eros

"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.

You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.

The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.

What has he done?

"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.

Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.

"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"

Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?

“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”

Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.

Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.

"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."

"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."

Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?

He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.

His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.

“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.

He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.

He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.

There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.

“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.

Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.

“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”

His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.

“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.

Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.

“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”

His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.

“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”

Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."

A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.

"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.

Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.

Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.

"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.

He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.

He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.

You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?

Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.

You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.

"Don't go." He whispers.

Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.

"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.

He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."

You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.

He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.

"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."

His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.

"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."

He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.

"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."

The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.

"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.

"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."

You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.

You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.

Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.

You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.

Apparently, today was its much-needed day.

Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.

Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.

"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"

He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.

Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.

Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.

Okay, sure. You could work with that.

He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.

Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.

He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.

You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.

"Spidey." You whisper.

He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.

"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.

His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.

"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."

His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."

"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."

His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.

"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."

It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.

You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.

It gets demolished within seconds.

As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.

You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.

Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.

"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.

His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."

You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.

"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."

His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.

"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.

If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.

"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.

Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.

“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”

It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.

"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.

If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.

You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."

Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"

His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”

Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.

He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.

He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.

"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."

His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.

You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.

"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.

He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.

The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.

It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"

"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."

The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.

You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"

"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"

"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."

You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."

"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."

"That's not true." You hum.

He blinks slowly, processing your words.

"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."

He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.

"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.

The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"

"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”

He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.

It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.

“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”

"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."

Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."

"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."

"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."

His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.

"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."

Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.

It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.

"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.

You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.

"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."

His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."

"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"

He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."

His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."

Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."

"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."

You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.

He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.

"Spidey." You call out.

He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.

"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."

He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."

Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.

You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.

You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?

Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.

You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.

"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."

"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."

Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."

"Why?"

"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.

You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."

His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"

"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.

"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.

"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."

You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?

You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.

Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.

Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.

"Peter. Peter Parker."

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“Morning, hon.”

He taps your knee twice before standing and making his way out. He reaches up to scratch at the nape of his neck, you see big scratches stretching from his lower back up to his shoulder blade.

You sit and sip, recounting the night. From Hells Kitchen to Queens, gang after gang, it seemed you guys couldn’t catch a break. Towards the end of the night, Peter’s web slingers jammed as he was flying down a skyscraper. Right behind him, your Spidey senses went off and he yelled out to you. You caught him in the last second but his back still skimmed the asphalt.

More awake, you pad into the living room. You find Peter hunched over the dinner table covered in your suits, fabric scraps, and micro tools. You reach out to him to scratch his head and place a kiss on his ear. He leans into you but his concentration stays on the needle weaving in and out of your suit.

“Hey, your breakfast is on the stove,”

You find a plate atop the stove top, it looks perfectly plated with care, with all the things you like. You bring the plate back with you and join Peter at the table.

You eat and watch as he patches your suit, occasionally massaging his bicep in appreciation. You don’t know how he does it, after the night you two had, to wake up early and make breakfast and repair our suits. You loved these domesticity of these mornings after a patrol. Made you feel like the Fantastic Four, Reed must do stuff like this to Sue.

When you finish you break out the medkit and position yourself behind him. You rub ointment over the injuries that paint his back and arm. Occasionally he winces or whimpers, you whisper ‘I knows,’ or ‘sorrys’ as you tend to the flesh wounds. You cover him in bandages til he looks half mummy, and kiss his shoulder blade in praise.

“I was thinking…” he starts as you pepper kisses behind his ear.

“…we could stay in and binge west wing?”

He looks to you. Your hand holds his jaw as you kiss him, not needy or hungry but tender and thankful. You inhale his scent and kiss him deeper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course he hesitates.

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

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

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

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

Until the clasp of your bra gives.

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

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

But this is Peter.

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

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

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

And just like that, the tables have turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And oh god—you believe him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because God, Peter knows what he’s doing.

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

And oh, he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

Fuck, he’s lying to himself.

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

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

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

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

But you’re done waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

Like he’s really gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s intoxicating.

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

It’s madness.

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

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

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

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

Good lord—you want to fuck this man forever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That had been one year ago. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A promise was a promise. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

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

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

“Message already sent.”  

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

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

Oh fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

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

“EV?” 

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

“Online.”

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

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

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

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

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

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

There was only you. 

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

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

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

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

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

This was wrong. So wrong. 

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

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

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

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

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

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

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

Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.

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

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

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

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

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

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

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

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

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

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

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

One second enough. 

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

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

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

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

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too hard. 

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

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

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

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

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

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

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

Fucking hell. 

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

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

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wanted more.

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

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

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

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

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

“Breathe,” you reminded.

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

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

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

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

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

“Can I?” He whispered.

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

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

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

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

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

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

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

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

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

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

“Can–can I–?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not stopping, baby.” 

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

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

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

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

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

The plea undid you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

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

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

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

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

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

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

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

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

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

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

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

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

He could feel it coming. The change. 

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

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

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

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

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

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

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

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

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

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

Good. 

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

His bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peter…” 

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

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

God. He was never going back. 

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

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

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

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

“Need what?”

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

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

“Yeah?” 

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

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

But something made him stop. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What? What is–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

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

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

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

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

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

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

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

arachnid!peter whose mutation starts quietly enough that he can pretend it’s manageable. his teeth ache deep in his jaw, his skin feels too tight, and his hands keep sticking to things without warning. one morning, he wakes with his palm fused to the headboard and has to peel it loose inch by inch. then his senses sharpen until the whole building becomes unbearable. water rushes through every pipe while televisions blare from apartments several floors away. each footstep overhead or below seems to strike directly against his skull, the sounds piling on top of one another until he can barely separate them. except for you. somehow, he can always pick out your heartbeat across the hall. even your scent reaches him through the walls, your shampoo drifting through the bathroom vent and your perfume lingering long after you’ve gone.

arachnid!peter who begins to realize that what he feels for you is growing into something deeper than attraction. his whole body starts reacting to you, tensing when he hears your door open and settling only once you’re home again. one night, he catches his reflection after hearing your key turn in the lock and finds his eyes completely black. that’s when he understands that whatever he’s becoming has fixed itself on you.

