eldritch horror & p.y.t.

“Okay, hear me out,” Harry said, pointing a half-eaten egg roll at you. “Bowling. The whole experience. Ugly shoes, glow-in-the-dark pins, the whole thing. Then we hit that terrible karaoke place downtown and you sing something for once.”

You wrinkled your nose. “I am not singing.”

“It’s your birthday. You have to. It’s the law.”

“It’s literally not.”

“It should be.” Harry grinned. “Fine. No karaoke. What about that rooftop bar with the overpriced drinks and the view of the city? We get dressed up, pretend we’re sophisticated, and you finally let me take pictures that aren’t just you flipping me off.”

You considered it, chewing on the end of your chopsticks. “Maybe. As long as no one makes a big deal. I want low-key.”

“You always say low-key and then end up dancing on a table by midnight.”

“That was one time—”

The front door opened.

Peter stepped in carrying a backpack and a plastic bag from the corner store, hair a little windswept, cheeks still pink from the cold. He took one look at the two of you on the couch and opened his mouth.

You and Harry kept talking like he wasn’t there.

“—and if we do the rooftop thing,” you continued smoothly, “I’m picking the pregame shots.”

Harry nodded seriously. “Deal. But I’m choosing the first round when we're there. And you’re not allowed to leave early just because someone requests that stupid song you don't like."

"Can I at least hide in the bathroom?"

"No."

Peter stood in the entryway for a full three seconds, keys still in his hand.

“…Hello?” he said.

Neither of you looked over.

Harry reached for another egg roll. “I’m just saying, last time you claimed you were ‘tired’ and then I found you on the roof of the science building at two in the morning with a bottle of wine. So forgive me for having trust issues.”

“That was a science experiment,” you said.

Peter’s voice went higher. “What the fuck? I’m standing right here.”

You finally glanced over, completely unimpressed. “Oh. Hey.”

Harry gave a vague little wave without turning around. “Welcome home, roomie.”

Peter stared at both of you like you’d lost your minds. The plastic bag crinkled in his hand.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, kicking the door shut behind him. “I leave for three hours and suddenly I’m a ghost.”

You shrugged and turned back to Harry, already launching into another birthday idea, the corner of your mouth twitching just enough for Peter to catch it.

The dance was still very much on.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Peter disappeared into his room for maybe four minutes before the door opened again. He’d changed into a soft hoodie and sweatpants, hair slightly flattened on one side like he’d run a hand through it in frustration. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and looked between the two of you on the couch.

“Okay,” he said. “What’s going on.”

You kept your eyes on Harry and reached for another piece of broccoli like Peter hadn’t spoken.

Harry, ever helpful, answered for you. “Her birthday’s coming up. We’re planning.”

Peter’s posture shifted immediately. “When?”

“Soon,” you said, still not looking at him.

“How soon?”

Harry grinned. “Soon enough that you don’t need the details.”

Peter pushed off the doorframe and walked closer, stopping on the other side of the coffee table. “I can help. I know places. There’s that new spot by the river that does private booths, or we could do something low-key at the apartment, or—”

“Ah, no,” you and Harry said at almost the same time.

Peter blinked. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

You finally glanced up at him, expression perfectly bland. “We mean no. As in, the plans are already being handled by people who don’t make everything about themselves.”

Harry nodded solemnly. “It’s a very exclusive guest list.”

Peter’s mouth opened, then closed. “I’ve been to every single one of your half-baked hangouts since freshman year.”

“And we’re evolving,” Harry said, stealing the last egg roll.

You hummed in agreement. “It’s really important to us.”

Peter stared at the two of you like he couldn’t decide whether to be offended or impressed. The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

“You’re both assholes,” he said.

“Thank you,” you answered sweetly.

Harry raised his chopsticks in a little toast. “We try.”

Peter exhaled through his nose, shook his head, and dropped onto the armchair across from the couch anyway, clearly not going anywhere. “Fine. Be mysterious. I’ll just figure it out myself.”

You and Harry exchanged a quick, satisfied look.

Getting a rise out of him will never get old.

You turned fully toward Harry, voice light and conversational like Peter had already left the room.

“What about that axe-throwing place?” you asked. “The one with the overpriced drinks and the guy who always tries to hit on you when you’re trying to concentrate on throwing?"

Harry’s face lit up. “Oh my god, yes. We could make a whole night of it. Start there, then wander until we find somewhere with terrible live music."

Peter sat forward in the armchair. “I actually know the owner of that place. I could probably get us a discount or a private lane—”

You kept your eyes on Harry. “Do you think we should invite people from class or keep it small?”

“Small,” Harry said immediately. “Definitely small. Maybe just me and you?”

Peter’s voice got a little tighter. “I’m literally sitting right here.”

You hummed like you were considering something important. “What if we just stayed at home and made food? Watched a terrible movie marathon and drank until we passed out?”

Harry pointed at you with his chopsticks. “That’s actually genius. I’m bringing those cursed brownies again.”

“You are not bringing the brownies. Last time you did that I was so high that I thought I was dying. ”

“It was a spiritual experience.”

