mouth.

You smiled again, completely unaware that Peter Parker was standing right in front of you, desperately trying not to tell you who he was.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything else.

A few minutes later, Peter was still standing in the same room, pretending to listen to whatever Ned was saying about one of his LEGO sets when his eyes drifted across the apartment again. He stopped when he saw you near the kitchen, talking to some guy he didn’t recognize. Peter immediately disliked him, which was ridiculous because he had absolutely no reason to. 

The guy was leaning against the counter, smiling at something you said, and you were smiling back—not the polite smile you’d given Peter earlier, but a real one, your eyes brighter as you looked at him. Then the guy said something Peter couldn’t hear and you laughed, leaning a little closer. Peter’s jaw tightened. Okay. Fine. It didn’t mean anything. You were allowed to talk to people. You were allowed to flirt with people. You were allowed to have a life. You’d spent the last four years living it without him.

He took another sip of his drink, even though it tasted awful. Maybe the guy was just a friend. Maybe they had known each other for years. Maybe they weren’t flirting at all. Peter kept telling himself that until the guy leaned closer and you didn’t move away. His stomach dropped. Right. Of course. Why wouldn’t you have someone? You’d been at Oxford, you’d met people, gone out, made memories Peter knew nothing about. 

Maybe there had been someone before this guy. Maybe there were dozens of people Peter didn’t know about. And the worst part was that he had no right to care. You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even his friend anymore. You didn’t even know his real name.

Peter looked down at the red cup in his hand. Lucas. He hated that name now. He set the cup down and quietly said, “I should go.”

Ned looked over. “Already?”

“Yeah. I’ve, uh… got stuff.”

“At this hour?”

Peter shrugged, glancing toward the kitchen one last time before looking away. “Very important stuff.”

Ned laughed. “Fair.”

Peter forced a small smile and slipped out of the apartment before he could make himself feel any worse. He didn’t notice you watching him leave.

You did.

A few seconds later, you excused yourself from the conversation and followed him outside. You found him standing near the entrance, looking up at the rain.

“Lucas?”

Peter turned around.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed against the cold.

“You leaving already?”

“Yeah.”

You looked at him for a second, almost like you were trying to figure him out. “You barely even stayed.”

Peter shrugged. “I’m not really a party person.”

You smiled. “Neither am I, honestly.”

He looked at you.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then you nodded toward the street. “Maybe we should hang out sometime when it’s not… this.”

Peter blinked.

“Hang out?”

“Yeah.” You smiled. “You seem nice. And I feel like I barely got to talk to you.”

Peter’s heart did something stupid.

He wanted to say yes immediately.

He wanted to say I’ve been waiting four years to talk to you.

Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah. I guess.”

You smiled wider.

“I work at a flower shop in Queens, by the way. You know, if you ever want to stop by.”

Peter almost laughed.

He knew. He knew exactly which flower shop.

“I might.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

Another awkward pause.

Peter looked toward the street.

“I should go.”

You nodded. “Okay. See you around, Lucas.”

“Yeah. See you.”

He turned before you could see the way his face changed.

The second he was far enough away, Peter ducked into a dark alley and immediately fired a web toward the nearest building.

Then he swung.

Without the mask.

He knew it was stupid. Risky. Anyone could see his face. One clear photo, one person with a good camera, and Spider-Man’s secret could be gone. He knew all of that.

He didn’t care.

Tonight, Peter didn’t have the energy to care.

The rain was coming down harder now, soaking through his clothes as he swung between the buildings. Usually, the city at night helped. The movement, the cold air, the feeling of being needed—it all gave him something to focus on.

Tonight, nothing helped.

Eventually, he landed on the edge of an empty rooftop and sat down, pulling the mask off again as the rain hit his face. He stared out over the city, thinking about the way you’d smiled at that guy, the way you’d looked at Peter when you’d first walked into the room, and the way you’d just asked him to hang out again.

You wanted to see him again. Just not Peter.

You wanted to see Lucas.

Peter laughed quietly, but there was nothing funny about it.

He’d spent years telling himself that you deserved a normal life, that staying away from you was the best way to keep you safe, and now that you were actually living one, he couldn’t stand watching it. Maybe that was exactly what he’d been afraid of. You had Oxford. You had Ned and MJ. You had friends, a life, memories Peter didn’t know about, and maybe now someone else too.

And Peter had a mask, an empty apartment, and a fake name.

Peter wiped his face, even though there was no point with the rain falling this hard, and shook his head.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Good job, Parker.”

For once, he didn’t feel like Spider-Man.

He just felt like the idiot who had followed the girl he loved to a party, lied about his own name, watched her flirt with another guy, and then ran away before she ever had the chance to find out who he really was.

And somehow, despite all of that, you had still asked him to come back.

Peter actually showed up.

He stood outside the flower shop in Queens for almost five minutes before finally forcing himself through the door. He’d spent the entire morning telling himself he wasn’t going to come, then the entire afternoon convincing himself that if he didn’t, he’d regret it. By the time he finally got there, he’d already come up with at least twenty different reasons why this was either the best or worst idea he’d ever had.

The bell above the door rang as he stepped inside.

You looked up from behind the counter, and your face immediately lit up.

“Lucas.”

Peter’s heart skipped.

You remembered him. wWAt least as Lucas.

“Hey.”

He walked closer, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, trying not to look as nervous as he felt.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come.”

“Yeah, well…” Peter glanced around the shop. “You said I should.”

“I did.” You smiled, looking down at the time on the register. “My shift ends in, like, five minutes. We could go to the park or something?”

Peter froze.

The park.

For a second, he wasn’t in the flower shop anymore.

He was five years younger, standing in almost the exact same situation, listening to you nervously suggest the same thing because neither of you had any idea what you were doing. It had been your first attempt at something that was supposed to be a date, even though neither of you had been brave enough to actually call it that. You’d both been awkward, he’d been painfully nervous, and somehow you’d still ended up having one of the best afternoons together.

And now you were offering it again. Like none of those years had happened.

Peter blinked, forcing himself back into the present.

“Yeah,” he said, a little too quickly. “Sure. Absolutely.”

You smiled.

“Okay. Give me five minutes.”

Peter nodded, watching you turn back toward the counter.

He couldn’t help the small smile that appeared on his face.

Five years ago, he would’ve done anything to get another chance at that day. He just never imagined he’d get one like this.

The park wasn’t far from the flower shop, so you walked there together. It was pretty awkward at first, not painfully so, but enough that Peter kept wondering if you were regretting asking him to come. In the end, you didn’t know each other. Not really. You knew his name—or at least the fake one he’d given you—and that he’d somehow ended up at your party, but that was about it.

“So… you’re from there? I mean, Queens?” you asked, glancing over at him.

“Yeah. I actually walk around your flower shop daily. But I was never there.”

Liar.

Peter went there every week. Every Monday, usually. He’d been buying flowers for May there for years, long before he’d ever seen you working behind the counter.

“Shame,” you laughed. “We’ve got the best lilies.”

Peter smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. They’re my favorite.”

He already knew that. He’d watched you choose them that Monday, standing in the exact same shop he’d been visiting for years.

Before he could say anything, you suddenly looked at him with a confused expression. “Wait. If you’re from Queens, why were you at my party?”

Fuck. Say something, idiot.

His brain immediately went through every possible answer. I followed you home. Absolutely not. I saw you at the flower shop and followed you to the subway. Even worse. I got on the same train because I wanted to know where you lived. He’d never recover from that one.

“I was just visiting a friend from there,” he said quickly. “And when I was walking home, I heard the music and…” He shrugged, trying to make it sound casual. “I figured I’d check it out.”

You looked at him for a second, and Peter could practically hear his own heartbeat. Then you nodded.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s actually pretty random.”

Peter gave a small laugh. “Yeah. I guess it was.”

You smiled and kept walking, apparently satisfied with the answer. Peter let out a quiet breath of relief and looked ahead, trying not to think about how close he’d just come to exposing himself.

Peter broke the silence after a few minutes.

“So, are you studying something?”

Was that too suspicious?

He immediately regretted asking. He knew you had graduated from Oxford. He’d known for months. He’d seen Ned’s post. He’d replayed it more times than he wanted to admit. You laughed and shook your head. “No, no, no. Not anymore. I graduated from Oxford like a month ago.”

Peter nodded like this was brand-new information.

“Oh. That’s… impressive.”

You smiled. “Thanks. Now it’s time for adult life.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“Yup. It is.”

You laughed, kicking a small stone out of your way as you walked. “I just miss being in high school with MJ and Ned. It was the best and strangest time of my life.”

Peter’s chest tightened.

Right.

As if he hadn’t been there too.

He’d been there for homecoming. He’d been there for your trip to Europe. Prague, when he’d finally told you the truth about being Spider-Man even though you’d already known. Venice, where everything had felt so normal for a little while. All those stupid little moments that Peter had carried with him for four years because they were some of the only pieces of his old life he had left.

But for you, he wasn’t there.

That was the part Peter still couldn’t wrap his head around. You remembered the places. You remembered the people. You remembered the feelings. You remembered being young and stupid and happy with MJ and Ned.

But there was no Peter.

He wondered what happened to the memories that included him.

Were they simply gone?

Was there just an empty space where he used to be?

Maybe you remembered standing beside someone during homecoming but couldn’t remember his face. Maybe there were moments that felt strangely familiar for no reason, little flashes of déjà vu you couldn’t explain. Maybe you’d walk past somewhere in Queens and feel like you were forgetting something, like there was supposed to be another person beside you but you had no idea who.

Peter looked at you as you continued talking, completely unaware of the questions running through his head.

When you thought about Prague, did you remember standing there with someone and talking about Spider-Man? Did you remember the way the conversation had gone? Did you remember looking at him when he’d finally told you the truth?

Or had the entire thing simply disappeared?

Had he disappeared?

Peter swallowed and looked ahead.

Maybe that was the worst part.

He didn’t know whether there was truly nothing left of him in your memories or whether some tiny piece was still there, buried somewhere you couldn’t reach.

You glanced over at him after a few seconds, your smile fading into a curious expression. “You’re so quiet.”

Peter looked at you. “Am I?”

“Yeah.” You laughed softly. “Like, really quiet. I feel like I’ve been talking this whole time.”

“Oh.” Peter looked down, suddenly a little embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay, hope I’m not annoyin—”

“No.” Peter cut you off before you could even finish. “No. Never. It’s… exactly the opposite. I like when you talk.”

The words were out before he could stop them.

Peter immediately regretted them.

Was that too weird to say? You’d known him for, what, two weeks? Less, technically. He was supposed to be Lucas, some guy you’d met at a party. A guy you barely knew. Telling you that he liked listening to you probably wasn’t exactly normal.

Oh, God.

Peter watched your expression change. You were studying him now, your eyes moving over his face like you were trying to find something you couldn’t quite name.

Then you shook your head with a small laugh.

“Sorry. I just had this weird feeling like this happened before.”

Peter went completely still.

“Stupid déjà vu,” you added, laughing like it was nothing.

Peter had no words. Everything died in his throat immediately.

It had happened before. You’d said almost the same thing years ago. You’d sat beside him, talked to him for hours, and he’d listened because he could’ve listened to you forever. You just didn’t remember any of it now.

Peter swallowed and looked away before you could see how much that had affected him.

You seemed to think nothing of it, though. After a moment, you continued, “Y’know, I hope this isn’t too personal or whatever. I just have the urge to say it to someone.”

You walked over to a nearby bench and sat down, leaving enough space for him beside you. Peter followed, sitting next to you and keeping his hands together between his knees.

“Since I came back to New York, I feel like I’m missing something.” You looked down at your hands. “I don’t know what, though. I can’t really place it. I just… feel like something is missing.”

Peter stared at the ground.

His chest felt painfully tight.

What was he supposed to say?

It’s me.

The thought came instantly.

I’m what’s missing.

But what if it wasn’t him?

What if you were talking about something from Oxford? Someone you’d met there. A friend you’d lost touch with. A life you’d left behind. Something Peter knew absolutely nothing about.

He couldn’t just assume it was him. He couldn’t make your memories about himself when you didn’t even know who he was.

So Peter stayed quiet for a moment, trying to find the safest thing to say.

“Yeah,” he finally said softly. “I know that feeling.”

You looked over at him.

Peter kept his eyes on the street ahead. Because he really did know that feeling. 

You looked at him for a second, almost like you were waiting for him to say more. Peter didn’t. The silence started to feel a little too heavy, especially after everything you’d just admitted, so you suddenly shook your head and laughed under your breath.

“Okay. Wow. Look at us.”

Peter glanced at you. “Hmm?”

“Two complete strangers sitting on a bench talking about how empty our lives feel.”

Peter let out a small laugh. “Yeah. That’s… probably not the best first hangout.”

“Definitely not.” You smiled, nudging his shoulder lightly with yours. “Okay, enough. We’re not allowed to be depressed anymore.”

Peter smiled. “Deal.”

“Good.”

You leaned back against the bench and looked up at the sky.

“So. New rule.”

“What rule?”

“No more sad conversations.”

“For how long?”

“Until at least tomorrow.”

Peter laughed. “That’s very generous.”

“I know.” You turned toward him with a smile. “Now tell me something embarrassing.”

“Something embarrassing?”

“Yeah.”

Peter immediately shook his head, laughing as he tried to think of something. His mind went through the last four years, but there wasn’t exactly a long list of funny stories to choose from. Most of his life had been filled with loneliness, patrols, bad sleep, and trying to survive one day at a time.

“Wow,” you said, watching him struggle. “Your life is really boring, isn’t it?”

Peter looked at you, offended. “It’s not boring.”

“Then prove it.”

He thought for another second.

“I once had to steal some girl’s Juicy Couture pants and a top because I woke up on the street wearing only my underwear.”

You stared at him.

Peter continued, already laughing at how ridiculous it sounded. “And when I crawled into my apartment building’s laundry room, there was some guy there, so I panicked.”

Your mouth fell open before you started laughing.

“Why did you wake up on the street?”

To be honest, Peter didn’t really remember. Probably tough night. 

You stared at him.

“Party.”

Your laughter immediately stopped.

“Wait. You said you’re not a party person.”

Peter pointed at you. “Exactly. This is the reason.”

You burst out laughing again, covering your mouth as Peter smiled despite himself.

“Then I met her in the elevator,” he added.

That was it. You completely lost it.

You leaned forward, laughing so hard you had to cover your face, and Peter couldn’t stop smiling as he watched you. He’d missed that laugh. More than he’d ever admitted to himself. He’d spent four years remembering the sound of it, remembering the stupid little things that used to make you laugh until you couldn’t breathe.

And now he was sitting beside you, making you laugh again.

You didn’t remember why he knew how but Peter did.

Peter was out on patrol when his phone buzzed with an alert.

CRIME DETECTED: MULTIPLE HOSTILES—BANK ROBBERY.

He was already moving before he even finished reading it. The bank wasn’t far, and Peter swung between the buildings, following the location on his phone. But then his spider-sense suddenly went off.

Someone was approaching the bank.

Peter looked down. You.

His stomach dropped.

“No. No, no, no.”

Of course. Of all the people in New York, it had to be you.

For a second, Peter couldn’t understand how his spider-sense had picked you out from so high above. There were hundreds of people moving through the streets below, cars, sirens, voices, everything blending together into one giant mess of New York noise. Yet somehow, the second you came close, he knew it was you. Maybe after years of knowing you, his brain simply recognized you before he even had time to think about it.