arachnid!peter who starts avoiding you after that because he no longer trusts himself around you. he waits until the hallway is empty before leaving and stops answering whenever you knock, even when you know he’s home. you’re confused at first, then hurt, wondering what you did to make him pull away so suddenly. meanwhile, peter spends his nights pacing from room to room, listening to you move around ten feet away. distance only makes the need sharper. he wants to know where you are and who you’re with. every time he hears you leave, it takes everything in him not to go after you.

arachnid!peter who eventually stops fighting the urge to follow you. the next time he hears you leave after dark, he’s out the window before he can talk himself out of it, climbing toward the rooftops because the streets feel too exposed. he moves differently now, keeping low against the brick as he follows from above with an ease that feels more instinctive than deliberate. there’s something satisfying about keeping you in sight, tracking every turn you take and listening to your heartbeat beneath the city noise. he tells himself he only needs to know where you’re going, that the restless feeling under his skin will ease once he knows where you’ve ended up. it doesn’t. even when you reach your destination, all he can think about is following you inside.

arachnid!peter who doesn’t realize you’ve started hearing him. the faint scrape of his fingers against brick. something shifting overhead. a shadow crossing the sidewalk whenever you pass beneath a streetlight. one night, you glance up quickly enough to catch a familiar figure crouched along the edge of a rooftop before he disappears into the dark. suddenly, the unanswered knocks and empty hallways make a little more sense. whatever made peter start avoiding you, it clearly wasn’t because he’d lost interest. you should probably be afraid. instead, the realization sends a slow heat curling through your core. after that, you start taking the longer route home, choosing emptier streets and darker alleys. sometimes you slow down when the sounds fall too far behind, pretending not to listen until you hear him moving above you again.

arachnid!peter who sees you changing through your bedroom window by accident the first time. you’re halfway through pulling your shirt over your head when movement outside catches your attention. there he is, clinging to the brick across the alley five floors above the street, one hand spread against the wall and his body folded close to it in a way that barely looks human. he disappears the second you see him.

arachnid!peter who can hardly meet your eyes the next morning, confirming your suspicion that it was him outside your window. once again, you’re nowhere near as unsettled as you should be. seriously, what is wrong with you? all you can think about is peter watching you while you were half-naked and what that means about how badly he wants you.

arachnid!peter who waits for you to close the curtains the following night. you leave them open instead and undress slowly in front of the window, lingering in your underwear while you pretend to look for something in your dresser. peter watches from across the alley, telling himself he’ll leave any second. he doesn’t.

arachnid!peter who finds his way back into your routine, though it looks very different now. he comes back the next night, then the night after that. you always take your time by the window in barely anything, moving as though you have no idea he’s watching. some nights you catch sight of him immediately. other nights he stays hidden long enough to make you wonder, but you always feel him there eventually. with every visit, he lets himself creep a little closer.

arachnid!peter who is perched just above your window one night when you climb into bed naked and spread your legs for him. you start touching yourself with your eyes fixed on the glass, every slow movement daring him to stop hiding and show himself.

arachnid!peter who holds out until your touch grows more desperate, and then a low, wrecked sound leaves him. your eyes find him in the darkness outside, caught in the spill of light from your bedroom. when he lifts his face, his eyes are completely black and his teeth look sharper than you remember. there’s something almost monstrous about him like this, and seeing what wanting you has done to him only makes the heat between your thighs burn hotter. you keep your eyes on his as your hand moves faster.

arachnid!peter who drops silently onto the fire escape when you moan his name. every instinct in him is screaming to get closer, to climb through the window, to put his mouth against your throat and find out whether your pulse feels as frantic as it sounds. but he stays where he is, gripping the railing hard enough to bend it because some small, stubborn part of him is still trying to protect you from what he might do if he lets himself touch you.

arachnid!peter who watches you bring yourself over the edge with his black eyes fixed on yours, taking in every movement of your hand and every tremble that runs through you. even after your breathing begins to settle, he doesn’t move. instead, he tells you to close the curtains and stay away from him, his voice rough as he warns you that you have no idea what’s happening to him.

arachnid!peter who starts listing everything he can sense when you make no move to listen. your heartbeat through the walls. your scent the moment you step into the hallway. your footsteps moving through the building. he knows when you come home, when you can’t sleep, and when you touch yourself. he means it as a warning, but it sounds more like the confession you’ve been waiting for all along.

arachnid!peter who goes completely still when you tell him you’ve been leaving the window unlocked every night. he already knew you were putting on a show for him, but this is different. all this time, you haven’t just been letting him watch. you’ve been waiting to see if he would come inside.

arachnid!peter whose shame gives way to raw hunger as you climb out of bed and walk toward him without bothering to cover yourself. he tells you to stop, but the warning comes out strained enough that neither of you believes it, and you reach for the latch anyway, pushing the glass open as his fingers tighten around the ledge and the last barrier between you disappears.

arachnid!peter whose last bit of restraint finally breaks. one second he’s outside, and the next he’s crowding you backward into the bedroom with one hand wrapped carefully around your throat. he doesn’t squeeze. not yet. his thumb settles beneath your jaw as he searches your face, holding you still long enough to make the difference in strength impossible to ignore. “you have no idea what you’ve been encouraging.”

arachnid!peter who finally stops pretending this hasn’t been a hunt when you tilt your head into his hand and whisper, “i think i do.” he has spent weeks tracking your scent, following your heartbeat, and watching from the dark while you laid out a trail for him. now his prey is standing beneath his hand and asking to be caught.

navi | m.list | © 2026 patientofarkhamasylum. all rights reserved.

“Come on, bro. You’re going to get us grounded,” Neteyam, ever the dutiful firstborn, urged. His brother was always perfect. When he made a mistake, it was never looked on for any longer than a few hours. Lo’ak hated being in his shadow. He hated the way no one had ever really seen him without the whispers of his family.

“Bro. It’s not like I’m trying to be slow. Give me a minute.”