Peter dragged a hand down his face. “You two are doing this on purpose.”

You finally glanced at him, expression pure innocence. “Doing what?”

“Ignoring me. Talking around me. Acting like I’m not—”

Harry cut in smoothly. “Anyway, if we stay home we should do a whole thing. Comfy clothes, horror movies, your favorite tequila.”

You nodded seriously. “I like the tequila option.”

Peter stared at both of you, clearly fighting a smile even as the annoyance won out. “I can cook, you know. I’m actually good at it.”

You turned back to Harry as if Peter hadn’t spoken. “What about going to one of those rage rooms? I have plenty of shit to get out of my system.”

“Oh my god,” Harry said. “Yes. Can you bring your own stuff there? I have some things from my Dad that need to be destroyed.”

Peter threw his hands up. “I’m right here. I have ideas. I have money. I have a car. Why are you both like this?”

You reached for your drink, took a slow sip, and looked at Harry again. “Do you think we should make a group chat for planning if we have anyone else join or just keep in between us?”

Harry grinned. “Between us. Obviously.”

Peter let out a long, defeated groan and slumped back in the chair.

“I hate both of you,” he muttered.

You and Harry answered in perfect sync, sweet as anything.

“We know.”

Peter lasted maybe ten more minutes of being frozen out before he muttered something under his breath and disappeared into his room, door clicking shut harder than necessary.

You waited a beat, then stood up and stretched.

“I have to pee,” you told Harry, already heading down the short hallway.

You were reaching for the bathroom door when a hand closed around your wrist and tugged.

Peter had the door to his room half-open. He pulled you in just far enough to get you against the wall, one palm flat beside your head, and kissed you like he’d been thinking about it the entire time he was being ignored. It was deep and a little frustrated, his mouth warm and insistent, the kind of kiss that said you’re driving me crazy on purpose. You let him. Your fingers curled into the front of his hoodie for a second as you kissed him back, slow and unhurried, just enough to make it clear you weren’t exactly complaining.

Then you pressed a hand to his chest and eased him back.

“I actually do have to pee,” you said, voice calm, a little breathless. You smoothed the front of his hoodie like nothing had happened. “And relax. You’re invited to the plans. Don’t worry.”

Peter blinked at you, still close, mouth slightly shiny from the kiss.

You slipped past him into the bathroom and shut the door before he could form a response, leaving him standing in the hallway looking equal parts relieved and completely thrown.

You told yourself it was because you didn’t want to push. That night in the bath you had opened the door—told him you weren’t scared, that you were there for whatever came next. He had held you like he believed it. But in the days after, he never quite stepped through that door again. The distance he kept felt deliberate. Protective. Like he was trying to put the version of himself that had lost control back in a box before it could touch you a second time.

So you pulled away too.

You stayed in your own space. Didn't leave the apartment and risk running into him in public— or worse running into him while he was working. Answered his hallway waves with small smiles of your own and didn’t linger. The invitation you had offered stayed open, but you stopped standing in the doorway waiting for him to walk through it. It was easier that way. Safer. Or at least it felt like it should be.

But your mind never quite left him.

You caught yourself listening for his footsteps at night. Replaying the way his voice had gone soft in the bath when he admitted he’d liked you for a long time. The look on his face when the black had left his eyes and pure horror had taken its place. The bruises on your hips had faded to nothing, but the memory of his hands stayed under your skin like a tattoo.

Sometimes, when the apartment next door went quiet for too long, you wondered what he was working on so late. Whether the arachnid thing was still clawing at the edges of him. Whether he was winning.

You never asked.

You just stayed in your shell, the same way he stayed in his, and tried not to think about how much you still wanted him to knock.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

It started the way it had most nights since the distance settled between you.

You were alone in your apartment, lights low, the city humming faintly outside the window. Your mind had drifted to Peter again—his hands, the way his voice had gone rough and mean when the spider took over. It felt shameful in a way. You really did not expect to get that turned on by the thought that he could do whatever he wanted with you and you would just… let him. Wanting him and not being allowed to reach for him left everything sharper.

You didn’t bother with slow build-up tonight.

You were already soaked—slick coating your knuckles, dripping down onto the sheets beneath you. Two fingers curled inside the heat of your cunt while your free hand had shoved your shirt up under your chin so you could twist and tug at a nipple the way you kept imagining he would.

You thought about the night the spider had taken over him—the way he’d bent you over the counter and fucked you like he was starving, the filthy praise that had spilled out of him while he used your body on the couch. You thought about the bruises he’d left on your hips and how they’d faded too fast. You thought about the weeks of careful waves in the hallway, the bagels still warm on your windowsill, the late-night sounds of him working next door and never once knocking. The wanting had only gotten uglier with the silence. Your hips rolled up to meet every thrust of your hand, thighs trembling, breath coming in short, broken pants as the pressure coiled low and mean in your belly.

You were right there—fingers buried deep, cunt clenching hard around the stretch—when the crash hit.