You were walking toward the bank, completely unaware of what was happening inside.

Peter didn’t even think.

He changed direction immediately, swinging lower and faster until he was directly above you.

You barely had time to look up.

“What the—”

A red-and-blue blur dropped from the sky and scooped you straight off the sidewalk.

You screamed.

Peter wrapped one arm securely around you while his other hand shot a web toward the nearest building. He swung upward, carrying you effortlessly as you clung to him in complete panic.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

“Sorry!”

“SPIDER-MAN?!”

“Yeah, hi!”

He fired another web and launched himself higher, away from the streets and toward one of the tallest buildings nearby.

You had absolutely no idea what was happening. You were terrified by the height, screaming and clinging to him, desperately hoping he wouldn’t drop you. Peter could feel how tightly you were holding onto him, and despite everything, some stupid part of him wanted to stay like this. He’d spent years missing the feeling of having you close to him, and now you were literally in his arms again.

Except you were terrified.

Probably not the romantic reunion he’d imagined.

Peter landed on the rooftop and carefully set you down.

You immediately stumbled away from him, breathing heavily.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“Okay, listen—”

“No, no, no! You listen!” you snapped, still clearly shaken. “Did you just kidnap me?!”

“I didn’t kidnap you!” Peter quickly raised his hands. “You were going toward that bank! There’s literally a robbery happening. Guys with guns!”

You stopped.

Your expression changed as you looked at him.

“There’s a robbery?”

“Yes. You haven’t seen all the police cars?!”

You glanced toward the streets below, then back at him, your eyebrows pulling together.

“How did you know I was going there?”

Peter froze.

Right. How did he know?

He could hardly tell you he’d seen you from half a mile away because his spider-sense had apparently decided to recognize you specifically.

“Uh…”

He desperately searched for an answer.

“Hard to explain.”

You stared at him.

“That is not an answer.”

“I know.”

“Spider-Man—”

“Just stay here, please.” Peter gestured toward the rooftop you were both standing on. “I’ll come back for you.”

You looked at him like he was completely insane.

“Wait here?”

“Yes.”

“You just dropped me on the highest building in Manhattan!”

“It’s safer than the bank!”

“That is debatable!”

Peter almost laughed. Almost. But when he looked at you, he realized you weren’t joking. You were genuinely terrified, still breathing a little too quickly as you kept glancing toward the edge of the roof.

He immediately felt bad. You hated heights.

He remembered the way you used to grab onto his arm whenever he took you somewhere high, the way you’d complain about him choosing rooftops as if there were perfectly normal places to hang out. He remembered pretending it was funny just to see you roll your eyes at him.

Peter swallowed.

“Just stay away from the edge, okay?” he said more gently. “I’ll be back.”

You stared at him, still confused and clearly unhappy with the situation.

“You better.”

Peter nodded.

“I will.”

He took a step backward toward the edge of the roof, already preparing to jump.

“Wait—”

He stopped.

You looked at him.

For a second, Peter wondered if you were going to ask him something. Maybe how long he’d be gone. Maybe how you were supposed to get down. Maybe you were finally going to demand an explanation for how he’d known you were coming.

Instead, you just looked terrified.

Peter gave you a small nod.

“Stay here.”

Then he jumped.

He shot a web toward the next building and swung away, the wind immediately drowning out the rest of the noise.

But just before he disappeared completely, he heard your voice behind him.

“I wanna go home!”

Peter winced.

Yeah.

He definitely felt bad now.

It took way longer than it should have. Peter finished the job as quickly as he could, but for you, sitting alone on that rooftop with nowhere to go, it probably felt like entire centuries. By the time he finally swung back, the sun was already starting to disappear behind the buildings, leaving the sky orange and pink above the city. 

Peter landed on the rooftop and immediately looked around for you, expecting to find you pacing, yelling at him, or maybe desperately trying to figure out how to get downstairs. Instead, you were sitting on the floor, leaning against some random pipe with your knees pulled tightly to your chest, staring at nothing. You looked deep in thought, so deep that you didn’t even react when he landed.

“Are you okay?!” Peter called, his voice coming out more worried than he intended. He immediately tried to hide it. He was Spider-Man right now. Spider-Man was supposed to be calm, confident, in control. He couldn’t sound like some worried idiot who’d just spent the entire robbery thinking about whether you were okay.

“Don’t!”

You suddenly stood up way too fast, almost losing your balance for a second. You turned your back to him, refusing to look at him.

Peter froze.

Something was going on.

He didn’t move, just watched you carefully as the silence stretched between you. You stood there with your back toward him, shoulders tense, like you were trying to figure out how to put something into words. Peter’s heart started beating harder. He’d dealt with armed criminals, supervillains, aliens, monsters, and things he still didn’t fully understand. Somehow, standing on a rooftop with you refusing to look at him was making him more nervous than any of them.

Finally, you turned around.

Your eyes immediately found his mask.

Peter’s stomach dropped.

“We knew each other,” you said quietly.

Everything inside him stopped.

You swallowed, still staring at him like you were trying to see the person underneath the mask.

“Am I right?”

Peter’s mind went completely blank.

There was no way.

There was absolutely no way you could know.

For almost half of a decade, he’d watched you live without him. You remembered Ned. You remembered MJ. You remembered high school, Europe, homecoming, Prague, Venice. You remembered all the places where Peter had once existed beside you, but somehow, when you talked about those memories, there was never a Peter in them. 

And now you were standing in front of him, looking at Spider-Man like you were trying to find someone you’d lost.

Peter forced himself to breathe. He couldn’t let you see how badly that question had affected him. He couldn’t just tell you. Not yet. Maybe you were confused. Maybe you’d seen Spider-Man before and something about him reminded you of someone else. Maybe your brain was trying to fill in a blank that wasn’t supposed to be filled.

“Why would you think that?” he finally asked, forcing his voice to sound casual. He tried to play it cool, like you’d simply mistaken him for someone else, like his heart wasn’t practically trying to break out of his chest.

You started shaking your head, almost frantically, like you were trying to make sense of your own thoughts before they disappeared again. “Because this isn’t the first time I’ve seen you. I mean—” You stopped and shook your head again, looking genuinely frustrated. “Spider-Man.” 

Peter’s stomach tightened. He didn’t say anything, afraid that even one word might make you stop talking. “I sat on this damn roof for like two hours,” you continued, gesturing around you. “And I started realizing things. You saved me and my friends in high school. More than once.”

Peter’s heart dropped.

Damn.

Did that mean you remembered Spider-Man being there the entire time? The whole time you’d been talking about high school, the spell had somehow left Spider-Man in your memories while completely removing Peter from them.

How did that even work?

Peter didn’t know whether to feel relieved or completely devastated.

Because if you remembered Spider-Man, then you remembered him without knowing it was him. You remembered the mask. Just not the boy underneath it.

“Washington Monument,” you continued, counting them off on your fingers. “Prague. Venice. London.” You paused, looking at him more carefully. “Once is a coincidence. Maybe twice. But four times?”

Peter’s throat felt dry.

“And you saved me from that car weeks ago,” you added.

He stared at you through the mask.

You remembered. Not him.

But Spider-Man.

All those moments he’d assumed were gone were still somewhere in your head. You remembered being saved. You remembered the feeling of Spider-Man being there, even if you had no idea that the person behind the mask had been the same boy you’d once loved.

Peter swallowed hard. But before he could say anything, you spoke again, your hands moving as you tried to explain something you clearly couldn’t quite put into words.

“And I can’t help myself, but you sound so familiar. You feel so familiar.”

Silence fell over the rooftop again.

Peter didn’t know what to do with that.

He’d imagined hearing you say something like that. He’d imagined you remembering his voice, remembering the way he talked, maybe remembering some tiny piece of him. But now that it was actually happening, he couldn’t move.

You took a small step closer.

“Take off your mask. I think I deserve to know who saved me.”

Peter’s heart stopped.

“I can’t do that—”

“Take. Off. Your. Mask.”

Your voice was firmer this time, but there was something underneath it. Almost pleading. You weren’t trying to threaten him. You were looking for an answer, desperately trying to understand why this stranger felt so familiar.

“Please.”

Peter stared at you.

He should say no. He knew he should. The mask was the only thing keeping this simple. As long as it was on, he was Spider-Man. He could be the person you remembered without having to deal with the fact that the person underneath it was the one you had forgotten.

But maybe…

Maybe seeing his face would bring something back. Maybe you’d look at him and suddenly remember. Or maybe you’d just see Lucas.

Maybe you’d stare at his face and feel absolutely nothing, and Peter would have to watch the realization settle in that he really was just some stranger you’d met a few weeks ago.

Either way, he couldn’t keep lying to you while you stood there begging for answers.

Peter slowly reached up.

His fingers caught the edge of the mask.

For a second, he hesitated.

Then he pulled it off.

The cool evening air hit his face immediately, and Peter looked at you for the first time without anything between you.

He didn’t say a word. He just stood there, waiting.

“You—Lucas?”

That was all you managed to say as you took a small step back.

Peter’s heart sank. Lucas.

His face didn’t mean anything to you. Not really. Whatever you had felt when you looked at Spider-Man, whatever strange sense of familiarity had been pulling at you, apparently disappeared the second you saw the face underneath the mask. To you, he was still Lucas. Just Lucas.

“Look, Y/N. I can explain.”

Peter finally spoke, but the words came out rushed and messy. He didn’t know where to start, and suddenly four years of silence felt impossible to fit into one conversation.

“We—we—we were together, okay?” He swallowed. “I mean, not really. Not officially, I guess, but… we loved each other. At least, I think we did. And I hope you did too.”

You just stared at him.

Peter kept going because stopping felt even worse.

“We went to high school together. With MJ and Ned. You knew me. I knew you. We were… us.” He shook his head, trying to get the words out properly. “And I know this sounds completely insane, but something bad happened, okay? I had to save the world, and the only way to do it was to make everyone forget me.”

Your eyebrows pulled together.

Peter’s voice became quieter.

“Everyone I ever loved forgot me.”

“What?” you finally said.

You looked genuinely confused now.

Peter almost laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. Of course you thought he was insane. If someone had walked up to him and told him this story, he would’ve thought the exact same thing.

“I know how it sounds,” he whispered. “I know.”

He looked down for a second, trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest before looking back at you.

“And the truth is, I really tried to move on. I tried to live my life without you. I thought maybe that was what I was supposed to do. You were supposed to forget me, and I was supposed to let you.” His voice cracked slightly. “But I just can’t.”

He swallowed hard.

“I love you.”

The words finally came out.

“I always did. And you have no idea how mad I’m at myself for never telling you.”

Peter’s eyes burned, and he quickly looked away, but it was too late. He could feel the tears slowly making their way down his face.

Silence.

You didn’t move. You didn’t say anything. Peter almost wished you would yell at him. Tell him he was crazy. Tell him to leave.

Anything would have been easier than watching you stare at him like you were trying to understand how the hell this stranger could possibly be telling you that he loved you.

Finally, you spoke.

“I don’t know what to say.”

Your voice was quiet.

“I—I really try to remember. I swear I do.” You shook your head, looking frustrated with yourself. “But I just can’t.”

Peter’s heart broke a little more.

“It’s like someone actually erased all my memories,” you continued. “Like there’s supposed to be something there, but there isn’t.”

You looked at him again.

“And I can see why the girl I once was loved you, okay?”

Peter’s breath caught.

“But…” You paused, struggling to find the right words. “That’s not me.”

He looked down.

“I mean, I don’t know you. Not the way you know me.” You gave a small, helpless shrug. “But I bet we were fun.”

Peter let out a tiny, broken laugh, but his eyes stayed fixed on your face. He was trying to read your expression, trying to figure out what you were thinking before you even said it. There was still so much he wanted to tell you, so many things he wanted to explain properly, but suddenly you looked at him differently. Your eyes narrowed slightly, like another piece of the puzzle had finally clicked into place.

“Your name isn’t Lucas, right?”

Peter’s stomach dropped. He slowly shook his head.

“No.”

You stared at him, and Peter could practically see your thoughts catching up with everything he’d just told you. The fake name, the party, the flower shop, the fact that he’d somehow known where you were going, everything he’d lied about because he’d been too scared to tell you the truth.

“Does that mean you lied to me—”

You took another step backward.

Peter’s eyes immediately dropped toward your feet.

“Wait—”

Your heel caught the edge of the rooftop.

Everything happened at once.

Your eyes widened as your balance disappeared, and before Peter could even think, you were falling backward.

“Y/N!”

Peter jumped.

There wasn’t even a second of hesitation. His body moved before his brain could process what was happening, launching itself over the edge after you. The city rushed past him in a blur, the wind hitting his face as he reached for you, but you were already several feet below him.

“Shit, shit—”

His web shot from his wrist and attached to the side of the building, but it wasn’t enough. You were still falling too fast.

Another web.

This one caught you around the waist.

Your body jerked violently as the web pulled you back, and Peter immediately swung after you, reaching out and grabbing you before the momentum could throw you away. He wrapped both arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest.

“Got you,” he breathed, barely able to get the words out. “I’ve got you.”

But he hadn’t stopped the fall completely.

The swing carried both of you toward the building, and Peter twisted his body at the last possible second, putting himself between you and the ground. He tried to absorb as much of the impact as he could, but everything happened too fast.

You hit the pavement.

Your head struck the ground before Peter could fully protect you.

Peter landed beside you and immediately rolled onto his knees.

“Y/N?”

You didn’t move.

His heart stopped.

“No, no, no.”

He crawled toward you, his hands already shaking as he carefully turned your face toward him. For a second, Peter couldn’t breathe. All he could see was you lying completely still, your eyes closed, and the image brought back every terrible memory he’d spent years trying not to think about.

“Hey.” His voice cracked. “Hey, look at me.”

Nothing.

Peter swallowed hard, his eyes burning as he gently touched your cheek.

“Y/N, come on.”

Still nothing.

His breathing became faster, panic taking over completely. He didn’t care that his mask was still somewhere on the rooftop. He didn’t care who might see him. He didn’t care about Spider-Man, the bank robbery, or anything else that had happened tonight.

You were all he could see.

“Please wake up.”

His hand moved carefully to the side of your head, terrified of hurting you but even more terrified of doing nothing. He stared at your face, searching for any sign that you were okay.

For four years, Peter had learned how to live with losing you.

He’d convinced himself that maybe this was just how his life was supposed to be now. He could survive knowing you didn’t remember him. He could watch you live without him. He could even pretend that seeing you happy was enough.

But this?

He couldn’t do this again.

Not after finally finding you.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking completely. “I just got you back.”

“Somebody help, please!” He cried out. 

It had been weeks.

You were still in the hospital, still in a coma. That night, Peter—Spider-Man—had rushed you there himself, still wearing his mask, refusing to leave until the doctors took you from his arms. They hadn’t told him much. They couldn’t. As far as they were concerned, he was just some masked stranger who had brought an unconscious girl into the emergency room and disappeared before anyone could ask too many questions. The only thing Peter managed to find out was that you’d suffered severe traumatic brain injuries, and that they had left you in a coma.

So he waited.

He visited whenever he could, usually late at night when the hospital was quieter. Sometimes he’d come straight from patrol, still wearing part of the suit underneath his hoodie, and sometimes he’d sit beside your bed in normal clothes, looking like any other exhausted twenty-something who had no idea what to do with himself. He always brought flowers. Lilies most of the time, because he’d heard you say they were your favorite. He bought them from your own flower shop in Queens, standing there awkwardly while someone else rang him up, because he couldn’t bring himself to explain why he kept buying flowers for a girl who worked there but couldn’t even remember him.