“Alright. Just be quick, will you?” But then again, Neteyam had always watched his back. His brother had always been there for him, trouble or no trouble. Today was trouble. Lo’ak knew, Neteyam knew, even the humans knew.

“Uh, are you two sure you wanna be doing that?” Norm raised his concerns. An old RDA device beeped rapidly in Lo’ak’s hands as it finally turned on, blinking a steady red light. It was an old tracker from years ago when his dad fought against the humans. They weren’t even sure if it would still work, but Lo’ak wanted to take his chances.

"Don't worry about it, Norm. We know how to work this thing. It’ll be back in the labs in no time,” Lo’ak assured, waving the avatar away. He experimentally pressed on a button and a radar blipped to life on the center of the screen.

“Yes! It still works. Now we just have to unplug these wi-” He was interrupted with a nudge to the left side of his ribs, the subtle, sharp sting halting his words. “What?”

Neteyam had a shit-eating grin on his face. That couldn’t be good.

Lo’ak looked up from his brother to find you, his favorite little human, standing across the camp, talking to Max about something that looked important. You were handing him some papers, a thick amount of them, all printed with ink, and before his brother’s smile could widen any further, Lo’ak turned his attention back to the device that was now in his sibling’s hands.

“What?” Lo’ak repeated, snatching the wires off before his brother could do it. Neteyam’s lips twitched a millimeter upwards. “It’s nothing, baby bro.”

Clearly his brother’s goal was to agitate him, because they both knew what. Lo’ak would never admit it though, and Neteyam wouldn’t say it out loud, so now the silence was eating him up. That, and the deliberate expression on his brother’s face.

“What are you doing?” As if he were a startled syìl, Lo’ak jumped to the sound of your voice. He had to ground himself back to actually process the fact that you’d asked him a question. When had you gotten so close?

“Repairing some old RDA gear. We’re hoping it can help us,” Neteyam answered for his poor, stunt little brother.

“We’re going to track txeptxal migration, get their teeth before they move too far. Want to come with us?” Lo’ak said all too quickly, getting up to his feet and pushing his brother to the side.

“No,” Neteyam said, pulling him back. “No way. It’s way too late now. Dad will have our asses.”

“But-” The quiet look from his older brother had Lo’ak shutting up, tail tucking between his legs as he slumped in defeat. The tracking device was now attached safely to Neteyam’s hip, out of reach from his hands, which meant going home was not up for debate. In fact, Neteyam was already well on his way home after bidding you and Norm a quick goodbye.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Lo’ak pleaded more than he asked. He grabbed at your hand when you didn’t answer him right away, tail flicking back and forth expectantly behind him. “Come on. I can’t commit a crime without my partner in crime. Besides, it’ll be fun. I know you can’t resist a good hunt.”

“That doesn’t sound reassuring, Lo'ak,” you pointed out, trying to maneuver your way out of his grip.

“You know what I mean. Please, syulì’ang? I’ll protect you.”

“Mmm I doubt it.” You playfully shoved him by the chest, putting some distance between you two. But Lo’ak knew from the slight curve of your lips that he’d already won, stirring up his own victorious grin. “Fine, fine. What would you do without me?”

His grin widened and so did his stance. He was about to say something so stupid that you’d fall in love with him or something. “I’d be living my best life.”

You shoved him a little harder this time. “Skxawng.”

Lo’ak ate it up, grinning like a kid who’d just won a race for the first time. He lingered around you and was probably up in your personal space, though you didn’t seem to mind. He was gooning so much that Norm had already left, deciding it was best not to stay and watch.

“Lo’ak,” a loud, exasperated call came from the distance. Lo’ak’s ears perked up. Neteyam was waiting at the edge of camp, eyes on his brother who was taking a whole life cycle to come home, as usual. Lo’ak had never been one to be mindful of the time when it came to you. It was a specialty of his.

“Bro!”

“Alright, alright! I’m coming!” Lo’ak shouted in reply. He took clumsy steps backwards, head still turned to you. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” He nearly tripped on uneven ground as he ran off, catching up to his brother who looked at him like he’d swallowed a direhorse.

“What?”

Neteyam shook his head, clapping him on his shoulder as they walked together. “So, when are you telling mom and dad?”

“Tell?” Lo’ak paused, tail straightening on edge. “Tell what? There’s nothing to tell.”

Even Tuk wouldn’t buy it. He wasn’t sure what there was to tell, but he knew something had gotten him all tensed up, so maybe there was something to tell. Maybe. He wasn’t sure?

“Come on, little bro. Do you need me to spell it out for you?” Neteyam ruffled the top of his head, messing up his braids. Lo’ak shoved his brother’s hand away. He was clearly agitated now.

“What?” he hissed.

Neteyam backed away a little, releasing a laugh. “Calm down. You don’t exactly hide your little crush very well.”

Now Lo’ak just looked distressed. He didn’t know what to say to that. “I don’t- It’s not-” He growled in frustration, turning away. He couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes, not after that. Hell, he never thought Neteyam would actually say it out loud.

“It’s alright, Lo’ak,” Neteyam said, a little gentler this time. He placed a hand on Lo’ak’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

“I just- Mom can’t know. Not yet. She won’t like it,” Lo’ak told his brother. “Look, I don’t even know what this is.”

He felt the punch before it even came. Neteyam always had a knack for hitting him. “Bro, seriously? You dance around the tawtute almost every day. It’s a wonder the whole clan doesn’t already know,” his brother raved, shaking his head.

“Well, there’s nothing going on so there’s nothing to figure out.” Lo’ak shrugged, avoiding his brother’s gaze, and just his brother entirely.

“Lo’ak. You can’t be serious.”

“Okay! Maybe I do have… feelings,” he drew out the last word, cringing a little as he said it. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

That was probably a lie.

It probably did mean something. After all, he figured you meant everything to him a long time ago. If only he had the courage to admit it to himself, and to you. You were the one person who saw him, raw and unbridled, but still accepted the parts of him that many could not. You didn’t care if his jokes were stupid, or if he made mistakes while teaching you how to shoot, you loved all parts of him as you did yourself. You saw people; found beauty in everything, and you loved beautiful things. That’s what he loved about you.