Something heavy slammed into the shared wall hard enough to make the plaster vibrate against your shoulder blades. Glass shattered. A raw, strained yell tore through the noise, unmistakable even muffled by the barrier between your apartments.

“—help—!”

Peter’s voice. Tight with pain.

You were on your feet before the last syllable finished. No thought for consequences. You adjusted your underwear, slid your shirt back down and wiped your still glistening fingers across the fabric. You didn’t stop for pants. Three steps across the hall, hand already on the unlocked knob, and you shoved the door open straight into whatever was waiting on the other side.

The door swung open on chaos.

Broken electronics littered the floor—something small and expensive reduced to shattered glass and exposed wiring. Peter stood in the middle of it, barefoot, dressed in an old soft t-shirt and a pair of dark sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His chest rose and fell too fast. And his eyes…

Black. Completely. The reflective sheen was already there, pupils blown wide, the mean, hungry look locked on you the second you crossed the threshold.

You barely had time to take a breath before a thick strand of webbing shot from his wrist and wrapped tight around your bare waist. One sharp tug and you were yanked forward, stumbling straight into his space. His free hand caught you by the hip—fingers digging into the soft skin just above the waistband of your underwear and held you there.

“I heard you.”

His voice was low, layered, already half-gone to the thing under his skin. He leaned in, nose nearly brushing the side of your throat, and inhaled like he’d been waiting for the scent of you.

“You gonna try to play it off? Act like you just happened to be up and racing over here half-naked because you were worried?” A soft, mean laugh left him. “Cute. But I’m smarter than that. And right now my senses are so fucking sharp I can hear your heartbeat from the other side of the wall. I heard every wet little sound your fingers made. Every soft, desperate noise you tried to keep quiet while you were touching yourself thinking about me.”

You opened your mouth—some half-formed denial already on your tongue—but he didn’t let you get there.

“Don’t.” His grip on your hip tightened. The webbing around your waist pulsed once, warm and sticky. “I smelled you too. How wet you got. How close you were. You’ve been aching for weeks and I felt every second of it. You thought you could hide from me? Avoid me? Think again little bug.”

He tipped your chin up with two fingers so you had no choice but to meet those black, reflective eyes.

“I knew exactly how to get you back over here. One crash. One yell. And look at you—you look like a wreck. You didn’t even stop to put pants on.” His mouth curved into something dark and delighted. “You ran straight to me the second you thought I needed you. Just like I knew you would.”

The arachnid thing looked out at you through Peter’s face, hungry and amused and completely without apology.

“Missed me that bad, sweetheart?”

Peter’s mouth curved sharper at whatever he saw on your face.

You tried to counter him.

“You’ve been avoiding me since that night,” you shot back, voice steadier than the rest of you felt. The webbing around your waist was warm and tight, his fingers still digging into your hip hard enough to bruise. “You didn’t have to do all this. I told you I could help. I meant it.”

He laughed—low, mean, almost fond in the ugliest way.

“Help” He repeated the word like it tasted sweet and rotten at the same time. “You think I want your help with this?” One sticky hand left your hip to gesture vaguely at himself—the black eyes, the way fresh webbing still pulsed from his wrists in slow, involuntary strands. “The spider problem?”

He leaned in until his mouth was right against your ear, breath hot.

“I don’t want your help with that, sweetheart. I want you trapped. Just like this. Like my little bug that walked straight into the web because it couldn’t stand not being there to help.” His teeth grazed the shell of your ear. “Look at how easy it was. One crash. One yell. And you came running with your cunt still wet like the desperate thing you’ve been for weeks.”

The meanness landed exactly where he wanted it to.

Heat flooded low and sharp between your legs, fresh slick already threatening to drip down your thigh. Your pulse jumped under his fingers. He felt it—of course he did—and the sound he made was pure, cruel delight.

“There it is,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch your face. “That little spark. You can try to look pissed all you want. Doesn’t change the fact that being mean to you gets you dripping. Doesn’t change how fast you dropped everything the second you thought I needed you.” His thumb dragged slowly over the soft skin just above your underwear. “I barely had to try. And you still walked right into it.”

Peter’s black eyes glittered.

“So tell me again how you were going to help me, little bug. While you’re standing here already caught.”

You opened your mouth to tell him off—something sharp, something that might cut through the black in his eyes—but you never got the chance.

Peter moved too fast.

One hard shove and your back hit the wall with a force that knocked the air from your lungs. The webbing already wrapped around your waist stuck instantly to the plaster, thick and warm and greedy. It held you there, suspended just enough that your toes barely scraped the floor. You hung in place, chest heaving, while he stepped in close and looked at you like he’d just caught the most entertaining thing in the world.

Fresh strands shot from both wrists.

One pair snapped tight around your upper arms and pinned them hard to your sides. Another pair wrapped your ankles and yanked outward, forcing your legs apart until the stretch burned in your inner thighs. The silk was hot, almost feverish, and it contracted once—deliberate—locking you open and helpless against the wall.

Peter laughed.

It was a low, delighted sound, completely without remorse. He tipped his head and studied the way you were spread for him, black eyes glittering with pure amusement.