They reminded him of May, too. Maybe that was why he kept doing it. Flowers were one of the few things Peter still knew how to give people when he didn’t know what else to say. He’d spent years bringing them to May’s grave, talking to a piece of stone because it was easier than admitting how lonely he was. Now he brought them to you and placed them carefully beside your bed, hoping that somehow, somewhere, you could still smell them.

He would sit there for hours. Sometimes he’d talk. Sometimes he’d just stare at you.

He’d tell you about stupid things that happened during patrol, complain about the weather, tell you his random thoughts, even though he had no idea if any of it could reach you. Other nights, he’d sit in complete silence with his hand resting beside yours, too afraid to touch you without knowing if you’d want him to.

And every time he looked at you, the same thought came back.

This is my fault.

Maybe technically it wasn’t. He hadn’t known you’d fall. He hadn’t pushed you. He’d tried to save you. But if he’d never followed you in the first place, you wouldn’t have been on that rooftop. If he’d never lied to you, you wouldn’t have been backing away from him. If he’d just left you alone after seeing you again, maybe you’d still be walking around New York, laughing with MJ and Ned, living the life you’d built without him.

Instead, you were lying in a hospital bed.

Peter couldn’t bear another loss.

Not another person he loved disappearing from his life. Especially not you.

Peter had no idea how long he’d been sitting there that night.

The hospital room was dark except for the small light above the bed and the glow coming through the blinds from the city outside. He was slouched in the chair beside you, arms crossed over his chest, his head slowly dropping forward every few minutes before he forced himself awake again. He’d told himself he was only going to stay for an hour. Maybe two. Then he’d go home, shower, sleep for a little while, and come back tomorrow.

He’d been saying that every night for weeks.

At some point, exhaustion finally started winning. Peter’s eyes closed, his head resting against the back of the chair as he sat beside you, still holding the stem of one of the lilies he’d brought earlier.

Then he heard something. Barely anything.

A quiet, rough sound.

“Peter.”

His eyes opened immediately.

Peter looked around the room, confused and still half asleep. For a second, he genuinely thought he’d dreamed it. He hadn’t slept properly in weeks. His brain had started doing weird things when he was exhausted, and hearing your voice was probably just another one of them.

He rubbed his eyes.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “I’m officially losing it.”

Then he heard it again.

“Peter.”

Peter froze.

His head snapped toward you.

Your eyes were open.

He couldn’t move.

You were staring at the ceiling at first, blinking slowly as you tried to focus, before your eyes finally shifted toward him. You looked exhausted and confused, your breathing shallow as you tried to understand where you were.

Peter stood so quickly that the chair scraped loudly against the floor.

“Y/N.”

His voice cracked, and he immediately cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. “You’re awake.”

You looked at him.

For a second, neither of you said anything. Peter’s heart was already pounding, but then something in your expression changed. You stared at him like you were trying to focus on something just beyond his face, like you were putting pieces together that had been scattered somewhere in your mind.

“Peter?”

Peter stopped breathing.

There was no way.

He stared at you, completely frozen, afraid that if he moved, he’d wake up and realize this was just another dream.

You swallowed, your voice still weak and hoarse from weeks without speaking.

“You’re Peter Parker.”

You weakly pointed at him.

Peter’s eyes widened.

“Yes.” His voice came out almost immediately. “Yes, I’m Peter Parker.”

Your lips curved into the smallest smile.

“My Peter Parker.”

Peter just stared at you. What the fuck. His eyes immediately filled with tears again, and he shook his head quickly, almost like he needed to make sure he’d actually heard you.

“Yeah,” he whispered, a broken smile finally appearing on his face. “Yeah. I’m your Peter Parker.”

Peter saw the single tear that escaped from the corner of your eye and slowly rolled down your cheek. Something in his chest tightened at the sight. You looked overwhelmed, like you were trying to hold onto a hundred memories at once, and then you let out a shaky breath.

“I think I remember now,” you sobbed.

Peter’s eyes widened.

“Do you?”

“Yes.” You nodded weakly, another sob catching in your throat. “I do. Everything that happened in high school.”

For a second, Peter could only stare at you. Then it finally hit him that you weren’t saying it because you were confused or because you’d pieced together a story that wasn’t there. You actually remembered. The memories were yours again—the stupid ones, the good ones, the painful ones, all of them. He didn’t have to convince himself that this was happening or wonder if he’d imagined hearing you say his name.

This was real. You were really here. And you remembered him.

“Oh my God,” Peter whispered.

He reached for your hand carefully, almost like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too quickly, and gently placed his hand over yours.

“I’m so sorry—”

“No. No, Y/N.” Peter immediately shook his head. “Don’t be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I—”

“No.” His voice cracked. “I should be the one apologizing. I shouldn’t have followed you. I should’ve just left you alone and let you live your life. I knew you didn’t remember me, and I still—”

“Just shut up,” you interrupted with a weak laugh.

Peter stopped. For a second, he just stared at you.

Then he laughed too, wiping quickly at his eyes.

“Yeah. Okay.”

You smiled faintly, still holding onto his hand. Peter looked down at your fingers intertwined with his, almost unable to believe he was touching you again without imagining it.

“I missed you so much, Y/N.”

Your smile trembled. “I missed you too.”

And Peter finally let himself believe it. You were back.

They say that when you’re close to death, your whole life passes in front of your eyes. Maybe that’s what happened to you.

Maybe that was why you remembered him.

“You came.”

Peter sighed in relief the second he saw you step through the rooftop door. He’d been sitting there for almost twenty minutes, staring out at the city and wondering if you’d changed your mind. After everything that had happened, he wouldn’t have blamed you.

“Of course I did.” You laughed softly as you walked toward him. “Sorry it took me that long. I mean, I’m no Spider-Man. I had to walk all the stairs.”

Peter laughed under his breath.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“You should be.”

You walked over and sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing against his. Neither of you spoke for a moment. The city stretched out beneath you, glowing in the warm light of the setting sun. It was strangely peaceful up there, especially after everything you’d been through.

“So?”

Peter glanced at you.

“So.”

You smiled, looking at him.

“I mean, you were the one who wanted to talk to me.”

“Right.”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly nervous.

“Yeah. I just… wanted to apologize.”

You groaned immediately. “Peter.”

“What?”

“I already told you. Stop apologizing. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, but—”

“No.” You turned toward him. “You didn’t make me fall. You tried to save me. You spent weeks sitting beside my hospital bed when you probably should’ve been sleeping. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Peter looked down at his hands.

“I still regret a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Not telling you.”

Your expression softened.

Peter swallowed, looking out over the skyline instead of at you.

“I had so many chances. Back then, I kept telling myself there’d be more time. After high school. After the next thing. After I figured everything out. I thought I could tell you how I felt when everything was less complicated.”

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Then there wasn’t any more time.”

You reached for his hand.

Peter looked down at your fingers wrapping around his.

“I spent years wishing I’d just said it.”

You squeezed his hand.

“Peter…”

“I love you.”

The words came out quietly, but there was no hesitation this time.

“I loved you then. I love you now. I think I probably would’ve loved you even if you never remembered me.”

You stared at him for a second, your eyes filling with tears.

Then you leaned closer.

Peter barely had time to react before you kissed him.

He froze for half a second, almost like his brain couldn’t believe this was actually happening, before his hand gently moved to your cheek and he kissed you back. He waited for this moment for so long. He never really forgot the feeling of your lips on his. Because, how could he?

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was just familiar.

Like coming home.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads stayed together, both of you smiling through the tears.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

Peter stayed quiet for a moment, still holding your hand as the last bit of sunlight disappeared behind the skyline. The city slowly lit up beneath you, thousands of windows glowing as the evening settled over New York, and somehow everything felt different now. It was the same city he’d spent four years swinging through alone, but somehow, sitting there with you beside him, it didn’t feel quite as lonely anymore.

You rested your head against his shoulder, and Peter looked down at you with a small smile. “You know how I told you I felt like I was missing something?”

Peter murmured in agreement, his thumb gently brushing over the back of your hand.

“The whole time,” you whispered, looking out at the city, “it was you.”

Peter’s smile slowly disappeared as his eyes filled with tears.

Because maybe that was the strangest part of all.

You had forgotten him. Completely. You had lived four years without knowing his name, without remembering his face, without even knowing there was supposed to be someone missing from your life. And still, somewhere inside you, you’d felt the empty space he had left behind.

You’d felt it without knowing what it was and somehow, after everything, you still found your way back to him.

© wersies 2026 : all works are my own. don’t repost, copy, translate my works on any platform. don’t fed my work into any type of ai.

Everything behind you stopped. Completely. For a second, there wasn’t even the sound of fabric moving, and when you finally turned your head slightly, Peter’s masked face had appeared around the side of the curtain, one white lens narrowed at you while the other remained slightly wider in a look that somehow managed to communicate exhausted offence without revealing an inch of his actual face.

He stayed like that just long enough to make your mouth twitch before finishing his climb inside, landing carefully with one boot against the floor and pulling the second over the sill. Peter straightened with a small roll of his shoulder, glanced down at himself as though checking he hadn’t brought half the fire escape in with him, then looked toward you again.

“Normal boyfriends don’t usually have to explain why there’s blood on their shirt to the neighbour in 4B,” he said eventually, his voice slightly muffled beneath the mask and flatter than the dramatic defence you’d expected.

The word blood made your amusement disappear at once, your gaze dropping instinctively across the red and blue suit as you searched for whatever tear or stain he was referring to, and Peter noticed before you could even sit upright.

Both of his hands lifted immediately in a placating gesture, palms facing you while he shook his head once. “Not mine.” The tension left your shoulders almost as quickly as it had arrived, and even beneath the mask you could see the tiny shift near his mouth that told you he’d noticed.

Peter looked back toward the still-open window, hooking one hand beneath the frame before pulling it shut with considerably more care than he’d shown while climbing through it. “Also,” he added as the latch clicked into place, turning back toward you with the faintest shrug, “the window’s faster.”

You snorted and sank deeper into the cushions, watching him pretend that was the entire explanation. “You mean you don’t want Mrs. Alvarez asking whether you’ve eaten recently.”

Peter’s posture changed immediately, shoulders slumping by half an inch as though you’d found the actual weak spot. He stared at you for a second through the mask, then lowered his chin in reluctant defeat. “That too.”

He reached behind his head and caught the edge of the mask between his fingers, peeling it upward with a tired exhale until his face finally appeared beneath it, and the teasing comment already sitting on your tongue died before it could leave your mouth. Peter looked exhausted.

Not badly injured, not dangerously so, but worn down in the particular way you’d become increasingly familiar with since Spider-Man had stopped being something he squeezed between all the other pieces of his life and started becoming the thing his life seemed to orbit around.

His hair was damp around his forehead, flattened beneath the mask in some places and sticking out stubbornly in others, and a faint bruise was beginning to darken along one cheekbone beneath a streak of grime that travelled almost to his jaw. Peter caught you staring almost immediately.

His eyes flicked over your face, registered the concern there and then moved away before you could say anything, one hand rubbing awkwardly over the back of his neck while the other folded the mask between his fingers. “It looks worse than it is,” he murmured, even though you hadn’t asked, his attention suddenly fixed on the crumpled fabric in his hands.

You didn’t answer straight away. Instead, you slowly raised one eyebrow and let your gaze travel deliberately back toward the bruise. Peter caught the expression from the corner of his eye, closed his mouth and released a quiet sigh through his nose. His shoulders sagged a little more before he looked back at you.

“Actually,” he corrected himself, voice softer now, “that’s probably not true. It looks pretty much exactly as bad as it is.” The dryness of it made the corner of your mouth pull upward despite the lingering concern, and Peter’s expression softened when he realised he’d managed to get even that much of a reaction from you.

You shifted beneath the blanket and patted the empty cushion beside you, expecting him to drop there, but Peter only looked at the space for a moment before walking toward you instead. His steps slowed once he reached the couch, and for several seconds he simply stood between your knees, eyes lowered as if he were deciding whether he wanted to talk about whatever had happened outside.

Then something in him seemed to give. His shoulders dropped, his hands loosened, and Peter bent forward until his forehead came to rest against your stomach. The sudden weight of him made you sink slightly into the cushions, but your hands were already moving before you thought about it, fingers sliding through his sweaty hair and scratching gently against his scalp.

Peter’s eyes closed. His hands settled loosely against either side of your waist, not quite holding you and not quite willing to move away either. “Bad night?” you asked quietly, your fingertips moving more slowly through his hair when you felt the tension still gathered at the base of his neck.

Peter remained silent for a few moments. You could feel him breathing against your shirt, each exhale gradually becoming less tight, before he finally muttered, “Guy threw a parking meter at me.” Your fingers stopped.

Peter must’ve felt it because one eye opened and he tipped his head just enough to look up at you without fully lifting it. “Missed,” he added quickly, almost sheepishly, like he knew exactly where your mind had gone.

You stared down at him for a long second, your expression caught somewhere between concern and disbelief, until the faintest smile finally appeared at the corner of his mouth. Your hand resumed its path through his hair, gently tugging a stubborn strand away from his forehead, and Peter let his face settle against you again.

Several quiet seconds passed before his voice came once more, considerably more bitter this time. “Pigeon got my sandwich, though.” That finally made you look down properly. “Again?” The question came out with enough disbelief that Peter’s eyes squeezed shut. His forehead pressed more firmly against your stomach like he was trying to hide from the humiliation entirely. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Eventually you convinced him to eat the leftovers you’d saved, although convincing might’ve been generous considering all you really had to do was remind him they existed.

Peter disappeared into the kitchen with the heavy, reluctant steps of somebody who’d only just become aware of how hungry he actually was, and when he returned carrying the container, he dropped onto the couch beside you with the quiet weight of someone whose body had finally realised it was allowed to stop moving.

He didn’t change out of the suit. He didn’t even remove his boots at first, stretching his legs out and settling them dangerously close to the edge of your rug until you turned your head and stared pointedly at them. Peter noticed after only a second.

His gaze moved from your face to his boots, then to the rug beneath them, before returning to you with a tired expression that made it clear he knew exactly what you were asking without you saying a word. “Really?” he asked, eyebrows lifting slightly as if tonight of all nights should’ve granted him immunity. You merely continued looking at him.

Peter held your gaze for another second, then sighed and leaned forward, tugging both boots off before dropping them neatly beside the couch. “Happy?” He looked over at you while straightening, the exhaustion around his eyes making the question sound more resigned than annoyed.

You smiled sweetly and adjusted the blanket over your legs. “Very.” Peter’s lips pressed together in a way that told you he had several responses and had decided none of them were worth the energy. Instead, he sank back into the cushions, shifted the food container into one hand and reached for your ankle with the other without seeming consciously aware that he was doing it.

His fingers closed loosely around you, drawing your legs across his lap before he adjusted the blanket over them with a small tug. It had become one of those quiet habits neither of you had discussed. Peter had grown quieter after patrol over the years, less inclined to fill every empty second with nervous chatter and half-finished thoughts, but the silence never meant he wanted distance from you.

If anything, he touched you more when he wasn’t speaking. A thumb moving over your ankle. Fingers finding yours underneath a blanket. His shoulder resting against yours until he practically leaned half his body into you. Tonight was no different. He ate with one hand while the other remained curled around your lower calf, his thumb moving absently over your skin whenever his attention wandered from the television.