“We always knew you were a little too close, skxawng. Relax. It’s nothing new,” Neteyam assured, continuing to walk ahead of him.

Somehow, the smile his brother gave him made Lo’ak feel a little better, like a weight lifted off his chest. He hadn’t expected this to be how he’d discuss you with his brother, but if anything, it went better than he could’ve pictured.

✧.*

You didn’t know what was worse, the fact that Lo’ak had brought you to the middle of nowhere, or the fact that he’d gotten injured in said middle of nowhere after saying he’d protect you. It was hot outside, more than usual, and you were hungry. You also had to drag this idiot back home before he bled to death because he’d rushed head on to a herd of palulukans by accident.

“Okay, okay. I said I was sorry like a million times,” the Sully boy defended as you pressed a little hard on his arm. Blood seeped through the thin material wrapped around his open wound, and you hoped it was enough to stall the bleeding until you could reach camp. He was propped against tall rocks with you looming over him, trying to do all you could to relieve him from as much discomfort as possible.

“Sh, don’t move,” you said as you felt a hand over his, likely, broken rib. You couldn’t be sure until you took him back for a scan. Lo’ak winced at the slight pressure you gave, but was quick to shut up when he felt your fingers delicately brushing and mapping his abdomen.

“Can you get up?” you asked softly with a hand to his stomach, gentler than he’d ever seen you been, and if it weren’t for the throbbing pain all over his body, he probably would’ve melted.

“Yeah. Yeah, don’t worry. Just a scratch,” he assured, wobbling when he tried to move away from the rocks.

“Here.” You held out a hand for him to take and he used it to steady himself as he got up to his feet. The pain on his side was something he’d have to hold for a little while, because the walk back certainly felt like it took forever. You’d considered bringing the science guys to him, but Lo’ak waved it off, saying there was no need to trouble them, that he was fine and that he could walk on his own, but you couldn’t help the worry that appeared on your face every time he’d wince or grunt in pain with every step he took. He’d faced much worse, that you knew. That didn’t mean you had to like it. You hated seeing him injured, or worse, you hated seeing him in the medical wing with the smell of human medicine.

“Good news, nothing’s broken.” The both of you let out a sigh of relief at that. Lo’ak would hate having to explain what had happened to the rest of his family.

“Just rest, and try not to move that arm too much,” the medic says before leaving him alone. The place was mostly empty with most of the avatars having gone out on a mission. Lo’ak had taken one of their crates to sit on instead of the medical beds. He wasn’t injured enough to need one anyways, but he did often complain to you about how his head hurt, and how his arm was sore.

“That’s on you, skxawng.” You hit his hand, sitting on the edge of a hammock as you finished wrapping his wound.

“Hey, at least we got what we came for,” Lo’ak said, dangling the txeptxal tooth tied to his finger. “Besides, if I hadn’t jumped in like that, you would’ve been palulukan food.”

“No I would not,” you argued, satisfied with the grunt you received when you tugged on his bandage a little harder than you should. Lo’ak looked like he was in better shape than before, and he could definitely walk properly now. Maybe he was just being a dramatic ass back there to see how you’d react. That sounded like something he’d do.

“Lo’ak!” The call of his name made both your heads turn towards the entrance. The avatars were back, setting down equipment and already starting to get into their hammocks to rest their blue bodies, so you moved out of the way and settled beside Lo’ak. You would’ve fallen from the edge of the crate if it weren’t for his quick reflexes, catching you by the leg with one arm and pulling you to sit close to him, practically on his lap.

“What happened to you?” Norm commented on Lo’ak’s arm as he removed his armor, doing a double at you on the Sully boy’s lap. It looked like he almost choked on air.

“Nothing to worry about. Oh, and here.” Lo’ak tossed the RDA tracking device to the avatar. “Thanks for letting us use it.”

Norm caught it with ease, tucking it away amongst the pile of other equipment. “Yup.”

“Hey, Norm, I need the data you gathered-” Lo’ak’s body tensed underneath you at the familiar voice, tail falling limp on your lap. Your blood ran cold as Jake Sully entered through the flap of the tent, causing you to quickly scramble off of Lo’ak, pushing at his leg and tail in haste. Jake’s eyes fell briefly on the two of you as the boy attempted to straighten your clothes with rushed hands, cursing when his father made his way over to Norm.

“Oh, right,” you heard Norm say, but you were too preoccupied with the sudden rush of warmth that flooded your face to make out anything they’d said afterwards.

“Shit, shit. Sorry,” Lo’ak apologized to you, keeping his distance. He looked like he wanted to hide, and so did you. But you were both out in the open, with nowhere to avoid each other or his father. Even with physical contact being so common between the two of you, it felt like you’d just got caught doing something way worse. And you weren’t even sure why.

It’d always been easy with Lo’ak. He understood you, and you understood him. He would never laugh at you or make you feel silly, and no matter how stupid his ideas were, you would always believe in him, even when nobody else did. You stuck together for longer than you could remember and touch just came naturally to you. Then why were you so flustered?

His eyes met yours by accident. He looked away. The shift was barely noticeable at first, the change creeping in slowly without either of you realizing it. You were little kids running around the forest, talking your hearts out to each other under the stars, then one day, you were your own grown people finding your place in the world. His touches had always been innocent. It was a lot, but innocent. You had no idea when it started to feel different.

“What happened to you?” Jake sighed, eyeing the bandage and bruises that were now showing on his son’s body. Lo’ak shifted where he stood, desperately trying to avoid everyone’s eyes.

“I went out hunting,” he replied, then Jake’s gaze landed on you. If looks could strip, you might as well already be bare.

“You alright?” The Olo’eyktan addressed, and you nodded in response. He inspected you, then his son, invisible dots forming over his head. Whatever Jake was about to say next got put on hold when Norm called for him, and he left to join the avatar in the labs.