“Oh, look at that,” he murmured, voice dripping mean satisfaction. “All that fire and you still end up stuck like this. Hanging there because the web decided it wanted to keep you.” He reached out and dragged two fingers slowly up the inside of your thigh, stopping just short of where you were already dripping again. “You have no idea how fun this is for me right now.”

He leaned in until his mouth was almost against yours, the reflective black of his eyes the only thing you could see.

“Where do you think the Peter you knew went, little bug? Buried somewhere under all this?” A soft, cruel huff of laughter brushed your lips. “Maybe. Or maybe this is just what happens when he stops fighting so hard. Either way…” His fingers finally pressed against the soaked crotch of your underwear, rubbing once, slow and deliberate. “You’re not going anywhere. And I am going to take my time enjoying the fact that you walked right back into my web.”

He pulled his hand away and licked the wetness off his fingers without breaking eye contact, still smiling that mean, hungry smile.

The real Peter felt very far away.

He started slow on purpose.

Two fingers pressed against the soaked crotch of your underwear and dragged upward in a lazy, deliberate stroke, the wet cotton clinging to every fold. He watched your face the entire time, black eyes half-lidded and mean with amusement as he rubbed tight circles over your clit through the fabric. The pressure was just enough to make your hips twitch against the webbing that held you open, just enough to pull a soft, frustrated sound out of your throat.

“Listen to that,” he murmured. “Already so vocal and I haven’t even touched skin yet.” He pressed harder, the damp cloth dragging over swollen nerves until your thighs strained against the silk pinning them apart. “These are ruined. Completely soaked through. All that time you spent touching yourself next door and you’re still this desperate the second I get my hands on you.”

The teasing lasted maybe thirty seconds before the patience dissipated.

Peter hooked his fingers under the waistband and ripped. The fabric gave with a sharp, wet tear, and the ruined scrap of underwear came away in his hand. He didn’t toss it aside. He crumpled the soaked cotton in his fist, brought it briefly to his nose like he was savoring the scent of you, then shoved it deep into the back pocket of his sweatpants with a satisfied little hum.

“Mine now.”

Then his fingers were back—two of them, thick and unapologetic—sliding into you in one smooth, relentless push. The stretch burned. Your cunt clenched hard around the sudden intrusion and he laughed under his breath, already curling them against that spot that made your vision spark.

He didn’t ease up.

Peter finger-fucked you hard and deep, the wet, filthy sounds of it filling the quiet apartment as he worked you open against the wall. Every thrust of his hand drove a broken noise out of you. The webbing around your arms and waist held you perfectly still for it, legs forced wide so he could watch every time his fingers disappeared inside you.

“That’s it,” he said, voice low and mean and almost fond. “Take it. Look how easy you open up when you’re stuck like this. No fighting. No running. Just my fingers fucking this pretty cunt until you make a mess all over them.” He added a third finger without warning and the stretch punched a cry from your throat. “Gonna keep going until you come on my hand. And I wanna hear you scream.”

His thumb found your clit and pressed down hard, rubbing tight, merciless circles while his fingers kept slamming into you at a pace that left no room to breathe.

The spider looked out at you through Peter’s face, hungry and delighted, and it had no intention of slowing down.

A fourth finger pressed against your already stretched entrance and pushed in alongside the others. The burn was immediate—sharp, deep, almost too much—yet it rolled straight into heat that made your toes curl against the empty air. Your cunt fluttered hard around the thick intrusion, trying to pull him deeper even as the stretch edged into delicious pain. He watched every flicker of it on your face, black eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice low and filthy. “Look at that. Four fingers and you’re still trying to suck me in. Greedy little thing.” He worked them deeper, knuckles pressing against your entrance with every slow, deliberate thrust. The wet sounds were obscene—slick and rhythmic, filling the quiet apartment as he fucked you open against the wall. “You’re stretched so wide for me. I can feel you shaking. Does it hurt? Or does it just make you wetter?”

Your answer came out broken. The webbing held you perfectly still for him—arms pinned, legs forced apart, waist stuck to the plaster—so there was nowhere to go when he curled all four fingers hard against that spot and kept them there, rubbing in relentless, grinding circles.

“That’s the spot, isn’t it?” He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear, breath hot. “The one that makes you forget how to talk. I’m going to keep pressing it until you break. Until this pretty cunt has no choice but to soak my entire hand.”

The pressure built too fast. Your thighs trembled against the silk restraining them. Every nerve felt lit up, oversensitive, the stretch of four fingers turning every movement into a thick, overwhelming drag that left you gasping. Peter’s thumb found your clit again and rubbed tight, merciless circles in time with the deep thrusts of his hand.

“Come on,” he goaded, mean and soft at the same time. “I can feel how close you are. You’re fluttering around my fingers like you’re already about to lose it. Do it. Squirt for me again. I know you can do it. Make a mess of the hand that’s fucking you open.”

It hit like a wave.