Several minutes passed before your gaze caught the flash of red beneath the coffee table. One of his gloves had somehow ended up there, discarded carelessly enough that you had no idea when he’d even removed it. You nudged his thigh with your heel, making his hand tighten reflexively around your ankle before relaxing again.

“You’re leaving Spider-Man everywhere again.” Peter followed your gaze toward the glove. He stared at it for a second, chewing slowly, then looked back at you with an expression of complete seriousness. “Evidence.” You frowned, waiting for the explanation that clearly wasn’t coming on its own. “Evidence of what?”

Peter swallowed, lowered the container slightly and considered the glove like he was seeing it for the first time himself. “That Spider-Man has poor organisational skills.” The complete lack of expression on his face made you laugh before you could help it, and something around Peter’s eyes softened at the sound.

He glanced back toward the television, but you caught the tiny upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. “That’s not exactly breaking news,” you told him, settling more comfortably against the cushions. Peter nodded once, accepting the criticism with surprising dignity. “Fair.”

The movie had become mostly background noise by the time Peter finished eating, although he watched considerably more of it than you did. Every now and then you’d feel his thumb stop moving against your ankle whenever something particularly stupid happened onscreen,

and then you’d glance sideways only to discover him staring at the television with that increasingly troubled expression he got whenever inaccurate physics seemed to personally offend him.

He’d mostly stopped correcting everything out loud after you threatened to ban him from choosing movies following one particularly unbearable evening involving a collapsing suspension bridge, but his face still betrayed him completely. When one character somehow survived being launched through a concrete wall, Peter’s brow furrowed so deeply that you could almost hear the lecture happening inside his head.

A few seconds later, his eyes slid toward you. You didn’t even look at him fully. “No.” Peter’s eyebrows climbed. He shifted slightly beneath your legs, his mouth opening as though he was genuinely offended by the accusation. “I didn’t say anything.” You finally turned your head and pointed toward his face with one finger. “Your face did.”

Peter stared at you for a beat, clearly considering whether this counted as a fair argument, then pressed his lips together and looked back toward the screen. The movement didn’t hide the little smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. A few minutes later another character ended up dangling upside down from the edge of a rooftop, their body swinging dramatically above several floors of open air, and your attention lingered there longer than it had on anything else in the movie.

Slowly, almost without meaning to, your gaze drifted toward Peter. He was leaning deeper into the couch now, one arm stretched along the back cushions while his other hand continued resting loosely around your ankle. The bruise remained visible along his cheek. His hair was still a complete disaster. The upper half of the suit remained annoyingly tight across his chest and shoulders, every shift of his body making the fabric move with him.

A completely unnecessary thought entered your head. You recognised immediately that it was unnecessary. You also knew that Peter would never let you forget it if you actually said it aloud. Unfortunately, restraint had never been your greatest quality around him. “Can you actually stay like that?” you asked eventually, nodding toward the screen while keeping your tone as casual as you could manage.

Peter followed your gaze. His eyes moved from the dangling character back toward you, and he tilted his head slightly as though making sure he understood the question. “Upside down?” You nodded, pretending you hadn’t given the question much thought. Peter’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Yeah.”

You looked back toward the screen while his thumb began moving against your ankle again. “For how long?” This time he didn’t answer immediately. His brow furrowed slightly while he considered it, gaze drifting somewhere past the television as though he was mentally checking his own limits.

“A while,” he said finally. There was another pause. Peter’s lips pressed together, and then he corrected himself with the kind of reluctant honesty that always betrayed him. “Probably as long as I wanted.”

You hummed beneath your breath and kept looking toward the television, although you could feel Peter’s attention remain on you. He knew you too well. Worse, years of relying on tiny movements and split-second changes in body language to stay alive had made him obnoxiously difficult to fool, which meant your attempt at appearing casually interested had probably failed before you’d even opened your mouth.

Still, you pushed your luck. “Wouldn’t all the blood rush to your head?” you asked, keeping your eyes forward while you shifted one shoulder deeper beneath the blanket. Peter’s fingers slowed against your ankle. The scientific part of his brain visibly took over for a moment, his eyebrows drawing together as he considered the question properly despite the growing suspicion in his eyes.

“Not the way it would for you,” he explained, his thumb resuming its movement as his attention drifted briefly toward the ceiling. “Circulation’s different. Everything compensates pretty quickly.” You nodded slowly as though this information had been exactly what you were after.

For approximately two seconds, you almost got away with it. Then the corner of your mouth twitched. Peter’s hand stopped dead against your skin. You didn’t look at him immediately, which only made it worse, because you could practically feel his gaze move over the side of your face.

Several long seconds passed before he finally spoke. “What?” There wasn’t much amusement in his voice yet. Mostly suspicion. You shook your head, pressing your lips together harder in an attempt to flatten the smile. “Nothing.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly. His grip around your ankle loosened, but his hand remained exactly where it was. “That wasn’t nothing.” The certainty in his tone made you glance toward him at last, and you immediately regretted it.

Peter was watching you with the calm, patient expression of somebody who had already realised you were guilty and was simply waiting for you to confess. You shrugged and looked back at the television. “I was just thinking it could have practical applications.” Peter went completely still.

There wasn’t an immediate joke, and that was the first thing that made warmth curl unexpectedly through your stomach. The younger Peter would’ve stumbled over five different responses before eventually choosing one, but this Peter had learned how to let silence sit between words instead of panicking and trying to fill it. His thumb remained motionless against your ankle while he stared at you, face unreadable for several long seconds.

Then his gaze moved toward the television. After another beat it travelled upward toward the ceiling. You watched the tiny crease form between his eyebrows and immediately knew his brain had started working. “Don’t,” you warned, sitting a little straighter beneath the blanket.

Peter turned his head toward you again, blinking once as if genuinely confused by the accusation. “I didn’t say anything.” You gave him a pointed look, because silence had never stopped Peter Parker from being obvious. “You’re thinking.”

One eyebrow lifted. He looked almost offended by the concept. “Usually happens.” You pushed his thigh lightly with your foot, but his hand closed more securely around your ankle before you could actually land the kick, the movement effortless and almost automatic.

A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth when you narrowed your eyes at him. “Peter.” Hearing his name in that warning tone only seemed to encourage whatever was happening behind his eyes. He looked toward the ceiling once more, gaze tracking the exposed beam crossing part of the room before returning to you.

“What practical applications?” The question was delivered so calmly that for a second you simply stared at him. Your confidence began disappearing now that he was actually making you explain yourself. Peter waited. He didn’t rush you or start talking over the silence. He simply watched, fingers resting warm around your ankle while his expression remained deceptively neutral.

“You know what I mean,” you muttered eventually. Peter’s eyebrows rose another fraction. “I really don’t.” He absolutely did. The amusement had already started showing around his eyes even if the rest of his face remained composed. You stared him down for another few seconds before releasing a defeated breath through your nose.

“I was wondering if Spider-Man could eat pussy upside down.” The words came quickly once you finally forced them out, and the second they landed between you, your face heated enough that you immediately covered part of it with one hand.

The apartment fell painfully quiet except for the dramatic soundtrack still playing on television. Peter didn’t move. You could feel him staring at you through the spaces between your fingers, and embarrassment rushed in quickly enough that you groaned. “Forget I said anything.”

Peter didn’t laugh. Somehow that was considerably worse. Instead, his gaze slowly travelled upward toward the exposed support beam running across part of your ceiling, and his expression became genuinely thoughtful.

You lowered your hand enough to peek at him through your fingers, disbelief replacing some of your embarrassment when you realised he was actually considering it. “Oh my God.”

Peter glanced toward you. There was the faintest pull between his eyebrows, like he didn’t understand why his reaction was surprising. “What?”

You dropped your hand completely and sat straighter. “You’re actually thinking about it.” His mouth pressed into a line that was very obviously concealing something, although whether it was amusement or embarrassment you couldn’t immediately tell. Peter’s gaze drifted back toward the beam for another second before settling on you. “You asked.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh and shook your head. “As a joke.” Peter didn’t answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on yours, and something quieter shifted behind them. Eventually, he tilted his head slightly. “Was it?” The question was soft enough that your body betrayed you before your mouth could, heat climbing further into your cheeks while you shifted beneath his stare.

You crossed your arms defensively. “Yes.” Peter gave one small nod. “Okay.” That should’ve been the end of it. Instead, the ease with which he accepted your answer irritated you instantly. Your eyes narrowed. “Why did you say it like that?” His brow furrowed, but the movement was a little too innocent. “Like what?”

You stared at him in disbelief. Peter’s thumb had started rubbing against your ankle again, slow and absent, while he tried very hard to look like he genuinely had no idea what you were talking about. “Like you don’t believe me.”

For a second he looked down at where his hand rested against your skin. When his eyes returned to yours, his expression remained calm, but the smallest spark of amusement sat behind it. “Because you’re blushing.” Your mouth fell open. Peter gave you a tiny shrug. “Observation.”

You grabbed for the nearest cushion without thinking. Peter caught it before you got halfway through the swing, one hand closing around the edge with ridiculous ease. A quiet laugh escaped him as your expression sharpened, the sound warm and surprised, like he genuinely hadn’t expected you to resort to violence.

“You’re annoying,” you informed him, tugging once at the cushion before giving up when he didn’t budge. Peter pushed it gently back into your lap. “Yeah,” he said, settling back against the cushions with a tiny smile. “I’ve heard.”

The teasing should’ve ended there, but Peter’s attention travelled toward the ceiling again, and this time you watched him properly. His eyes tracked the exposed beam, then the distance between it and the couch, and something in his expression shifted so subtly that you almost missed it.

The Spider-Man part of Peter had always been different from the Peter everyone else met. Not a separate person exactly, but a version of him stripped of some of the hesitation that followed him through ordinary life. Lately, the line between the two had become thinner. He didn’t need to posture or brag about what he could do.

Confidence simply settled over him whenever he knew exactly what his body was capable of. “It would work,” he said eventually. The statement came so casually that it took you a second to realise what he meant. You blinked and shifted your legs slightly across his lap.

“What?” Peter looked back down at you, as though the answer should’ve been obvious from the entire conversation. “What you asked.” His fingers loosened from your ankle and travelled absently higher along your calf before coming to rest near your knee.

The movement wasn’t overtly sexual, but your attention dropped toward it anyway. “Physically, I mean.” Your stomach tightened slightly at the matter-of-fact tone. “You’ve put thought into this remarkably fast.” Peter’s shoulders lifted with a small shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

You stared at him until his expression finally cracked, the corner of his mouth pulling upward. “And you’re the one who asked.” Your eyes narrowed. “I’m starting to regret it.” The response came before Peter could stop himself.

“No, you’re not.” It was quieter than everything else he’d said, immediate enough that both of you paused. Peter seemed to hear himself a second late. Something shy flickered over his face and his gaze dipped toward your legs before returning to you. He cleared his throat softly.

“I mean,” he added, suddenly looking far less certain than he had two seconds earlier, “you don’t look like you regret it.” There he was underneath the maturity, still Peter enough to talk himself straight into embarrassment and get faintly pink around the ears once he realised it.

“You’re getting awfully confident for somebody who climbed through my window ten minutes ago complaining about a pigeon,” you murmured, and the comment made Peter breathe out a laugh as he gently shifted your legs away from his lap.

He pushed himself upright and stood, stretching one shoulder until something clicked quietly beneath the suit. His face tightened for half a second at the feeling before relaxing again, and then he looked down at you.

“The pigeon caught me off guard.” His delivery was so completely serious that your mouth twitched. You gave him a pointed look anyway. “Sure.”

Peter stepped closer until his knees nearly touched yours, and the humour remained in his expression even as something warmer started settling underneath it. He rested one hand against the back of the couch beside your shoulder, leaning forward only slightly, but enough that you had to tip your chin upward to keep looking at him.

Up close, you could see every sign of the night he’d had. The small cut near his temple. The bruise along his cheek. The shadows beneath his eyes that told you sleep had probably been optional far too often lately. Yet his attention had narrowed entirely onto you now.

“You know,” he murmured, his gaze flicking briefly over your face, “you’re making fun of me, but this was your question.” You tried to maintain the same unimpressed expression even as your pulse picked up. “A hypothetical question.”

Peter’s eyes dropped toward your mouth. They stayed there for one brief second before returning to yours. “Right.” You swallowed without meaning to. His gaze sharpened immediately, because of course he noticed that too.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Very hypothetical.” You placed one hand against the centre of his chest and pushed lightly, though he barely shifted beneath your palm.

“Don’t be smug.” Peter’s brows lifted, his expression instantly innocent. “I’m not.” You gave him a look. Peter lasted approximately another second before his mouth twitched. “Maybe a little.”

His hand moved from the back of the couch to your jaw slowly enough that you felt every second of it, fingertips settling lightly beneath your chin while his thumb brushed once across your cheek. There was nothing rushed about Peter anymore when he touched you like this.

Even when some lingering patrol adrenaline remained beneath his skin, even when you could feel the strength he constantly kept restrained whenever his body moved near yours, there was a deliberate patience to him that hadn’t existed when he was younger.

He leaned closer until his forehead nearly touched yours, but he stopped just short of actually kissing you. His eyes moved between yours, waiting. You were the one who closed the distance. The first kiss was soft, almost frustratingly so considering the conversation that had led to it, Peter’s mouth moving slowly against yours while his fingers remained warm beneath your jaw.

Your hands caught the front of his suit and pulled him closer, bunching the material beneath your fingers, and a quiet breath escaped through his nose as he let the kiss deepen. His other hand settled against your knee, palm warm through the thin fabric covering you, before sliding gradually higher along your thigh.

He stopped well before reaching anywhere intimate, but the weight of his hand there was enough to make your body shift beneath him. Peter noticed. You felt the tiny pause in his mouth against yours before he pulled away just far enough to look at you.

His lips remained close enough to brush yours whenever either of you breathed. “Still hypothetical?” he asked softly. Your eyes opened fully and found him watching you with restrained amusement, his thumb still moving slowly against your cheek.

You tightened your grip against his suit. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” Peter’s eyes dropped toward your mouth again while he considered that. “A little.” Then he leaned in and kissed the corner of your lips, followed the line of your jaw and stopped beneath your ear. His breath warmed your skin there, and when your shoulders shifted involuntarily, Peter’s hand flexed lightly against your thigh. “Mostly I’m curious.”

“You’re such a fucking nerd,” you whispered, although there wasn’t much conviction left behind the insult with his mouth still lingering against your neck. You felt him smile rather than saw it, the movement pressing faintly against your skin before he lifted his head. “You brought science into it.”

You laughed softly and let your hands slide higher along his chest. “I asked whether you could eat pussy upside down. I didn’t exactly submit a research proposal.” Peter looked at you for one long beat, his eyes darkening with amusement before he murmured, “Could’ve fooled me.” You pushed his shoulder again on instinct.

Peter caught your wrist automatically before your hand travelled more than a few inches, his fingers closing around it with almost insulting ease. He didn’t pin it anywhere or tighten his grip. Instead, he turned your hand over slowly and pressed his mouth briefly against the centre of your palm.

The affection of the gesture caught you so completely off guard that whatever retort you’d been preparing disappeared. Peter seemed to notice the way your expression softened, because his own did too before he released your wrist.

He stayed standing between your knees, close enough that the fronts of his legs brushed yours whenever either of you shifted. “There are variables,” he said after a moment. You stared up at him. “There absolutely are not.”