Once again, you were alone with Lo’ak, if you didn’t count the resting avatars all around you. You wondered if you should say something, break the unusual silence that had formed between you two, but it seemed Lo’ak had beaten you to it.

“Hey, I’m sorry for- whatever that was,” he stammered, uncharacteristically nervous as he scratched the back of his kuru.

“Uh, it’s okay,” you said lowly, falling into silence that you had no idea how to break. You fiddled with the patterned-lines on the wall, scraping your nails against the harsh metal when Lo’ak spoke up again.

“Mmm, so we’re cool?”

“Yeah, cool.”

✧.*

“Fuck.” Lo’ak paced back and forth outside his tent, tail whipping around harshly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Neteyam stood in a corner, watching his younger brother loudly drown in the torment he had created for himself. Surely it couldn’t be that bad. What was so bad about their mother finding out he’d been spending time with you? It wasn’t like she hadn’t known before either.

“No, you don’t get it. Mom knows knows. I know it.”

Neteyam crossed his arms over his chest. “Knows what? I thought you said there was nothing going on. Nothing to figure out.”

Lo’ak groaned and pushed his brother away, hissing at him when he didn’t sway off-balance a tiny bit. “You’re not helping!”

His thoughts were eating him up. It was bad enough that you were avoiding him—or at least, that was what it seemed like you were doing—, but even worse that his own mother might possibly hate you.

Ever since he’d come of age, his mother had been watching him. She didn’t follow him around, or stick her nose in his business, but he felt it. The way she lurked, observed him more. She wasn’t like this with Neteyam, but with him, it felt as if she was holding a breath she refused to release until he chose a mate.

“I need to think right now,” Lo’ak told his brother, palm running over his head in an attempt to soothe his mind.

“It’s almost dinner. I’m sure mom will understand. Whatever you think is going to happen won’t happen, baby bro.”

“But it will. She doesn’t even like me spending time with humans!” Lo’ak shouted as if it made his point any truer. “What will she think if I want one as my mate?”

But it’s you, Neteyam wanted to say. His brows furrowed. It was written all over his face. Their mother couldn’t hate you, could she? She knew you, knew you had no choice being born a sky person; knew that you’d probably trade everything to become one of the people.

“We’ll just go to dinner and find out,” Neteyam said instead. “With any luck, mom won’t even mention it.”

Lo’ak’s ears flattened against his skull. He hoped his brother was right. He hoped that tonight would be all over soon and that he could sort everything out in the morning. He needed to talk to you, make sure that whatever was going on between you two wasn’t already gone before it even started. It was all he could think about during dinner. And maybe a little bit about your smile, and the way you looked at him when he hauled you onto his lap the other day. Oh, and he loved how your soft, human hands felt. He would give anything to feel them running through his body again, even if you were just feeling for injuries.

He missed the delicate touch of your fingers along his back, making his blood rush in a way he didn’t know it could. And now he felt your absence more than ever. The absence of your touch, your smile, your soft remarks. It had only been two days, but, god, did he miss you. He wondered what you were doing right now, how good you probably looked, even if you were just sitting down. You could make breathing look good.

“Lo’ak!”

Lo’ak jumped in his seat. Everyone’s eyes were on him, Tuk’s sparkling with a bit of curiosity as her teeth sank into her fruit.

“Sorry,” he said, head bowed as his eyes landed on his own food.

“Your father was just asking how your day went,” his mother repeated for him, slowly, antagonizingly. All their attention was on him now, great.

He took a bite of his food. “Oh, it was good.”

Silence stretched the room. Only the sounds of fire and chewing filled the empty space, and some time in between, Neteyam caught his eye, gaze softening in pity for his younger brother.

“Hey, Tuk. I heard you found something while you were out earlier,” Neteyam started, breaking the rigid mood, and Tuk, the excitable teenager she was, broke into a grin and rambled on to her family about her day, gesturing her hands wildly in the air. While the youngest Sully continued telling her tale, Lo’ak heard shuffling from beside him, to the right, and saw his other sister approaching him.

“You seem a little out of it, brother,” Kiri said in a low whisper, leaning close to Lo’ak. He finally lifted his head, looking at his sister in what he hoped looked like confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kiri skeptically looked around and when she found the rest of their family still occupied with Tuk’tirey, she leaned closer to his ear. “Is this about-? you know… Human?” she said as if the sky-people language made her any more discreet than she was.

“Kiri!”

“What? I just wanna know why dad looks like mom’s gonna punch him any second, and why you sulk around so much.”

“I’m not having this talk.” Lo’ak wasn’t whispering anymore, and he wanted to get out of here badly. He stood abruptly, making all eyes turn to him. Even Tuk stopped talking to stare.

“Lo’ak, where are you going?” His mother questioned like she was approaching a wild thanator.

“I’m not hungry,” he simply said. His feet carried him outside before he could stay to hear whatever any of them had to say. Lo’ak wanted to find you. He’d much rather talk to you than go back in there and face his family.

“Lo’ak.” The sharp hiss from his mother made his feet stop moving. He heard her steps before he felt her grab his arm, the good one, and turned him to face her. “What is all this about?”

Lo’ak pulled his arm from her grip, avoiding eye contact, even as she searched his eyes. “It’s nothing, mom. I just need some air.”

“Where? Where are you going?” she asked, unrelenting. He looked away, just as his dad came out from the tent and stood there by the entrance, watching.

“Lo’ak, don’t tell me you’re going to the sawtute,” his mother said, but she already knew without him having to utter a single word. “You choose them over your family?”

He finally looked at his mother, hard and hurt. “It’s not like that! You know it’s not like that. Why are you making me choose?”

She looked at him and Lo’ak saw pity in her eyes, the same one he found in Neteyam’s. “We’re not making you choose,” she said carefully, lacking the fire and anger he thought he’d find in her words. “You’ve already chosen on your own.”

Lo’ak felt his heart drop when the words came. His whole body weakened as his mother walked away, back to the rest of his siblings inside. He couldn’t think properly, a lump caught in his throat at the weight of the situation. No, he didn’t even want to think about all this right now. He needed to see you.