Your whole body locked up as the orgasm tore through you—cunt clenching hard around the thick stretch of his fingers while you squirted, a hard, pulsing rush of wetness that spilled over his hand, his wrist, down his forearm in messy streaks. The sound you made was raw and animalistic. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and kept working you through it, fingers still moving, still curling, dragging every last spurt out of you until your legs were shaking and fresh tears of overstimulation pricked at the corners of your eyes.

He finally slowed, but he didn’t pull out.

Four fingers stayed buried deep while he looked down at the mess you’d made of him, black eyes bright with pure, mean delight.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He lifted his free hand and slowly licked a stripe of your release off his own wrist, never breaking eye contact. “You just fucking flooded me. Look at the state of my arm. All because I stretched this tight little cunt open and told it what to do.” A soft, cruel laugh left him.

The fight had already left your body somewhere between the fourth finger and the way he’d licked your release off of himself. Maybe if you just let this version of him burn through whatever was clawing under his skin, the real Peter might surface again. The one who had held you in the bath. The one who had looked horrified when the black left his eyes. You could try to reach him after. You could try.

Peter didn’t notice the quiet shift in you—or if he did, he only found it more entertaining.

He tipped his head, studying the way you hung open and wrecked against the wall, and made a soft, thoughtful sound.

“Where next…” he murmured, almost to himself. One sticky hand stroked up the inside of your thigh, smearing the mess he’d already forced out of you. “Counter was fun last time. Couch too. But you’ve already been on the wall.” His black eyes flicked upward, and a slow, mean smile spread across his face. “Ceiling it is.”

The webs around your waist and limbs released with a wet snap. Before you could drop he caught you, spun you, and launched a fresh burst of silk that stuck hard to the ceiling. Another sharp pull and you were hauled upward, stomach pressed flat to the cool plaster, arms stretched out along your sides and webbed tight, legs forced close together and pinned the same way. Your head fell back, hair hanging, the entire apartment suddenly upside down. Blood rushed in your ears. The world tilted.

Peter’s clothes hit the floor in two careless motions.

Then he crawled.

Hands and feet stuck to the wall with that same unnatural ease, he scaled the vertical surface like it was nothing, sweatpants and shirt left in a heap below. When he reached you he settled between your forced-together thighs from behind, the thick, hard length of him dragging through the slick mess between your legs. The angle was different—you felt impossibly full. Your legs being pinned so close made every inch of him feel thicker as he lined up and pushed in.

The stretch punched a broken sound out of your throat.

Peter groaned like he’d just sunk into the best heat of his life and bottomed out in one slow, deliberate thrust. The position left you completely at his mercy—head hanging, world inverted, cunt gripping him in a vice because there was nowhere for your thighs to open.

“Fuck,” he breathed against the back of your shoulder, voice pure filth. “Even better like this. Look at you. Stuck to my ceiling with your pretty cunt wrapped around me and nowhere to go.” He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, the wet sound of it loud in the quiet room. “I can feel every flutter. Every time you try to adjust. You’re just going to take it exactly how I give it.”

He set a deep, rolling pace, hips snapping forward bouncing off the curve of your ass while the webbing held you perfectly still for every thrust. The inverted angle made everything sharper—the drag of his cock, the way your own wetness dripped upward toward your stomach, the dizzy rush of blood in your head every time he bottomed out.

Peter’s mouth found the side of your throat, teeth grazing as he fucked into you from behind.

“Still hoping the nice version of me shows back up?” he murmured, mean and breathless against your skin. “Keep hoping, little bug. I don't think he wants to play right now.”

Peter fucked into you harder.

Every thrust drove your stomach against the ceiling with a force that made the plaster groan. A sharp crack split the surface right beside your shoulder. White dust sifted down past your hanging face. He didn’t slow. He just laughed—low and delighted—and shot a thick burst of webbing over the fracture, sealing it shut in one careless motion before slamming back into you like nothing had happened.

“Oops,” he murmured against the back of your neck, voice pure mean amusement. “Ceiling’s not built for this. Neither are you, but you’re taking it anyway.”

You let the words wash over you without answering.

Somewhere under the dizzy rush of blood in your head and the thick, relentless stretch of him, a small, stubborn part of you was still waiting. Waiting for the rhythm to break. For the black in his eyes to flicker. For the real Peter—the one who looked at you from afar and left you your favorite bagels and just cared—to claw his way back up through whatever this was. You had stopped fighting for exactly that reason. If you just let this version burn itself out, maybe the man you knew would surface again.

And you didn't exactly hate what was happening to you right now.

The webbing around your hips loosened just enough.

His hand snaked in front of your body, sticky fingers finding your clit with perfect accuracy. He rubbed tight, filthy circles in time with every deep thrust. The dual sensation was almost too much—his cock stretching you from behind while his fingers worked the swollen bundle of nerves that had already been oversensitive for too long. Your body responded helplessly, cunt clenching around him, wetter with every cruel stroke of his fingers. Traitorous. Even now.

“That’s it,” he goaded, breath hot against your skin. “I can feel you getting closer. You’re gonna come on my cock while I’m buried in you, aren’t you? Do it. Take me with you.”

It hit both of you at once.