His brows rose, and some of the scientist returned to his face. “There absolutely are.” He wasn’t babbling through the thought process anymore the way he once might’ve. Instead, he considered each thing before saying it, gaze moving briefly around the room as though he were actually planning the logistics.

“Height,” he said first, looking toward the ceiling. His eyes moved downward again, briefly measuring the space between you and the beam. “Angle. Where you’re sitting.” Then his gaze returned to your face and lingered there. “How much you move.”

Heat rushed into your cheeks immediately. “How much I move?” Peter nodded once, maintaining complete seriousness for approximately half a second before the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“That seems relevant.” You stared at him. “You’re impossible.” His expression softened into something almost unbearably fond. “You like me.”

Before you could give him the satisfaction of answering, Peter stepped backward and tilted his head toward the ceiling again. His gaze locked onto the exposed beam, and in that instant there was another subtle change in him, the tired boyfriend who’d been sprawled across your lap quietly making room for the man who spent every night calculating distances in fractions of seconds.

He lifted one wrist. The movement was casual, practised enough that he barely needed to look before firing a strand of webbing upward with a sharp thwip, the line attaching cleanly around the beam overhead. Peter gave it one firm tug, testing the hold, then glanced toward you when you immediately sat straighter on the couch.

“Peter.” His hand stopped around the web. He looked at you over his shoulder, expression open but carrying that small spark of amusement he’d been trying and failing to hide for the last ten minutes. “What?”

Your eyes travelled from his face to the line stretching toward the ceiling and then back again. “You’re seriously doing this.” Peter didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped briefly toward your legs, then moved back to your face, and despite all the quiet confidence from seconds earlier, a faint flush began creeping along the tops of his ears.

That tiny betrayal made your mouth curve. He caught the smile immediately and narrowed his eyes just slightly. “You started it,” he reminded you, voice softer now. Then Peter caught the web firmly with one hand, planted the other palm against the wall and stepped onto the vertical surface as naturally as somebody else might climb a staircase.

There wasn’t any theatrical flourish to it. One second he was standing beside you, and the next his body moved smoothly upward, muscles shifting beneath the suit as his hands and feet stuck effortlessly to the wall. You watched him climb, your eyes travelling farther than you intended before Peter stopped halfway toward the ceiling.

He turned his head and looked down at you. His gaze immediately caught yours somewhere around his waist before you could drag it back toward his face, and the little smile that appeared told you he’d noticed exactly where you’d been looking.

Peter adjusted his grip around the web, briefly glanced toward the ceiling as though genuinely checking the logistics one final time, then looked back down. “For the experiment,” he started, trying for clinical and failing because his voice had gone noticeably lower,

“I’m probably gonna need your underwear out of the way.” The words hung there for a second. Peter’s expression shifted almost immediately afterward, confidence giving way to sudden self-awareness as he visibly replayed the sentence inside his head.

His lips pressed together. His cheeks warmed another shade. Then he looked off toward the wall and muttered, “That sounded better in my head.”

You should’ve laughed at him, because the faint colour spreading over Peter’s cheeks after his own terrible choice of words was painfully endearing, but the amusement caught somewhere in your throat when you realised how fast the atmosphere in the room had changed.

The oversized shirt you’d thrown on earlier suddenly felt considerably less innocent where it hung loose around your body, its hem barely covering the tops of your thighs and leaving nothing underneath except the soft cotton panties already clinging wetly to your cunt.

There wasn’t a bra beneath the shirt either, because there hadn’t been any reason for one when your original plans involved a couch, leftovers and probably falling asleep against Peter before the movie finished, but now you were painfully aware of your nipples tightening beneath the thin material

and the way the shirt shifted against them whenever you breathed. Peter noticed too, because of course he did, his eyes dropping for half a second before flicking guiltily back toward your face as though getting caught staring somehow mattered after the conversation you’d just had. That tiny flash of embarrassment only made the heat curling through your stomach worse.

You shifted against the cushions without meaning to, thighs pressing together beneath the hem of your shirt, and the movement made you feel exactly how wet you’d become. Your panties were warm and damp against your pussy, slick spreading through the cotton where it pressed between your folds and dragging against your clit every time you moved, making the ache beneath it noticeably sharper.

It had happened gradually enough that you hadn’t properly noticed at first, beginning as nothing more than a little warmth when Peter started taking your stupid question seriously, building every time his voice dropped or his hand lingered against your thigh or that quiet Spider-Man confidence replaced the awkward embarrassment in his face. Now there was no ignoring it.

Your cunt felt swollen beneath the thin fabric, your clit throbbing against the soaked cotton, and squeezing your thighs together only forced the material tighter against you in a way that made your breath catch. Peter’s eyes dipped toward the movement, and the way his jaw tightened told you he knew exactly what was happening.

He was still clinging halfway up the wall when his gaze settled on your thighs properly. You watched the exact second he noticed the damp centre of your panties beneath the loose hem of your shirt, because his expression changed so slightly anyone else might’ve missed it, the amusement fading into something heavier while his mouth parted around a silent breath.

You swallowed beneath the weight of his stare and slowly let your knees fall apart by a few inches, the oversized shirt sliding higher over your skin until more of your bare thighs were exposed to him. Peter’s eyes followed the movement helplessly before darting back to your face, almost like he was trying to pretend he hadn’t just stared straight between your legs.

You let him struggle for another second before tilting your head and asking, “You gonna keep analysing it from up there, Parker, or are you actually planning on proving something?”

The words came out more confidently than you felt, and Peter’s lips parted immediately like some smart response had occurred to him, only for his gaze to fall between your thighs again and apparently wipe the thought straight out of his head.

He forced himself to look toward the ceiling instead, taking one slow breath that expanded his chest beneath the tight suit while he visibly tried to collect himself.

The pink across his cheeks didn’t disappear, but something else settled over his expression, quieter and more focused, that familiar shift where Peter stopped looking like the tired man who’d climbed through your window and started looking like Spider-Man calculating exactly what his body needed to do.

He tightened one hand around the strand of webbing he’d attached to the exposed ceiling beam and planted his opposite palm firmly against the wall, fingers adhering instantly to the surface. Peter gave the web a hard downward tug to test the hold, then another, his forearm flexing beneath the suit while he checked the angle and distance above you.

Even though both of you knew his webbing could support far more than his weight, he still treated the setup seriously, eyes travelling along the line to the beam before returning to the open space in front of the couch. Watching him turn something so filthy into a genuine logistical problem made your pussy pulse again.

Once Peter was satisfied, he pushed himself upward. One foot stuck to the wall, then the other, his knees bending as he climbed higher with that unnerving ease that always reminded you his body didn’t obey the same rules as yours.

He moved slowly enough that you could watch every controlled shift of muscle beneath the suit, hands and feet alternating against the wall until his head was nearly level with the ceiling. Peter paused there, twisted enough to look over his shoulder at you and immediately caught your gaze somewhere lower than his face.

The suit had pulled tight across his stomach and hips from the position, leaving very little to the imagination, and the slight lift of his eyebrow told you he knew exactly what you’d been looking at. He didn’t tease you for it, though. He only swallowed, glanced down toward your spread thighs again, then deliberately turned his attention back to what he was doing before either of you embarrassed yourselves further.

Peter shifted both feet from the wall onto the ceiling itself, one after the other, until he was crouched completely above you like gravity had simply stopped mattering. Both palms pressed flat against the ceiling while his knees bent beneath him, and his messy brown hair had already started falling away from his forehead.

He repositioned one hand, then slowly rotated his hips, moving one foot and then the other until his back faced the wall and his body was aligned directly above the space between your knees. The movement was controlled and strangely graceful, every adjustment precise enough that you could tell he was already thinking about where his mouth needed to end up.

Then Peter caught the webbing again with both hands and released his feet from the ceiling. His legs unfolded above him as his body gradually lowered beneath the beam, gravity pulling him straight until he hung fully upside down in front of you.

His hair dropped toward the floor immediately, soft brown strands hanging messily away from his forehead and making him look unmistakably like Peter despite the Spider-Man suit covering everything else.

He gave the web another firm pull, tested his weight, then released one hand and twisted his shoulders slightly to make sure he wasn’t going to rotate once he started moving against you. His free palm briefly pressed against the wall beside him, steadying his body while he adjusted the webbing around his wrist and lowered himself another few inches.

Peter’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he measured the distance between his face and the edge of the couch, then looked at you, down toward the floor from his inverted perspective and back toward you again. “Too high,” he muttered quietly to himself, releasing a little more web until his upside-down face was almost level with your knees.

The seriousness of it should’ve been funny, but there was something obscene about watching Spider-Man carefully calibrate the exact height he needed so he could eat your pussy comfortably.

You couldn’t help smiling at him while he made one final adjustment, and Peter caught it from the corner of his eye. His brows pulled together as he stretched one arm toward the wall again, using his palm to stop the last slow swing of his body before becoming almost perfectly still.

“What?” he asked, a faintly defensive edge slipping into his voice as though he suspected you were about to make fun of him. You shook your head slowly, letting your gaze wander down his inverted body again because there was something unfairly attractive about how comfortable he looked hanging there.

“Nothing,” you murmured, and Peter’s mouth twitched because neither of you believed that for a second. Once he was satisfied with the position, he released the wall and let both hands drop toward you, flexing his fingers experimentally while checking whether maintaining the position took any actual effort.

Apparently it didn’t. He looked almost irritatingly relaxed hanging upside down in front of you, like this was simply another perfectly reasonable way for him to spend an evening.

“Okay,” Peter murmured eventually, and his voice had gone noticeably rougher than before. His eyes travelled from your face down toward the oversized shirt pooled around your thighs, then lower still until his gaze settled on the damp cotton between them. You watched his throat work when he swallowed.

The change in him made you scoot forward without being asked, the couch cushions compressing beneath your weight as you moved toward the edge, and Peter immediately adjusted in response. He released tiny lengths of webbing at a time, lowering himself inch by inch until his face lined up perfectly with the space between your thighs.

Every time you shifted forward, he compensated automatically, like some part of his brain was mapping the distance before you even stopped moving. You’d watched Spider-Man judge impossible gaps between buildings in fractions of seconds, twist through traffic and catch himself midair without hesitation, and now every bit of that ridiculous coordination was being devoted to putting his mouth exactly where you wanted it.

When you finally reached the edge of the couch, Peter’s upside-down face was directly between your knees. His hair almost brushed the floor beneath him, and his shoulders hovered close enough that your thighs could touch them if you spread a little wider. The humour disappeared from his expression the moment you did.

You let your knees fall apart slowly, deliberately, watching his reaction while the hem of your oversized shirt slid higher and exposed more bare skin until the soaked centre of your panties was completely visible to him. Peter’s eyes followed every inch of the movement.

His lips parted when he saw how dark the cotton had become between your legs, and his breathing changed before he said anything, one deeper inhale expanding his chest before he released it slowly through his nose.

You felt another warm pulse of slick leak from your cunt into the fabric under his stare, making the already damp cotton cling more tightly to your folds.

Peter looked back toward your face for a moment, then down again like he simply couldn’t stop himself. When your own gaze travelled down the inverted length of his body in return, tracing the suit over his chest and stomach before reaching his hips, you immediately noticed the shape beginning to push against the fabric between his thighs.

Peter was getting hard just from watching you spread your legs for him. His cock thickened beneath the suit until the material stretched visibly tighter around it, the outline becoming harder to ignore every time his eyes returned to the soaked cotton covering your pussy.

Seeing that reaction made your cunt clench. Peter noticed where you were looking and let out a tiny, embarrassed sound in the back of his throat, but the flush crawling over his upside-down face did absolutely nothing to stop his cock from straining harder against the suit.

He reached for you carefully once you were settled. Both hands slid around the backs of your thighs, palms warm against your skin as he gently pulled you a little closer toward the edge until your covered pussy hovered only inches above his mouth.

The strength in his grip was obvious despite how careful he was, fingers spreading against your thighs while he adjusted you into exactly the position he wanted and then immediately loosening again. His eyes returned to your panties.

Peter’s tongue dragged slowly over his bottom lip before he hooked two fingers beneath the waistband at one hip, his knuckles brushing your skin and making your stomach tighten. “Lift up for me,” he murmured,

and the slight roughness in his voice made the request sound considerably dirtier than it needed to. You planted your hands against the couch and raised your hips, watching Peter’s gaze darken as he started pulling the cotton slowly downward.

The panties peeled away from your pussy with a damp little drag that made heat rush straight into your face. Peter’s eyes snapped toward the movement, watching the fabric separate from the slick caught between your folds before he guided the waistband over your ass and down your thighs.

You lifted one leg, then the other, allowing him to slide them completely free, and cool air hitting your bare cunt made you inhale sharply. Your thighs twitched around his head while your pussy clenched around nothing.

Slick immediately gathering glossy between your swollen folds now that nothing covered them. Peter stared. For several seconds he didn’t seem capable of doing anything else, your panties held loosely in one hand while his eyes traced every wet inch of you.

You expected him to throw the panties somewhere. Instead, his attention dropped to the fabric in his hand. The centre was visibly soaked, dark with your arousal, and Peter’s fingers tightened around the cotton almost without him realising it.

His eyes flicked toward you briefly, something embarrassed already creeping across his expression, before he lifted the panties toward his nose and inhaled. His lashes fluttered shut.

The pathetic little whimper that escaped him sounded completely involuntary, soft and needy enough that his entire body went still the instant he heard it. Peter’s eyes opened again, cheeks burning while he stared at the underwear still held against his face like he couldn’t believe his own reaction.

You bit your lip to stop yourself laughing, but Peter caught it immediately. His eyes narrowed in warning, though whatever dignity he was trying to recover disappeared when he pressed the soaked cotton more firmly beneath his nose and took another slower breath. His mouth parted.

Another tiny, broken sound caught somewhere in his throat, and his cock visibly twitched beneath the suit at the same time. “Peter,” you breathed, his name coming out somewhere between disbelief and a moan, and the sound made his eyes snap back toward yours.

There was embarrassment in them, plenty of it, but there was something hotter underneath now, a kind of needy fascination he clearly couldn’t hide.

He lowered the panties from his face but didn’t let them go. Instead, Peter’s gaze travelled between your legs again, settling on your exposed pussy where your folds were already shiny with slick.

Your lips were swollen from arousal, parted enough that he could see the wet little opening lower down and the way your cunt clenched every time his eyes lingered there.

Peter stared openly. His tongue moved across his bottom lip while his breathing grew a little heavier, and you watched another visible throb travel through his cock beneath the suit. “Fuck,” he whispered almost absently,

the word slipping out before he seemed aware he’d actually spoken. When your pussy clenched again in response, a fresh bead of slick gathered at your entrance and began sliding downward through your folds, and Peter’s eyes locked onto it instantly.

He leaned closer, but instead of putting his mouth on you immediately, the hand still holding your panties moved between your thighs. Peter folded the soaked cotton loosely around two fingers, his eyes lifting toward yours as though checking your reaction before he touched you.

The first drag of fabric over your clit was almost unbearably light. Damp cotton brushed across the swollen little bud, carrying your own slick with it, and your hips jerked forward before you could stop yourself. Peter’s lips parted around a quiet breath. He did it again, slower this time, rubbing the wet fabric directly over your clit in a small circle while watching your face with intense concentration.

The texture made everything feel filthier. The panties were already soaked from being pressed against your cunt, and now Peter was using that same wet patch to stroke your clit, dragging the soft cotton over it until the fabric became even slicker.