“Out of all the people,” Jake sighed, slowly approaching his son. “You had to choose that one, didn't you? Your mother will understand in time.”

“That one? You act as if you weren’t human once, dad. And you didn’t even grow up here! Unlike-” Lo’ak caught himself, shutting up before he could stir something up with his father as well. It was the last thing he needed right now.

“Go cool off. We’ll talk when you’re level-headed,” his dad patted him on the back, leaving him to wallow in his misery. Lo’ak took a step back, feet moving on their own accord, then he took another, and another, until he was running away from his home.

Running where? He didn’t really know. He just wanted to run. It was what he had always been good at. Everything else he did turned into a mess, everything he touched ruined. You probably didn’t want anything to do with him either, that’s why you’d avoided him. Would you even choose him if he told you he chose you? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer. He was running so much, shutting his brain off, that his body almost crawled out of his skin in surprise when he bumped into someone small wandering camp so late at this hour.

“Woah, easy.” Lo’ak caught you with steady hands before you could fall on the ground. The first time you looked up at him in days, he felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Lo’ak.” You said his name and he felt like he was breathing fresh air again. “Sorry, I wasn't looking,” you told him, attempting to swivel around him to make your leave when he hurriedly caught your wrist.

“Wait!” he shouted in panic. “Wait.”

When you really looked at him, he saw your brows crease in concern. He didn’t see pity in your eyes like he did his mother and brother. You worried for him and you had a good reason to. He did look like he was in a lot of distress. Lo’ak clearly wasn’t expecting to bump into you so quickly after what had just happened.

“I don’t want to be alone right now,” he confessed quietly, letting go of your arm. You hesitated, torn between comforting him and leaving him alone as you had the past few days. But you should’ve known that you wouldn’t be able to resist him when he looked at you like that. It was only a matter of time before you’d come back running to him, and you could only avoid him for so long.

“Okay,” you said softly and Lo’ak’s face lit up a fraction. He grabbed your hand to pull you with him, leading you through the night of the camp. You didn’t even think to question where he was taking you. You just followed, hand in his in the dark, like a secret only meant for the two of you.

His palm warmed the longer you held it, heat radiating off his body in a way you wouldn’t have expected it to in the cold night. It was clear that Lo’ak was upset, but apart from that, he seemed on edge, ever since he took you away with him, and you wondered if it had anything to do with his… feelings. If he even had them. You weren’t sure. You started noticing a couple of days ago, but to say that he liked you seemed like a stretch.

“Lo’ak,” you called out, tugging at his hand for him to stop.

“What is it?” His voice was soft as he came to a stop, softer than usual and it made you forget what you were about to say for a second. You took a deep breath, unprepared for the way he was looking at you now, half-lidded and full of emotion, like he was undone by the simple touch of your hand alone.

“I worry for you,” you admitted. “I’m sorry. I thought distance would give us both time to figure things out.”

He brushed his thumb over your knuckles, assuring you with a small smile. “You don’t have to worry about me so much. I’m alright, syulì’ang.”

You were unconvinced, and Lo’ak must’ve seen it on your face because he pulled you closer, keeping you near as he continued to lead you through the science labs. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

“Almost where?”

Lo’ak never answered you. He let the surroundings speak for itself as you stepped in. It was somewhere you’ve never really seen before, but it wasn’t like you would notice it. There were plenty of alcoves like this surrounding camp, and this one seemed like another one of the few hundreds you’d find lying around the mountains.

“Take off your mask,” Lo’ak said, finally letting go of your hand. You stood at the entrance, frozen in place at his words.

“What?”

His tail whipped in small excitement. “Trust me.”

Without much thought, you reached to remove your exopack, and when the first breath of air entered your lungs, you found that it was not suffocating you.

“Lo’ak, how?” You tilted your head and breathed in again, your mask long forgotten as it hit the ground. Lo’ak mirrored the smile on your face.

“I asked Norm to help me set this up a while ago. I know you hate living inside that thing when you’re out of the labs. So, I thought I’d give you a piece of Pandora you can breathe in,” he explained, looking almost shy as he reached to take his own mask from the wall.

“This must’ve taken weeks.”

“Well, it was mostly them doing the work. I just check in from time to time,” he said, a little unsure what to do with his hands now that it wasn’t holding yours anymore. The days you spent apart left an unspoken mark that neither of you brought up, but you figured now was a good time to make up for it.

“Thank you, Lo’ak,” you thanked, surprising him when you surged forward to wrap your arms around his neck in a hug, and instead of bending down a little like he always did when you hugged him, he lifted you by the waist as if you weigh nothing and pulled you flush to him. This time you were the one caught by surprise, and your feet dug onto his hips to stabilize yourself.

“Mmhm,” he hummed in response, face finding comfort buried in your neck. Lo’ak nuzzled your hair when you felt your legs begin to slip, and he must’ve felt it too, because he adjusted his grip so that his hands were supporting your weight. Or to put it simply, you were straddling his waist and his hands were practically on your ass.

Neither of you said a word, but you were certain he could hear the quick pulse of your heartbeat with how close he was. It could’ve been minutes, or hours. There was no telling how long the two of you stayed like that, but when Lo’ak pulled away, his eyes held a sort of certainty that wasn’t there before.

“Now will you tell me what’s been bothering you?” you asked sympathetically, staying in place when Lo’ak made no move to release you. He stared at your face for a while, making you squirm at the attention until he finally answered.

“My mother wants me to find a mate,” he said easily, mind seemingly elsewhere. Your breath caught in your throat.

“I don’t see the problem with that. You’ve come of age.”

You didn’t know what came over you, but you touched his braids when one caught your eye. It felt so right to just touch him like this, and to be so close to him that you could feel his heart pound in his chest.

“Yes, but,” Lo’ak murmured, a hand gently closing over yours. “Unfortunately for her, I don’t want one.” His eyes flitted to yours as he brought your hand to his lips, placing a tender kiss to your palm. “Not if it’s not you.” 