Your orgasm tore through first—cunt locking down around him in hard, pulsing waves as you cried out, the sound echoing oddly in the upside-down room. The tight, rhythmic squeeze pulled him over the edge a heartbeat later. Peter groaned low and filthy against your shoulder, hips stuttering as he came deep inside you, thick heat spilling into you in long pulses while his fingers kept rubbing your clit through every tremor.

For a few seconds the only sound was the two of you breathing hard, still locked together against the ceiling.

In that thin, fragile quiet, hope flared—stupid and bright. The shared finish. The way his body had shuddered against yours like it still knew how to match you. Maybe—

Then he laughed.

The sound was soft and cruel and completely without mercy. He nuzzled the side of your throat like he was savoring the way your pulse jumped under his mouth.

“Aww,” he cooed, mocking. “We finished at the same time. How fucking cute. You were hoping that would bring him back, weren’t you?” His fingers finally stilled on your clit, but he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried to the hilt, letting you feel every twitch of his cock as he softened just slightly inside you. “Hold on to that hope little bug. Makes this all the more enjoyable.”

He tipped your hanging head further back with two sticky fingers so he could look at your upside-down face.

The black in his eyes was still absolute.

Something in your chest tightened, then went quiet.

The hope didn’t vanish all at once. It just… dimmed. Folded in on itself under the weight of that mocking smile and the unbroken darkness staring back at you. You had wanted so badly to believe the real him was still reachable. That the man who had confessed he liked you for years, who had washed your hair with careful hands, was only buried—not gone.

Peter’s mean, satisfied expression made the truth feel colder.

“Sorry, little bug. He’s not here right now.” A slow, cruel smile curved his mouth. “It’s just me. And I’m not done playing with you yet.”

You closed your eyes against the inverted room and let the last of that fragile hope slip away, as Peter chose the bed next on purpose.

The webbing released with a series of wet snaps. He caught you before you could fall, carried you the short distance, and dropped onto the mattress with you straddling his hips. The position was deliberate—your knees on either side of him, his cock already hard again and sliding through the mess of his own release still dripping out of you. He settled you over him exactly the way he had that first night, when the black had finally left his eyes and the real Peter had surfaced underneath you.

He knew what he was doing.

“Familiar?” he asked, voice dripping mockery as he gripped your hips and pushed up into you in one slow, deep thrust. The stretch pulled a broken sound from your throat. “This is how he came back last time, isn’t it? You on top. Him underneath. Soft little moment after he finished using you.” He fucked up into you harder, watching your face. “Are you sad little bug? Because your Peter isn't the one fucking you stupid? Spider got your tongue?"

Something in you finally snapped.

“Fuck you,” you bit out, hands bracing against his chest as he drove up into you. Your voice came out rough, meaner than you expected. “You think this is funny? Dragging me around your apartment like a sex doll and then putting me here just to remind me he left?” You rolled your hips down to meet his next thrust, deliberately tight, trying to take some of the control back. “You’re not him. You’re just the thing wearing his face and getting off on how much I still want the real one.”

Peter’s eyes flashed—black and delighted.

“There she is,” he laughed, mean and breathless. His hands locked harder around your hips, fingers digging into the bruise marks from earlier as he snapped up into you with new force. “There’s the little spark. You finally got mean back. Took you long enough.” He thrust up again, deeper, the wet sound of it filthy in the quiet room. “Keep going. Tell me how much you hate that it’s me fucking this cunt instead of him. Oh you're going to be so disappointed when it's just you and him. Tell me how badly you wish the soft version would climb back out and apologize.”

You glared down at him, even as your body clenched around every upward snap of his cock.

“I do hate it,” you shot back. "I hate that you know exactly how to make me come and you use it like a weapon. And I hate that the second you decide you’re done playing, he’ll have to look at what you did.”

Peter’s smile turned sharper. He planted his feet and fucked up into you harder, using the position to drive the air from your lungs with every thrust.

“Good,” he growled, voice pure filth and cruelty. “Hate me. Fight me. It just makes you hotter.” One hand left your hip to wrap loosely around your throat, not squeezing at full capacity, just holding you in place while he used your body from below. “You’re soaked for the version of him that doesn’t care if you’re hoping. The version that wants you trapped and dripping and talking back like it might change anything.” He thrust up particularly deep and held there, grinding against you. “Spoiler, little bug—it won’t. He’s not coming back until I’m finished. And I am nowhere near finished with this cunt.”

He kept fucking up into you, mean and relentless.

You kept trying to talk.

Every sharp retort came out broken—half a sentence, a curse, a breathless jab at the thing wearing Peter’s face—only to be punched out of you by the next deep upward thrust. He fucked into you like he was trying to carve space for himself, each stroke stealing the air from your lungs and leaving you gasping against his chest.

“Still trying to run that pretty mouth,” Peter snarled, mean and breathless beneath you. One hand stayed locked on your hip hard enough to bruise; the other shoved between your bodies, nimble fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, filthy circles. “Keep going. Tell me how much you hate the version of him that’s balls-deep in this soaked little cunt. Tell me while you’re about to fucking squirt all over me again.”