Your thighs spread farther around his head, and Peter’s cock twitched visibly beneath the suit when he saw you deliberately open yourself wider for him. He rubbed the panties against your clit again, applying a little more pressure this time, and a shaky moan slipped out of you before you could swallow it.

Peter’s expression changed immediately. Something pleased and slightly wrecked moved across his face, his eyes dropping toward the way your pussy glistened beneath the fabric.

He shifted the panties lower for a second, dragging the soaked cotton through your folds and pressing it lightly against your entrance before pulling it back toward your clit.

The sensation made your cunt clench against the fabric, smearing more slick into it, and Peter’s eyes went almost painfully dark when he watched your body wet the panties even further.

He brought them back toward his face without thinking, took another breath against the newly soaked cotton and whimpered again, louder this time. The sound made your stomach tighten so hard it almost hurt.

Peter looked genuinely pathetic about it, hanging upside down with your panties clutched in one hand, cheeks flushed, cock straining against the suit and eyes half-lidded because apparently smelling and touching your wet cunt at the same time had overwhelmed whatever remaining dignity he possessed.

“You like that way too much,” you murmured breathlessly, watching Peter’s expression tighten in embarrassment before his gaze returned between your thighs. He didn’t deny it. Instead, he dragged the panties once more across your clit, slow enough to make your hips chase the pressure, then let the fabric fall away from you while keeping it clenched in his fingers.

Your pussy looked even messier now, slick spread over your swollen folds and clit from the rubbing, and Peter stared at the shine covering you. His mouth opened slightly. The tip of his tongue appeared against his bottom lip. You could practically see the moment restraint disappeared.

Peter leaned closer without touching at first. Warm breath rolled across your exposed cunt, making your thighs twitch around his shoulders, and his eyes lifted toward yours from between them. The look on his face made your pulse jump.

There was still a little awkward Peter beneath it, still that faint flush along his cheeks, but the confidence had settled back over him now that he knew exactly what he wanted to do.

He closed the remaining distance and pressed his mouth directly against your pussy. The first contact was open and wet, his lips settling over your slick folds before his tongue dragged slowly from your entrance upward.

He started at the wet little hole already leaking for him, catching the slick there with the tip of his tongue before flattening it against you and licking all the way through your folds. When his tongue passed firmly over your clit, your entire body jerked.

One hand flew into Peter’s hanging hair and closed around a fistful of it while your thighs threatened to clamp around his head. Peter groaned straight into your cunt when you pulled him closer, the vibration travelling through your clit

and making your hips buck hard enough that both of his hands immediately returned to your thighs. He steadied you with effortless strength, fingers digging carefully into the soft flesh while his mouth stayed exactly where you wanted it.

Being upside down didn’t hinder him in the slightest once he found the angle. If anything, Peter seemed fascinated by figuring out what worked from the position, lowering himself another fraction on the web and turning his head until he could bury his mouth comfortably against you without straining his neck.

His tongue pushed between your folds again, licking through the slick coating you before dipping lower toward your entrance. He collected everything your body gave him before dragging it back toward your clit, smearing your arousal over the swollen bud with broad, messy strokes.

You could hear how wet you were every time his mouth moved. Soft, filthy sounds filled the apartment beneath your breathing, and Peter seemed to fucking love every one of them.

His nose brushed against your clit when his tongue slid lower, nudging it accidentally before he realised the reaction it caused. Your hips jerked. Your fingers tightened painfully in his hair. Peter’s eyes opened wider and immediately did it again on purpose, pressing the bridge of his nose against your clit while his tongue worked lower through your folds.

The combination made a broken sound tear from your throat, and Peter groaned directly against your pussy like hearing you lose control was affecting him just as badly. His cock jerked visibly inside the suit. Even upside down, you could see the thick outline trapped against the fabric, painfully hard and twitching every time you moaned his name.

When Peter finally wrapped his lips around your clit, your back arched away from the couch. He sucked slowly at first, tongue pressing against the sensitive little bud inside his mouth while your thighs shook around him.

Your grip in his hair tightened until you were practically using it to hold him exactly where you wanted him. Peter let you. More than that, the pathetic moan that vibrated against your cunt when you pulled his hair told you he fucking liked it.

His hands spread your thighs wider, fingers firm but careful, and he buried his face deeper between them until his mouth and chin were shining with your slick.

Every time you forced yourself to look down, the sight made the pleasure worse. Peter looked obscene hanging upside down between your legs, messy hair falling toward the floor while his mouth worked relentlessly against your cunt.

Your pussy was visibly swollen around his face, wet folds spreading around his tongue every time he licked upward, slick coating his lips and gathering along his chin.

Whenever he pulled away just enough to breathe, you could see your arousal glistening across his skin. Then his mouth would immediately return, like even a few seconds away from tasting you was too long.

Peter’s eyes were half-lidded but intensely focused. Whenever you made a particularly desperate sound, they opened wider and fixed on your face, watching for the exact movement that had caused it before he repeated whatever he’d done.

His tongue slid back down to your entrance, circling it slowly before pushing inside just enough to make your cunt tighten around him. Peter whimpered when he felt you clench. The sound came muffled and needy against your pussy, followed by another little twitch of his hips in the air as if his body was searching automatically for something to grind his cock against.

Your gaze travelled down his inverted body again, following the tight suit over his stomach and hips until you found the thick outline straining between his thighs. Peter was fully hard now. Painfully hard from the look of it, the fabric stretched tight enough around his cock that every involuntary twitch was obvious.

He hadn’t touched himself once. He was getting that worked up purely from being between your legs, from licking your cunt and smelling your wet panties and feeling your pussy clench around his tongue. The knowledge made another rush of slick spill from you.

Peter caught you staring at his cock. His eyes followed your gaze as much as his inverted position allowed, and for a second embarrassment flashed visibly across his face. It didn’t last long.

Something filthier replaced it, something hot and needy and almost proud when he realised you were watching exactly how hard eating you out had made him. He held your gaze as he lowered his mouth back toward your pussy. Then he wrapped his lips around your clit again and sucked hard enough to make your whole body arch.

The cry that tore from you was loud enough that Peter’s eyes widened for half a second. Then something pleased flickered across his face. He sucked again, slower this time, tongue pressing insistently against your clit while his lips pulled around it.

Your thighs shook so badly against his hands that he tightened his grip enough to keep you comfortably spread. Your fingers twisted deeper into his hair, and you ground shamelessly against his mouth, using him while he hung there between your legs. Peter moaned like the idea of being used for your pleasure was doing something terrible to him.

His cock twitched again. Hard. The movement was obvious enough that you couldn’t stop staring, and when Peter noticed your eyes drop there, another pathetic little sound vibrated against your cunt. “Fuck, Peter,” you gasped, voice breaking around his name while your hips rolled harder against his tongue.

He answered by dragging one long stroke through your pussy, licking from your entrance all the way over your clit before immediately repeating it. Your own slick coated his tongue, lips and chin, and every time he licked you clean your body seemed determined to make another mess for him.

He looked completely gone on it now. Flushed, breathless, hanging upside down with your soaked panties still twisted around one hand and his cock straining desperately beneath the Spider-Man suit while his tongue worked over your cunt like he couldn’t make himself stop.

Every few seconds his fingers tightened around the panties, almost like he’d forgotten he was still holding them until the smell reached him again. Once, he brought them briefly back beneath his nose while his mouth hovered inches from your pussy and took another deep breath, eyes closing as a shaky whimper escaped him. The sight was so fucking filthy that your cunt clenched hard enough for Peter to see it.

His eyes snapped open. He watched your pussy contract around nothing, slick shining at your entrance, and immediately dropped the panties away so he could put his mouth back on you. His tongue pressed against your clit with quicker little strokes now, then slowed deliberately whenever your hips started moving too frantically.

Peter was learning you too easily, teasing without even seeming to mean to, changing rhythm every time he felt your thighs tremble or heard your breathing break. The pleasure tightened lower in your stomach, hot and heavy and increasingly difficult to ignore.

Your head fell back against the couch. The oversized shirt had ridden high over your stomach from all the movement, leaving most of your thighs and lower body completely exposed while Peter kept you spread open for him. Your mouth stayed open around helpless sounds that only seemed to encourage him.

Every time you whispered or moaned his name, Peter’s cock jerked beneath the suit and another needy sound escaped into your pussy. He was so hard from eating you that it looked genuinely uncomfortable, but he still never reached down to touch himself.

When your thighs began shaking harder around his head, Peter tightened his grip just enough to steady them. His eyes lifted toward your face from between your legs, his expression flushed and desperate despite the control in every movement of his mouth.

His lips were wet. His chin was slick. Your panties were still clutched in one hand. His cock was painfully hard beneath the suit. He looked utterly wrecked by your pussy and somehow still completely determined to keep going until you were worse.

Whatever stupid joke had started this had disappeared completely. There was nothing hypothetical about Peter hanging upside down between your legs anymore, mouth buried against your dripping cunt while your thighs trembled around his head and your fingers pulled at his hair.

The experiment had stopped being about whether Spider-Man could eat pussy upside down somewhere around the moment he’d whimpered into your soaked panties. Now it was just Peter licking, sucking and grinding his mouth against you with his cock painfully trapped inside his suit, apparently determined to find out exactly how badly he could make you fall apart before he finally had to come back down.

Peter was so completely lost between your thighs by that point that whatever embarrassment he’d carried into the whole thing had burned away, leaving him flushed, needy and devastatingly focused on your pussy. His tongue kept working over your swollen clit in slow, wet circles before flattening firmly against it, and every time your thighs trembled around his head his fingers flexed into the soft flesh to keep you spread exactly where he wanted you.

Your hips had stopped pretending to stay still, grinding shamelessly against his mouth whenever he found the right pressure, and Peter took every movement without complaint, letting you push yourself harder against his tongue while he moaned beneath you. The slick noises coming from between your legs were impossible to ignore now, wet and messy every time his mouth dragged through your folds, and Peter seemed to get more worked up with every sound.

Your gaze kept slipping down the inverted length of his body toward the cock straining inside his suit, and this time you noticed the fabric over the head had begun to darken. A tiny wet spot had appeared where his tip pressed against the material, followed moments later by another glossy bead of precum soaking through when his cock twitched violently at the sound of you moaning his name.

Peter noticed exactly where you were staring, his eyes following your gaze as much as the upside-down position allowed, but instead of becoming shy again, he let out a pathetic little whimper directly against your cunt.

The vibration rolled through your clit and made you jerk against him, your fingers tightening in his hair while another bead of precum seeped through the suit, leaving the fabric visibly damp around the head of his cock.

He hadn’t even touched himself, hadn’t reached down once despite how painfully hard he looked, and knowing that eating your pussy alone had him leaking into the Spider-Man suit made your stomach pull tighter with pleasure.

Peter felt you getting close before you managed to tell him. Your breathing had become uneven and broken, your thighs trembling constantly instead of occasionally, and every slow circle of his tongue made your cunt clench helplessly around nothing. Your fingers twisted harder into his hair when his lips closed around your clit, and Peter answered with a hungry moan, sucking the swollen little bud while the tip of his tongue rubbed firmly over it.

Your stomach tightened painfully. Heat gathered lower and lower until your entire body felt wound around the sensation of Peter’s mouth, and when he sucked again while his tongue flicked against you, the pressure finally broke. Your orgasm hit hard enough that your body went rigid before immediately falling apart beneath it, hips bucking into his face while your pussy clenched and pulsed through each wave. Peter didn’t stop.

He groaned against you as you came, keeping his lips and tongue pressed against your clit while fresh slick spilled across his mouth, coating his tongue, lips and chin as he licked you through every trembling aftershock.

Your thighs tried to close around his head, but his hands held them apart with gentle strength while you cried his name and ground against him, too overwhelmed to care how messy you were making his face.

The sight of you cumming seemed to hit Peter almost as hard as it hit you, because his cock jerked sharply beneath the suit and another wet bead of precum pushed through the fabric, joining the dark patch already spread around the tip.

By the time the orgasm began fading, your whole body had gone loose and shaky against the couch, your clit still twitching with sensitivity every time Peter’s tongue passed over it. You had to tug gently at his hair before he finally understood that you needed him to stop, because he’d become so absorbed in licking the last of your slick from your folds that he seemed genuinely reluctant to pull his mouth away.

Peter left one final kiss against your pussy before lifting his head, and the sight of him made something hot stir inside you all over again despite how sensitive you still were. Your slick was smeared all over the lower half of his face. His lips were wet and slightly swollen from eating you, his chin glistened beneath the light from the television, and there was even a faint shine along the edge of his cheek where your arousal had spread while you ground against him.

Peter looked up at you from his inverted position, breathing heavily, hair hanging messily toward the floor and expression completely satisfied with what he’d done to you. You reached toward him before you’d even fully decided what you wanted, fingers sliding beneath his jaw and turning his upside-down face slightly toward you.

His eyebrows lifted in question, but Peter stayed perfectly still when you leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly across his chin. The taste of your own slick hit your tongue immediately, warm and intimate from where it coated his skin, and Peter’s mouth fell open around a soft sound when you licked another stripe upward toward the corner of his mouth.

You cleaned your arousal from his face slowly, tongue passing across his jaw, chin and swollen lips, deliberately gathering every wet trace he’d left there until his skin was almost clean.

Peter watched you the entire time. His eyes were darker now, following the movement of your mouth with obvious hunger while his cock continued twitching helplessly inside the damp suit. You licked the final streak of slick from his bottom lip and sat back just enough to let the mixture of your arousal and saliva collect deliberately in your mouth instead of swallowing it.

Peter’s expression shifted as he realised what you were doing, his eyes widening slightly before dropping toward your lips. You kept one hand beneath his jaw and tipped his face toward yours. “Open your mouth,” you told him softly. Peter obeyed immediately, lips parting and tongue visible while he looked at you with the same needy openness he’d shown when he’d sniffed your panties earlier.

You leaned closer until your faces were only inches apart, held his gaze and spat the slick mixture straight onto his tongue. Peter made a quiet, breathless moan when it landed in his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he closed his lips, swallowed everything you’d given him and then ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip like he didn’t want to waste even the taste left behind.

You watched his throat move as he swallowed, and his cock jerked beneath the suit hard enough that another tiny bead of precum soaked through the already damp material. The reaction pulled a satisfied smile from you, and Peter looked almost dazed when you brushed your thumb across his wet lower lip before telling him, “Come back down.”

Peter reacted immediately, although he was noticeably less composed than he’d been when he originally positioned himself above you. He reached upward along the webbing and pulled himself toward the ceiling with one arm, the muscles across his stomach tightening beneath the suit as he brought both feet back against the surface above him.

His palms adhered beside them while he twisted his hips and shoulders, carefully turning himself from the inverted hanging position into a crouch against the ceiling. He released one hand, planted it firmly against the wall and transferred one foot onto the vertical surface before the other followed, movements still controlled despite the obvious erection trapped painfully between his thighs.

Peter climbed downward quickly, peeling one hand and foot from the wall at a time while the remaining limbs kept him anchored, until he was low enough to simply push away and land softly on the floor in front of you.

He had barely straightened before you stood. Your legs immediately betrayed you, knees wobbling from the orgasm strongly enough that Peter’s expression changed and one hand shot instinctively around your waist to catch you.

A quiet, breathy laugh escaped him, but it lasted barely a second because you grabbed the front of his suit, pulled him toward you and kissed him hard. Peter stumbled half a step before recovering, one arm tightening around your waist while the other hand slid behind your neck, and then his mouth opened against yours without hesitation. You could still taste yourself faintly on his tongue when it met yours, the knowledge of what he’d just swallowed making the kiss feel filthy in a completely different way.