The determined look he gave told you he’d already made up his mind and you had no idea what to make of that.

“Lo’ak.” You tried finding your words as your hand slowly fell from his face. “Your family-”

“Will have to learn to accept my choice,” he said with finality to his words, then carefully added, “that is, if you also choose me.”

Lo’ak’s eyes lit up with hope as he held your gaze, nervously awaiting your reaction. The only sounds that made its way to your ears were the low chirping of the animals at night; not even his breathing, or your own, was hearable.

You lifted your hand again to brush along the side of his face, nearly letting a laugh slip when you saw his tail raise in excitement. Then you smiled, a soft and loving warmth overtaking your features.

“I see you, Lo’ak,” you whispered. “I choose you.”

Lo’ak visibly exhaled in relief, a smile etching its way to his lips, and you finally felt his chest rising and falling again as he breathed.

“You have no idea how happy I am to hear that,” he laughed. The carefree expression he wore made your heart swell in affection. You traced the stripes adorning his face, across his forehead, over his cheeks, and stopping at the edge of his mouth, and Lo’ak didn’t even try to hide the way his eyes dropped to your lips, gaze darkening as if he’d been craving its taste.

You saw the restrained eagerness in his movements as he slowly leaned in, a hand coming up to rest against your back, rubbing small circles.

“You can always hit me if you’re uncomfortable,” he murmured, breath coming in short pants.

“Your hands were all over my ass, skxawng.” Your words lacked the fire you’d initially thought they’d have. It was a lame comeback, and you knew from the grin Lo’ak gave in response, but you couldn’t really think about that right now, not when he looked at you like he wanted to swallow everything that came out of your mouth as he kissed you senseless.

“Mmm… I enjoyed it,” he grinned, brushing his lips against yours, causing your eyelids to flutter shut. He lingered there, breath teasing your lips, and you almost wanted to punch him.

“Lo’ak, if you don’t kiss me right now-“ you gasped as he interrupted your sentence with his mouth. Lo’ak kissed you like he was addicted to your taste, biting and licking at your lips, occasionally groaning when you did the same. His hands respectfully wandered your body, lingering a lot on your waist and on your back, and when his tongue slipped past your mouth, you moaned against him.

Lo’ak used your surprise to his advantage, grabbing your ass to haul you back up before you could hit him for violating you. You hadn’t even realized you were slipping from his grip, too occupied with the way his mouth and hands were making you feel to care. He carried you over to- you didn’t really know where, you were a little busy, but you felt the hard surface of the rock as it hit your back, supporting your weight.

Your face was flushed when Lo’ak pulled away, catching his breath, and you’d almost forgotten he needed a mask to breathe your air.

“Sorry. Don’t really want to suffocate after our first kiss,” he said sheepishly, carefully setting you down.

“Yeah,” you laughed as your feet finally met the ground, still a little dazed as his arms steadied you. “That doesn’t sound ideal.”

Lo’ak rightened your disheveled hair, tucking loose, stray strands behind your ear, the gesture so tender it almost made your heart want to burst from its cage. You closed your eyes as your head fell forward to his chest, melting when his arms came around you. He held you close to him, affectionately kissing the top of your head.

Somehow, Lo’ak had always known he would choose you. Maybe since you were little children who had no idea what you were doing. Maybe he’d chosen you since then, he thought. You had always seen him in a way that nobody else did, and he couldn’t help but love you a little for it.

“Oel ngati kameie, I love you, syulì’ang.”

‧₊˚.ೃ ࿐

You’re not making it out of here; no one’s making it out of here. You’ve doomed all of Prythian with your feeble humanity. You’re no saviour; you’re a fool. Pathetic. 

You can’t close your eyes because each time you blink, your mind is flooded with the image of all the people you’re going to let down. Lucien, your first friend in the fae realm. You think of his mother and her quiet support of you in thanks for saving her son. You want to wretch at the memory now; you didn’t save him.

You’ve doomed him, you’ve doomed all of them. 

The screaming starts again, though you can’t be sure it ever actually stopped. 

You wonder if you’ll scream when your time comes. You wonder if Amarantha will draw it out, enjoy her time with you like she’s enjoyed the agony of her countless other victims, some of whom still exist on her walls, in the ring on her finger.  

But you doubt you’ll even survive long enough for Amarantha to have her fun with you; you’re not sure you’re even going to survive the night. 

You’re helping Nature along in her valiant effort to reclaim you, the way your already rotting carcass has started to seep into the cold stone beneath you. At least out of the two of you, Nature will be successful in her endeavours. 

Another scream pierces the air and you time your exhale with the ringing of it. You don’t bother sucking in another breath until your lungs burn. 

It’s a few moments before you realize a quiet has settled in the dungeons, and you only become aware of it when your dark cell darkens even further. 

Maybe death has finally come to claim you, shadows settling in inky little pools of whisps beside you like the darkness has also decided to lay down on the floor in solidarity. 

Resigned to your fate, you close your eyes in surrender. The heat of the tears you didn’t realize you still had in you fall over the bridge of your nose and sting so violently that you think you might actually be hypothermic. 

The shadows surrounding you are disturbed by movement, though not your own. 

“C’mon, princess,” a voice murmurs, hints of desperation present in his tone despite barely raising his voice at all. 

A solid warmth lands on your arm and it feels like a branding iron.

“You’re freezing,” the voice continues, the warm weight rubbing up and down your arm like it’s trying to imbue its own warmth into your very soul by means of friction. “C’mon, you can’t give up on us now, yeah?”

Neither the voice nor the warmth is going away, so you eventually peel your eyes open.

The tip of a bat-like wing permeates your vision, illuminated only by an ominous red glow with no discernible origin. 

Despite your previously mentioned early stages of decomposition, you manage to go scrambling away from the mass. 

“Hey, hey hey hey, whoa,” the voice—Cassian, the Night Court’s general—cautions. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re alright.”

Your responding inhale is ragged, your eyes quickly flitting around the cell to ensure it’s only him in here with you. 

“Who’d you think it was?”