The dual sensation was brutal. His cock stretching you deep from below while his fingers worked your clit with merciless precision. Your thighs started to shake. The words died in your throat, replaced by raw, helpless sounds you couldn’t swallow back.

“That’s it—right there,” he goaded, black eyes locked on your face. “I can feel this greedy cunt fluttering. You’re gonna make a mess of me. Do it. Squirt on my cock like the desperate little fucktoy you are.”

It hit like a punch.

Your orgasm ripped through you hard—cunt clamping down in violent, pulsing waves as you squirted, a hot rush of wetness spilling over his cock and stomach in messy streaks. The force of it left you shaking, breath gone, forehead dropping against his shoulder while aftershocks kept milking him.

Peter groaned like he’d been waiting for exactly that.

“Fuck—yes. Soak me. Just like that.” His hips snapped up harder, chasing his own edge now that you were clenching and dripping around him. “Taking every inch while you come your brains out. Look at the state of you—shaking, dripping, still trying to hate me.” A few more deep, punishing thrusts and his rhythm broke. He buried himself to the hilt with a low, guttural sound and came hard, flooding you in thick, pulsing ropes while his fingers kept rubbing your oversensitive clit through it.

He stayed inside you through every spurt, grinding up against the mess he’d just made.

Then he moved.

He pulled free and immediately shot a thick, precise burst of webbing straight against your entrance. The silk was hot and sticky and sealed you shut in one deliberate motion, trapping everything—his fresh come, your slick, the mess of the orgasm he’d forced out of you—deep inside.

“There,” he said, voice pure filthy satisfaction as he looked at the sealed mess between your legs. “All plugged up. Every drop of me locked inside this pretty cunt where it belongs. You’re going to stay full and dripping on the inside while I use that mouth next.”

Fresh webbing shot from his wrists before you could react.

It wrapped your wrists tight and yanked them behind your back, then looped around your upper arms and torso, forcing your shoulders back. Another set of strands caught your ankles and calves, binding them together. One firm pull and he dragged you off the bed entirely, dropping you hard onto your knees on the floor between his spread thighs. Your plugged cunt throbbed. Your hands were useless behind you. The only thing left free was your mouth.

Peter sat on the edge of the mattress, cock still hard, shiny with the combined mess of both of you. He reached down, fisted a hand in your hair, and tipped your face up so you had no choice but to meet those black, reflective eyes.

“Open,” he ordered, mean and calm. “You’ve been talking so much shit. Time to put that mouth to better use.” He dragged the head of his cock across your lips, smearing them with the slick evidence of what he’d just done to you. “You’re going to suck me clean. Every inch. And you’re going to do it while that webbing keeps my come trapped inside you like a good little toy who knows her place.”

His grip in your hair tightened, not quite forcing you down yet—just holding you there, waiting to see if you’d fight or open for him.

“Go on, little bug. Show me how well you can take cock when you’re already full and sealed shut.”

Something in you finally broke.

The constant mockery, the deliberate cruelty, the way he kept twisting every soft memory into something filthy and mean—it all stacked up until the only thing left was pure, sharp anger. You were done. Done being the little bug. Done hoping. Done letting whatever this thing was wear Peter’s face and use your body like it owned the right.

So you bit.

Hard.

Your teeth sank into the sensitive flesh of his cock without hesitation, deep enough to draw a raw, startled sound out of him. Whatever he was right now, he could take it. You wanted him to feel it.

The reaction was instant and violent.

Peter’s hand left your hair. Both palms hit your shoulders and shoved. The webbing around your arms and legs snapped under the force as you were thrown backward. You hit the floor hard, right in the middle of the shattered electronics and broken glass from earlier. Sharp edges bit into your palms, your hip, the side of your thigh. Pain flared white-hot. Blood welled immediately—thin red lines cutting across your skin and dripping onto the debris.

You pushed up onto one elbow, breath ragged, and looked at him.

Peter had staggered back against the edge of the bed, one hand clamped over himself, chest heaving. For a second the black in his eyes was absolute, furious, predatory—

Then it flickered.

A sharp, human sound left his throat. His pupils contracted. The reflective sheen cracked like ice under pressure. He stared at the blood on your skin, at the way you were still half-bound and bleeding on his floor, and something raw and horrified tore across his face.

“No—”

The word came out strangled, half his voice, half the thing still fighting underneath. His hands flexed at his sides like he didn’t trust them. Fresh webbing leaked from his wrists in uncontrolled pulses, but he didn’t aim it at you. He looked sick. He looked like he was drowning.

“I—fuck, I threw you—” His voice cracked, the mean edge gone, replaced by something panicked and familiar. “You’re bleeding. I made you bleed.”

The black tried to surge back. You watched him wrestle it down in real time—jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut, every muscle in his body locked in a visible war. When he opened them again the darkness was still there, but it was no longer alone. The real Peter was clawing upward through it, staring at the damage he’d done like it was the worst thing he had ever seen.