There wasn’t any of Peter’s earlier shyness left once you were standing together. He kissed you with an open hunger that made it obvious how long he’d spent desperately hard while concentrating entirely on you, tongue pushing against yours while his hands moved restlessly over your waist and back.

Your body pressed flush against his, and the instant his cock was trapped between your stomach and his suit you could feel exactly how hard he’d become. You slid one hand down between your bodies and covered the thick bulge through the fabric, pressing your palm firmly against his cock. Peter immediately broke the kiss with a loud, helpless moan against your mouth, hips jerking forward into your hand before he could stop himself.

He’d never been particularly quiet when sex was involved, and now that the embarrassment was gone he didn’t bother holding back anything. Every slow stroke of your palm over his cock pulled another sound from him, sometimes a rough groan from deep in his chest, sometimes a higher broken moan when your fingers rubbed directly over the damp fabric covering his sensitive head.

You could feel the heat of him even through the suit, his cock solid beneath your hand and twitching hard whenever your thumb circled the tip. Peter rested his forehead against yours for a second, eyes squeezing shut while his mouth remained open around another needy sound, then immediately kissed you again like he couldn’t stand being separated from you for even that long.

You kept palming him while you kissed, fingers tracing the full outline of his cock through the suit from the base to the leaking tip. The wet patch of precum had spread enough that the material felt faintly damp beneath your fingertips, and when you rubbed over it Peter shuddered visibly.

His hips rolled forward on instinct, pushing his cock harder against your palm while his hand tightened against your waist. “Keep doing that,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough and broken, and you barely gave him time to finish before dragging your palm slowly down the length of him again.

Peter moaned openly into your mouth, completely unconcerned with hiding how good it felt. There was something incredibly sexual about how expressive he was, the way every touch pulled an immediate reaction from him, whether it was his breathing catching, his stomach tightening beneath the suit,

his cock jumping against your hand or another sound spilling straight into your kiss. The shy colour remained faintly across his cheeks, but it wasn’t embarrassment anymore. He wanted you to know what you were doing to him.

The oversized shirt still hanging around your body suddenly felt like far too much clothing. You pulled back just enough to catch the hem with both hands and dragged it slowly upward over your stomach, and Peter’s attention immediately dropped toward the movement.

The fabric rose past your ribs, exposing more bare skin, and his breathing changed when the lower curves of your boobs appeared. You pulled the shirt completely over your head and tossed it somewhere behind the couch, leaving yourself naked from the waist up in front of him. Peter went completely still for a second.

His cock was still pressed against your hip through the suit, his lips remained wet from kissing you, but his eyes dropped straight toward your boobs with such naked appreciation that your nipples hardened beneath the attention alone.

His hands lifted slowly, almost reverently, palms settling around the soft weight of your boobs before his thumbs brushed across both nipples. The contact made you inhale sharply, and Peter’s eyes immediately lifted toward your face to watch your reaction before returning to your chest.

He touched your boobs like he couldn’t get enough of them. His hands squeezed gently, thumbs rubbing across your hardened nipples before his fingers spread underneath and lifted them slightly in his palms. Peter leaned forward and kissed the upper curve of one boob, then another kiss lower, then another closer to your nipple until his tongue finally dragged slowly across it.

Your fingers slid into his hair as his lips closed around the sensitive bud and sucked, and Peter groaned softly into your skin when you pulled him closer. His free hand kept kneading your other boob, thumb circling the nipple before pinching it lightly enough to make your back arch toward him.

He switched sides after a moment, kissing his way across your chest and taking the opposite nipple into his mouth while his hand returned to the first. Peter looked almost drunk on touching you, mouth warm and wet over your boobs while his cock repeatedly twitched against your body.

Every little sound you made encouraged him, and between kisses he murmured how soft you felt, how pretty your boobs looked in his hands and how badly he’d wanted to get your shirt off since you’d spread your thighs for him earlier.

Eventually you had to pull him away by the hair because Peter seemed perfectly willing to spend the rest of the night with his face buried against your boobs. He lifted his head reluctantly, lips swollen and damp, eyes unfocused for a moment before landing on your face.

Your fingers travelled down the front of his suit, and the second Peter realised you were trying to get it off, his own hands immediately joined yours. He peeled the upper half away from his shoulders first, dragging the tight material down his arms and exposing his chest and stomach inch by inch.

You ran your palms over the warm skin as it appeared, feeling the lean muscle underneath while Peter breathed harder beneath your touch. The suit gathered around his hips, and he hooked both thumbs under the fabric before pushing it farther down.

You helped, dragging the material over his hips and thighs while Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other until the suit finally released what it had been compressing for the last several minutes.

Peter sucked in a sharp breath the second his cock sprang free. It was hard enough to stand heavy against his lower stomach, thick and visibly flushed from being trapped inside the suit while he ate you out. The head was darker than the rest, glossy with precum, the slit wet enough that another clear bead gathered while you stared before slowly rolling over the rounded tip.

A thick vein ran visibly along the underside of his shaft, disappearing near the base where dark curls spread above it, and every few seconds his cock gave another involuntary twitch toward his stomach. The skin looked stretched tight around how full he was, his balls drawn close beneath the shaft from how painfully aroused he’d become without touching himself.

Peter looked down at you watching him and let out a shaky breath, but there was no attempt to cover himself or hide anymore. His chest rose and fell quickly, his hair was still ruined from your hands, his lips remained swollen from your kisses and your slick, and another bead of precum had already formed at the tip of his cock by the time your eyes returned there.

You watched it swell slowly at the slit before dragging your gaze back up Peter’s body and meeting his eyes. His throat moved in a hard swallow when he saw the expression on your face, and without breaking eye contact, you slowly lowered yourself onto your knees in front of him.

Peter went completely still when your knees touched the floor, his entire body seeming to lock around the sight of you looking up at him from beneath your lashes. For all the confidence he’d carried once he had his mouth between your thighs, this was different, because now there was nowhere for him to hide from how badly he wanted it.

His cock stood hard and heavy in front of you, thick enough that your fingers barely looked like enough when you wrapped one hand around the base, and the heat of him against your palm made your stomach tighten all over again. Another bead of precum gathered at the slit while you watched, glossy and clear, swelling slowly before beginning to slide down over the flushed head.

Peter’s breath hitched when you leaned forward instead of touching it with your fingers, and the sound broke into a low moan the second your tongue caught the bead from his tip. He tasted salty and warm, the precum spreading across your tongue as you dragged it slowly around the head, taking your time with the sensitive ridge until Peter’s hand shot out and braced against the wall beside him.

His mouth had fallen open already, eyes fixed on you like he couldn’t look away even if it killed him, and when you licked over the slit again, his hips jerked forward so sharply he immediately choked out, “Sorry, sorry.” The apology only made you smile around him, because he looked ruined before you’d even properly started.

You kept one hand around the base of his cock while the other settled against his thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath your palm as you dragged your tongue down the underside of his shaft. He was so hard that every vein stood out beneath your mouth, the thick one underneath pressing against your tongue when you licked slowly from the base back to the tip.

Peter made a broken sound above you, not quiet or restrained, just openly needy, his fingers spreading against the wall as if he needed something solid to keep himself upright. You circled the head with your tongue again, then kissed the slick tip in a deliberately soft, filthy little gesture that made his cock twitch against your lips.

“Don’t tease,” he breathed, voice rough and already unsteady, and when you glanced up at him, his face was flushed so deeply that even his ears were red. You rewarded the plea by taking the head of his cock into your mouth, lips sealing around him while your tongue pressed firmly against the underside.

Peter’s reaction was immediate and loud, a full moan spilling out of him as his head tipped back, throat exposed, chest rising hard with every breath. The sound made your pussy clench even though he wasn’t touching you anymore, and you hummed around him just to feel the way his whole body shuddered.

The vibration nearly took his knees out. Peter’s other hand flew into your hair, not pushing, not forcing, just grabbing like he needed to hold onto something before his body forgot how to stand. You took him a little deeper, jaw stretching around the thickness of him while your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t fit yet, twisting slowly at the base.

His cock was hot and heavy on your tongue, precum smearing against the roof of your mouth as you worked him in shallow, wet pulls. Peter kept making sounds with every motion, soft gasps turning into rougher moans whenever your lips tightened or your tongue dragged over the sensitive head on the way back up.

He tried to watch you, but every few seconds his eyes squeezed shut like the sight was too much, only to open again almost immediately because he clearly couldn’t stand missing it. Your free hand slid higher up his thigh, nails lightly dragging against his skin, and his cock jumped in your mouth hard enough to make you pause.

Peter looked down quickly, breath catching when he saw the way your lips were stretched around him, and the hand in your hair tightened before loosening again in the same second.

You pulled off just enough to breathe, letting your lips drag slowly over the head before he slipped free with a wet sound. Peter’s hips twitched toward your mouth again, desperate for the warmth he’d just lost, and you looked up at him while stroking him with your hand instead.

His cock was slick now from your mouth and his own precum, your fingers gliding more easily as you pumped him from base to tip, thumb circling the flushed head each time you reached it. “Look at you,” you murmured, voice low as your gaze travelled over his flushed face, his open mouth, the way his chest kept lifting quickly. “You were so noisy eating my pussy, and now you’re even worse.”

Peter let out a strained laugh that broke halfway into another moan when your thumb pressed directly over the slit. “Can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice rough and breathless. The honesty in it made heat lick up your spine.

He wasn’t trying to be controlled now, wasn’t trying to make some awkward joke or act composed, and when you leaned forward to lick a slow line up his shaft again, he moaned your name so openly that you felt it between your legs. You took him back into your mouth before he could say anything else.

This time you pushed deeper. Your lips slid down over him inch by inch while your hand tightened at the base, and Peter’s entire body went rigid above you. His fingers threaded through your hair again, trembling slightly as he fought the instinct to buck into your mouth, and you could feel the restraint in every tense line of him.

You hollowed your cheeks and dragged upward slowly, then sank back down, wet heat closing around him while your tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock. Peter swore under his breath once, sharp and helpless, then immediately fell into a string of broken sounds that barely formed words at all.

His hips began moving in small involuntary rolls, not enough to take control, just enough to chase the rhythm of your mouth, and you let him because the desperation of it made your thighs press together. Saliva gathered at the corners of your lips, mixing with the precum leaking from him until every stroke sounded slick and obscene.

When he looked down again, his face went utterly wrecked, eyes dark and unfocused as he watched his cock disappear into your mouth. “You look so good like that,” he said, the words uneven and breathless, like they’d been dragged out of him against his will.

You moaned around him at the praise, and Peter nearly folded. His hand left the wall and landed on the back of the couch instead, gripping it hard while his other hand stayed buried in your hair. You pulled back, breathing through your nose, then took him deeper again, relaxing your jaw until the head of his cock pressed farther into your mouth and made your eyes water slightly.

Peter noticed instantly, his expression flashing with concern through the haze of pleasure, and his hand loosened in your hair as if he was ready to pull you off. Instead, you looked up at him and kept going, letting your tongue move against him while you held his gaze. That did something awful to him.

His mouth fell open, no sound coming out for half a second before a loud, broken moan finally escaped. His cock pulsed against your tongue, precum spilling thicker now, and you swallowed around him just enough to make his thighs tense beneath your hands. “Baby,” he gasped, the pet name sounding almost ruined, “you’re gonna make me cum if you keep doing that.”

You pulled back again, but only to lick across the head and smear the mess over your lips before taking him back in. Peter looked down at your mouth, then at your eyes, and the flush across his face deepened into something almost feverish.

You stroked the base with your hand while sucking the head, tongue flicking over the slit each time more precum gathered there, and his hips began to shake with the effort of keeping still.

Every sound he made was raw and immediate. A gasp when you tightened your lips. A moan when you dragged your tongue underneath.

A broken little whimper when your hand slid lower and cupped him gently while your mouth kept working over the tip. His cock throbbed heavily in your grip, the skin slick and hot, and you could feel how close he was by the way his body kept tensing, releasing, then tensing again.

Peter’s fingers curled through your hair without pulling, his eyes never leaving your face now, and the naked want in his expression made your own body ache. He looked like he wanted to apologise for how desperate he was, but every sound coming out of him said he didn’t want you to stop.

You didn’t. You sank down again, slower this time, taking him as far as you comfortably could while your hand worked the rest in a tight, wet rhythm. Peter’s head tipped back, throat working around a helpless moan as his stomach muscles tightened sharply.

His cock pulsed hard against your tongue, and you felt the exact moment he started losing control, the rhythm of his breathing breaking apart while his hips gave another restrained little thrust.

“I’m close,” he warned, voice strained and shaky. You answered by moaning around him and looking up, letting him see that you’d heard him and weren’t moving away. Peter’s eyes snapped back down to yours, stunned and overwhelmed, and the sight of you on your knees with your lips wrapped around him seemed to push him right to the edge.

His hand tightened in your hair, not guiding, just holding on, and he made the softest, most wrecked sound when your tongue pressed firmly along the underside of his cock. Then his whole body shuddered, his cock swelling against your tongue, and he came with a loud, broken moan, spilling hot into your mouth while his hips jerked forward once before he caught himself.

You kept your mouth on him through it, taking every pulse while Peter trembled above you. His cum coated your tongue in warm, salty bursts, and his sounds turned softer but no less desperate as you slowly worked him through the aftershocks.

His hand slid from your hair to the side of your face, fingers shaking slightly as he looked down at you with his mouth open and eyes blown wide. You didn’t pull away until his cock softened only a little against your tongue and his breathing had turned ragged enough that each exhale sounded almost pained.

When you finally let him slip from your mouth, a thin string of spit and cum connected your lower lip to the flushed head for a second before breaking. Peter stared at it like the sight might actually finish him all over again.

You swallowed slowly while looking up at him, and the tiny sound that left him afterward was almost pathetic. His thumb brushed over your cheek, tender despite the filth of the moment, and for a second neither of you moved.

Then you leaned forward and pressed one last slow kiss to the sensitive tip of his cock, just enough to make him twitch and suck in a sharp breath. Peter’s knees actually bent slightly that time, his hand dropping back to the wall for balance while he gave you a breathless, almost wounded look.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he said, voice hoarse and uneven. You smiled up at him, still on your knees, lips wet and swollen, your thighs sticky from your own earlier orgasm and your chest bare beneath the dim light of the room.

Peter looked at you like he didn’t know whether to pull you up and kiss you or collapse right there in front of you. His cock was still slick between you, sensitive and flushed, a little cum still glistening near the slit, and even though he’d just finished, the way his eyes moved over your face and boobs made it obvious he wasn’t done wanting you.

He reached down carefully and slid his hand beneath your chin, tilting your face up with a softness that somehow made the whole thing feel even dirtier. Then he bent, caught your mouth in a deep, messy kiss and moaned when he tasted himself on your tongue.

The kiss didn’t stay soft for even a second. Peter bent over you with one hand still beneath your chin, mouth opening immediately when yours did, and the taste of him on your tongue made his whole body tense like the filth of it had travelled straight through him. You rose from your knees slowly, legs still unsteady, but the second you were upright your hands went to his chest and pushed.

Peter let you move him without resistance, stumbling backward until the backs of his knees hit the couch and he dropped onto it with a breathless little sound. His cock was still flushed and slick from your mouth, softer than before but not fully down, lying heavy against his lower stomach with the head still wet and sensitive.