Shadows skitter towards the door of your cell, as though peeking beneath the threshold to keep an eye on the comings and goings. 

You try to tell him, but your throat is so tight with panic and dry from disuse that you choke on the first attempt. “I- the…Attor.”

Cassian’s face screws up in a sour expression. “Ouch.”

Your wide, disbelieving eyes move to meet his, and his face softens again. “No, gorgeous. The Attor isn’t in the practice of checking on prisoners in the dungeons.”

You work to catch your breath, still painfully disoriented as you lean against the stone wall. “And you are?”

His lips turn up at that, a hint of the warmth that this horrid place has tried to snuff out of him present in his weary eyes. “Only my favourite ones.” 

You can’t bring yourself to smile, so you suck in a breath and blink instead, humming in acknowledgement.

“Thank you,” Cassian whispers. 

“For what?” you ask, heavy eyes falling closed.

“For breathing. It’s one of our favourite things that you do, you know.” 

Your brows furrow, wondering which part of that sentence makes the least amount of sense to you. You don’t do anyone favours by breathing.

“Our?” you settle on. 

Though you don’t see it, his smile brightens the entire cell. “Well sure, gorgeous. You have met my mates, haven’t you?”

You’re still not entirely sure how this whole mate thing works in the fae realms, but you’re quite sure you know who Cassian is talking about. Rhysand—High Lord of the Night Court—and the other Illyrian (the other owner of bat-like wings that do not belong to the Attor) Azriel; a shadowsinger, though you don’t know what that is or what it means. 

It’s not as though you’ve had a whole lot of time to interact with any of them; you’re not exactly here to mingle and make friends. Seeing as you’re supposed to be saving their lives, your time under the mountain has been spent enduring Amarantha’s cruelty, surviving her trials, and feeling sorry for yourself. 

“They like when I breathe, do they?” you ask around a sigh.

“Very much.”

You manage to open your eyes, catching Cassian’s concerned expression before he schools it into something a touch more discreet. 

“Well, enjoy it while you can, I guess,” you murmur, raising your hand to rub at your eyes but thinking better of it when you realize how filthy your hands are. “I don’t think I’ll be doing a lot of that for very much longer.”

“Don’t say that,” he argues, reaching into a pocket to pull out a vial of purple liquid and pulling the cork from the top. He holds it out to you expectantly. 

“What’s this?” you ask, though you no longer have the self-preservation skills to wait on his answer before you throw back the minty concoction. 

Unfortunately, it doesn’t immediately take you out of your misery.

“A little something for the pain,” he explains, accepting the empty vial back from you. 

“Rhysand already healed me,” you argue, knowing you have the bargain tattoo on your hand to prove it. 

“I don’t mean the physical kind,” Cassian corrects gently, and your eyes sting. 

“What are you doing down here?” you whisper instead of crying in front of him.

“Checking on you,” is his simple reply.

You want to ask why, but you’re not sure you actually want to know the answer. You settle on, “how?” 

The siphon on his chest pulses slightly, despite the fact that most of his power has been siphoned by the horrid creature that is Amarantha a few stories above you in the mountain. 

“Well, Rhys is keeping that wicked witch…occupied,” he explains carefully, echoes of the sneers you’ve heard from Prythian citizens—Amarantha’s whore—sounding in your mind. “And Azriel is keeping watch.”

With that, a few of the shadows come scurrying back over to you before returning to the cell door. 

“Just to check on me?”

Cassian offers you a sad smile, tilting his head at you. “To check on you.” 

One shadow flicks Cassian on the back of the head. “Son of a- and Azriel’s shadows stole the tincture for you.”

Your eyes flit back over to the dark mass of…dark. “The- those are Azriel’s?” 

Cassian nods, and you’re so lost in your thoughts—tallying up all of the times you’ve felt the shadows encompass you like a cloak as you wept, or the subtle flickers of darkness you relied on during your first trial with the giant wyrm—that you don’t notice Cassian has pulled out a bowl of stew until he’s holding it out in front of you.

“When we get out of here, he’ll tell you all about them. Alright?” Cassian promises, the words falling from his lips like a vow and you want to scream, you want to throw the bowl of—still hot, somehow—stew at him, you want to ask him how he could be so foolish as to think that any of you will ever see the outside of this mountain; that you have any chance of making it out of this alive. 

“And I’ll take you flying; I won’t even fly like an ass, okay? I’ll take it slow, show you all my favourite sights from the sky. Rhys can take you anywhere you want to go, show you every court—even the continent, if you want. He’ll buy anything you could ever dream of, you’ll never want for anything. Just please hang in there, okay? Please.” 

You don’t realize you’ve started to cry until he’s reaching forward with a gentle hand and brushing away a salty track with his thumb. He looks horribly pained and deeply apologetic when he says, “I have to go.”

“What?” you manage, still not entirely sure you didn’t actually die an hour ago and this isn’t just some strange post-death, pre-reunion-with-the-Mother hallucination.

”I have to go,” he repeats, his other hand mirroring the first as he brings your head forward to kiss the space between your brows. “The rotation is about to shift. I’m sorry. You’re okay.”

You think he might say that last bit more for his sake than your own. 

“You’re okay,” he says again. “I’m sorry.”

And then he’s gone. The cell feels so much colder, so much lonelier, so much more despondent without his presence.  

You sit there with a contraband bowl of stew in your hands and tears streaming down your face as the screaming starts up again and your heart pleads its desperate case to give up the ghost for an indeterminate period of time.

And then, oddly enough, you hear music. 

Gentle notes at first, lilting and soft as they sift through the cells of your walls before growing stronger, more bold as the song progresses. Shadows appear from the cobwebbed corners of the ceilings and swirl about as though dancing to the tune currently plaguing your cell. 

Then, one nudges your hand, forcing your gaze down to the quickly cooling bowl of stew in your hands, and you think of warm hands and eyes as you take a bite, and then another. You end up finishing the bowl before the song even ends and a few shadows disappear with the evidence of your contraband in tow. 

This can’t be your ending, you decide then.

You won’t let it be.