Peter looked up at you with messy hair, swollen lips and a dazed kind of hunger still all over his face, like he should’ve been spent but wasn’t even close to done wanting you. You climbed over him before he could say anything, one knee sinking into the cushion beside his hip and then the other until you were straddling his lap, your pussy hovering over his cock while he stared down between your bodies.

His hands immediately went to your waist, fingers spreading over your skin like he needed to feel you everywhere at once. You wrapped your hand around him, feeling him twitch weakly in your palm, still wet with spit and cum, and Peter’s breath caught when you dragged the softened head through your folds.

He made a broken sound when you pressed the tip against your entrance, his eyes snapping up to your face as if he hadn’t expected you to move so quickly. You didn’t give him much warning. You sank down slowly, pushing the slightly soft head inside your wet pussy and feeling your body stretch around the thickness of him even before he was fully hard again.

Peter’s mouth fell open. His fingers tightened on your waist, and the noise that came out of him was low and helpless, almost overwhelmed by the sensation of your slick cunt surrounding him while he was still sensitive from cumming in your mouth. “I wanna feel you get hard inside me,” you murmured, leaning down until your mouth brushed his ear, and Peter’s hips jolted upward beneath you at the words.

You took him deeper inch by inch, your pussy hot and soaked enough to pull him in despite the softness still lingering in his cock, and every little squeeze of your walls made him swell more against you. Peter’s head fell back against the couch, throat exposed, chest rising sharply as he tried to breathe through it.

You could feel the change happening in real time, his cock thickening inside you, filling you more completely with each pulse, going from pliant and sensitive to heavier, harder, more insistent as your body clenched around him. The feeling was filthy enough to make your own breath shake, because you could tell exactly when he tipped over from recovering into needing you all over again.

Once Peter was hard inside you, the stretch became almost too good. His cock filled you properly now, thick and hot, pressing deep every time you lowered your hips until your thighs trembled around his lap. You started riding him slowly at first, hands braced on his shoulders while you lifted yourself almost to the tip and sank back down with a wet, aching drag.

Peter groaned loudly, not bothering to hold back, his hands sliding from your waist to your ass so he could help guide the movement. His fingers kneaded into you, spreading you slightly each time you took him back in, and the pressure made his cock feel even deeper as your pussy swallowed him over and over.

“You feel so good,” he breathed, voice rough against your throat as he leaned forward, mouth dragging along your neck. You tipped your head to give him room, and Peter immediately took advantage, kissing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw before biting down just enough to make you gasp.

His cock jerked inside you at the sound, and you answered by rolling your hips harder, grinding down until your clit rubbed against his body and your cunt tightened around him. Peter’s mouth opened against your neck in another moan, loud and unrestrained, his teeth scraping your skin before he sucked a mark there like he wanted you to feel him even after this was over.

His hands couldn’t seem to settle in one place. They gripped your ass, slid up your back, then came around to your boobs with a kind of greedy tenderness that made your rhythm falter. Peter cupped them while you rode him, thumbs brushing over your nipples as your hips moved in slow, filthy rolls over his cock.

Every time you sank down, his palms squeezed the soft weight of your boobs, and when you lifted again his thumbs circled your nipples until they tightened beneath his touch. You moaned his name and leaned back slightly, giving him more room to look, and Peter’s eyes dropped immediately to the way your chest moved with every bounce of your hips.

He looked wrecked by it, flushed and open-mouthed, his cock twitching deep inside you as he watched his hands cover your boobs. You shifted your own hands down from his shoulders to his chest, dragging your thumbs over his nipples in return. Peter’s reaction was instant.

His stomach tensed, his hips jerked up into you and a sharp moan broke out of him before he could swallow it. You did it again, slower this time, brushing both thumbs over his nipples before pinching lightly, and Peter’s head tipped back with another loud, helpless sound as his cock pulsed inside your pussy.

You rode him harder after that, spurred on by every noise he made. The couch creaked beneath you both, the slick slide of his cock in and out of your pussy growing louder as your arousal mixed with what was left of his cum and your spit.

Peter’s hands returned to your ass, gripping you tighter now, fingers digging in while he helped pull you down onto him. You could feel him everywhere, deep in your stomach, dragging against every sensitive place inside you, and each time your clit rubbed against him another pulse of pleasure tightened low in your belly.

Peter kept kissing and biting your neck between moans, sometimes missing your skin entirely because his head would drop forward when your pussy clenched particularly hard around him.

“I can’t,” he gasped at one point, though he didn’t sound like he wanted you to stop. His hips kept rising into you, sloppy and eager, meeting every downward roll of your body like he couldn’t stand not being as deep as possible.

You threaded one hand through his hair and pulled his head back so you could kiss him, and Peter moaned into your mouth when your thumb brushed his nipple again. For a while it was just that, your bodies moving together on the couch, your pussy taking him again and again, his hands on your ass, his mouth on your neck, both of you getting close but not quite falling over the edge.

Then Peter seemed to decide he needed more. His grip on your ass shifted, fingers spreading wider, and before you could fully process the change, he planted his feet more firmly on the floor and stood with you still wrapped around him. The movement made you gasp, arms flying around his shoulders as his cock drove deeper inside you from the sudden lift.

Peter held you easily, one arm locked beneath your ass while the other hand gripped your hip, and the sheer strength of him made your pussy clench so hard that his eyes squeezed shut. “There,” he breathed, voice strained and wrecked, adjusting his hold until your back was slightly arched and your thighs were tight around his waist. Then he started fucking up into you.

The first thrust knocked the air from your lungs, his cock driving into you from below with a force the couch hadn’t allowed, and Peter’s moan broke apart against your neck as he did it again. His hands gripped your ass, spreading and lifting you so he could fuck upward into your pussy in deep, rough strokes that made your whole body bounce against him.

You clung to his shoulders, nails dragging over his skin, while his mouth found your neck again and bit down through another loud groan. Every thrust pushed him deeper, every upward snap of his hips dragged a helpless sound from you, and Peter’s control seemed to unravel completely when he realised this was what would make you both cum.

It happened fast once he was standing. Your body was already oversensitive from the first orgasm and from riding him, and now every upward thrust punched pleasure through you so sharply that your thighs started shaking around his waist. Peter felt it immediately. His grip on your ass tightened, holding you open and lifted while his hips worked up into you with desperate rhythm.

His mouth moved messily over your neck, biting, kissing, breathing your name against your skin in broken pieces. You could feel his cock swelling even harder inside you, the head dragging against that deep sensitive spot until your whole body started to go tight. “Peter,” you gasped, and the way his name broke out of you made him moan loudly against your throat.

His thrusts got rougher, less controlled, his stomach pressing against your clit every time he drove up, and that final pressure was what sent you over. Your orgasm hit while he was still holding you off the floor, your pussy clamping down around his cock so hard that Peter nearly stumbled back into the couch.

He caught himself, swore softly under his breath, then came with you, hips jerking upward as he buried himself as deep as he could and spilled inside you. His cum filled you in hot, heavy pulses while your own release soaked around him, the mixture making every tiny aftershock wetter and messier as he held you through it.

Peter collapsed back onto the couch with you still in his lap, both of you breathing hard, his cock still buried inside your trembling pussy. For a few seconds neither of you moved. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his hands spread over your ass and lower back, and every little twitch of your cunt around him made him exhale shakily against your skin.

You lifted your head first, dazed and sticky and aching in the best way, then shifted your hips carefully until just the tip of his cock remained inside you. Peter looked down between your bodies, still breathing hard, and you followed his gaze.

Cum immediately began to drip out of your pussy around him, thick and white, mixing with your slick as it slipped down over his cock and gathered messily between your thighs. The sight made Peter’s mouth part around a silent breath. You lifted yourself another fraction, letting more of it spill out of you in a slow, obscene drip, and his fingers tightened on your hips like he was trying not to lose his mind.

You slid two fingers through the mess, scooping up the mixture of his cum and your release before bringing it to your mouth. Peter watched, completely transfixed, as you licked your fingers clean slowly, tongue dragging between them until nothing remained.

You didn’t let him recover from the sight. You leaned in immediately and kissed him, pushing your tongue into his mouth so he could taste the mixture you’d just licked from your fingers. Peter moaned into the kiss, arms tightening around you as his tongue met yours, and the cum-slick taste moved between you in slow, filthy swirls.

You kissed him deeply, letting it coat both your tongues while you still hovered over his softening cock, your pussy dripping onto his lap. Peter didn’t pull away. If anything, he kissed you harder, one hand sliding up your back while the other cupped the back of your head to keep your mouth against his.

When you finally separated, his lips were wet and his eyes were unfocused, his chest rising quickly beneath yours. You stayed there in his lap, legs weak, body sticky, your boobs pressed against his chest and his cum still leaking slowly from your pussy.

Peter looked down between you one more time, then back up at your face, and the ruined little sound he made told you he was already thinking about putting his mouth back there to clean up the mess himself.

Peter didn’t just think about it. He did it.

One second he was staring down between your bodies with that ruined, hungry look still all over his face, eyes fixed on the slow mess of his cum and your release dripping from your pussy and slipping over his softened cock, and the next his hands were already moving. There wasn’t much teasing left in him now, not in the clever, shy, almost nervous way he’d had earlier.

He was too far gone for that, too warm and wrecked and needy, and the little sound he made when more cum slipped out of you was almost pained. His hands tightened around your hips, and before you could even ask what he was doing, Peter shifted beneath you and turned you carefully, one arm braced around your waist so he didn’t let you fall while he guided you down onto your back across the couch.

Your body was loose and heavy from both orgasms, legs still trembling, and Peter handled you like he knew exactly how sensitive you were, even as his expression made it painfully obvious he was barely holding onto his own restraint.

He moved between your thighs with a kind of eager clumsiness that felt so completely Peter, rushed because he wanted it so badly, gentle because it was you.

He pulled your legs up over his shoulders, one at a time, kissing your calf as he settled you open beneath him. The position folded you back just enough that your pussy was completely exposed to him, wet and swollen and messy with everything both of you had left there.

Peter stared for a second longer than he needed to, his mouth parting as his eyes followed the thick drip of cum slipping from your entrance and sliding down through your slick folds. His cock, already softening but still heavy and flushed, twitched weakly against his stomach as he leaned closer.

You saw it happen, saw the way his hips shifted against the couch cushions below him before he even reached your pussy, and the sight made your breath catch in a tired, breathy little laugh. Peter’s eyes flicked up toward your face, cheeks red, but this time he didn’t apologise.

He only turned his head and pressed a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, then another a little higher, mouth warm and messy against your skin while his hands held you open.

The first lick made both of you shudder. Peter dragged his tongue slowly through your folds, catching the mixture of his cum and your slick where it had gathered against your entrance before licking upward with a deep, open-mouthed hunger that made your stomach tighten even though you were already oversensitive.

You gasped, fingers grabbing at the couch beneath you, and Peter groaned directly into your pussy like the taste had hit him harder than expected. He did it again, slower, tongue pressing between your swollen lips and collecting everything messy and wet from you as though he couldn’t stand the idea of wasting any of it. His eyes fluttered for half a second, and then his hips rolled downward against the floor beneath him.

The motion was small at first, almost involuntary, his body chasing friction while his mouth stayed buried between your thighs. Your legs tightened over his shoulders when you realised what he was doing, and Peter made a needy sound into your cunt as his cock rubbed against the carpet with another desperate little grind.

He licked you clean like it mattered to him. Like it was something he needed. His tongue moved slowly over every slick inch of you, dragging through your folds, circling your entrance, then sweeping upward toward your clit with enough care that he didn’t overwhelm you but still made your whole body twitch beneath him.

Each time he tasted more of the mess, his hips pushed harder against the floor. You could hear the rough little breaths he dragged in between licks, hear the quiet, broken moans he tried and failed to smother against your pussy, and every one made the scene feel dirtier. Peter Parker, still half on his knees, still bare and flushed and sticky from you, was eating his own cum out of your cunt while rutting against the floor like he couldn’t help himself.

His hands stayed locked around your thighs, thumbs rubbing your skin in little soothing strokes that didn’t match the desperation of his mouth at all. You looked down at him through heavy lashes, exhausted and turned on all over again, and whispered his name so softly it barely made it past your lips. Peter answered by pressing his face closer, tongue pushing gently into your entrance while his hips gave another needy grind beneath him.

You were too sensitive to take much more, but Peter seemed to know that without being told. He didn’t try to make you cum again. He didn’t suck hard at your clit or push you past what your trembling body could handle. Instead he cleaned you with slow, filthy devotion, licking away the cum that slipped from you, kissing your folds when your thighs shook too much, murmuring soft, breathless little sounds against your skin whenever you squirmed.

His mouth was wet with both of you now, lips shining, chin slick again, and when he finally pulled back to look at your pussy, his expression had gone almost dazed with satisfaction. There was still a little mess at your entrance, and Peter’s eyes fixed on it instantly.

He leaned in one more time, tongue dragging carefully over the spot, and his hips rocked against the floor again with a low, helpless groan. The sound made your chest tighten, fondness mixing with the heavy satisfaction still buzzing through your body. He was completely shameless now, noisy and needy and wrecked, but still so careful with you that it made your heart ache in the middle of all the filth.

When Peter was finally satisfied, he didn’t move away from you immediately. He pressed a lingering kiss to your inner thigh, then another to the other one, mouth soft and warm where he’d just had you shaking. His hands slid down from your thighs to your hips, thumbs brushing lazily over your skin as he lowered your legs from his shoulders.

You were limp enough that he had to help guide them back down, and he did it with a tired tenderness that made you want to pull him up and keep him there. Peter kissed the inside of your knee, then the top of your thigh, then slowly made his way upward. His lips travelled over your hip, across the lower curve of your stomach, and then higher still, leaving warm little kisses over every inch he could reach.

He looked exhausted now, properly drained, his hair a complete disaster, his mouth still wet, his eyes half-lidded with that soft post-sex haze that made him look younger and sweeter again. By the time he reached your ribs, his body had already started to sag with the weight of everything you’d both done.

He collapsed beside you on the couch with a heavy, breathless exhale, half on his side and half against you because there wasn’t really enough room for both of you to lie comfortably. Neither of you cared. Peter’s arm immediately found your waist, dragging you closer until your bare skin pressed against his, warm and sticky and familiar.

His face tucked into the side of your neck, and for a moment all you could hear was both of you breathing, the movie still playing uselessly in the background, completely forgotten. You were sure the apartment was a disaster.

His suit was probably in a half-peeled heap somewhere near the couch, your shirt had been abandoned behind it, your panties were still somewhere in the wreckage, and the blanket had slid halfway onto the floor. Peter shifted like he might attempt to sit up, always so painfully ready to take care of things even when he looked like he could fall asleep mid-breath, but you caught his arm before he could go anywhere.

You reached down blindly until your fingers found the blanket and pulled it up over both of you, covering your bare bodies in a crooked, warm mess. Peter let out a soft sound when the fabric settled over his shoulders, his arm tightening around you as if the permission to stop moving had finally reached him.

You tucked yourself against his chest, your legs still weak, your body still sticky, your throat still a little dry from everything you’d said and moaned, and you felt Peter press one final lazy kiss to the top of your head. “We can clean up later,” you mumbled sleepily, barely managing to get the words out before your eyes started drifting shut.

Peter’s quiet laugh rumbled against you, tired and warm and completely spent. His fingers traced one absent line up your spine beneath the blanket before coming to rest against your back, holding you close. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough from all the sounds he’d made for you. “Later.”