“Stay down,” he forced out, voice shaking, still not fully his. “Don’t—don’t come closer. I can’t… I don’t know which one of me is speaking right now.”

Blood dripped from your palm onto the broken glass.

For the first time in hours, the thing wearing Peter’s face looked terrified of itself.

Peter looked like he was coming apart.

He stayed backed against the bed, one hand still pressed over himself, the other braced on the mattress like he needed it to stay upright. His eyes kept flickering—black to brown to black again—like two versions of him were trying to occupy the same body and neither was winning cleanly. Ohh

“This is why,” he forced out, voice raw and cracking. “This is exactly why I stayed away. Why I left the bagels and just waves and left you alone. I knew it was getting worse. I knew the second I let myself get close to you again it would stop being me.” He dragged a shaking hand through his hair, leaving a streak of silk behind. “I threw you into glass. You’re bleeding because of me. Because I couldn’t keep the darkness down.”

His gaze locked on the red welling across your palm and thigh, and something close to panic flashed across his face.

“You need to go. Right now. Get out of this apartment and lock your door and don’t open it no matter what you hear.” The words came out sharp, almost desperate. “I don’t care if I sound like him when I say it—leave. I can’t trust what I’ll do if you stay.”

You didn’t move.

Blood dripped steadily from your hand onto the broken glass, but you stayed exactly where you were, still half-bound, still breathing hard, staring at the man fighting himself in front of you.

“No,” you said.

Peter’s head snapped up. The black surged hard in his eyes for a second, then receded under what looked like pure, human fear.

“Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t be brave right now. I’m not safe. The thing that just used you and mocked you and threw you is still right here under my skin and it wants—” His voice broke. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. “Please. I’m asking you. Go.”

You shifted onto your knees carefully, glass crunching under you, and kept your voice steady even though your pulse was still hammering.

“I’m not leaving.” You met his flickering gaze without flinching. “You don’t get to decide that for me. Not after everything. The real you is still in there—I saw him. I saw the way you looked when you realized I was bleeding. That wasn’t the spider. That was you.”

Peter let out a shaky, broken sound. More webbing spilled from his wrists and hit the floor with soft, wet impacts. He was trembling now, every muscle locked in the effort of holding the darkness back.

“You don’t know what it feels like,” he whispered. “It’s louder every day. Hungrier. And when you’re near it gets so much worse because it already decided you’re mine and I can’t—” He cut himself off, breathing hard. “I don’t want to hurt you again. I can’t live with that.”

“Then don’t,” you said simply. “Fight it. I’m right here. I’m not running. Look at me and come back.”

You stayed on your knees in the glass and the blood, refusing to look away, giving the real Peter something solid to reach for while the darkness tried to drag him under again.

You moved closer.

Glass bit into your knees and the side of one palm as you shifted forward across the debris. Blood ran warmer now, steady lines tracking down your wrist and the outside of your thigh, dripping onto the broken glass and glittering fragments beneath you. You didn’t look at it. You didn’t care. Your eyes stayed locked on Peter’s face—on the war still happening behind his flickering eyes.

He tensed hard when you closed the distance, fresh webbing pulsing from his wrists in a sharp, involuntary burst that stuck to the floor between you.

“Stop,” he rasped. “You’re bleeding and you’re still coming closer. You need medical attention. Pressure on the cuts. I— I don't know. Anything but being around me. Please—”

“It decided I’m its,” you said, voice low and steady even as another drop of blood left your hand. “That’s what you keep saying. The spider. The darkness. It already claimed me. But what about you?” You held his gaze without flinching. “What have you decided, Peter? Because you’ve spent weeks running from me, like the only option was to lock it down so hard it never got near me again.”

His breath hitched. The black in his eyes surged, then receded under something rawer.

You kept going, softer but no less direct.

“What if that’s why it’s so feral when I’m around? What if the constant fighting—the way you keep trying to shove it down and pretend it isn’t part of you—is exactly what’s making it worse every time I get close? Like it’s starving and angry because you won’t let it have any air.” You shifted another inch nearer, close enough now that the heat of him reached your skin. “Maybe it doesn’t need you to lose. Maybe it just needs you to stop treating it like the enemy long enough to figure out how to live with it.”

Peter stared at you like you’d just reached into the middle of the war inside him and touched something vital.

His hands flexed. The reflective sheen in his eyes kept fracturing, brown bleeding through in unstable waves. He looked terrified of the idea and desperate for it at the same time.

“You don’t know what you’re asking me to risk,” he whispered. The voice was almost fully his now—wrecked, shaking, but his. “If I stop fighting it the way I have… if I let any of it stay…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

You kept your voice quiet, almost conversational, like the blood on the floor and the war in his eyes weren’t the loudest things in the room.

“What were you trying to make?” you asked. “All those late nights. The sounds through the wall. What was it?”

Peter blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. For a second the question seemed to short-circuit the spiral he’d been trapped in. His gaze flicked toward the workbench in the corner—scattered tools, half-disassembled devices, notebooks open to dense pages of formulas—then back to you.

“An inhibitor,” he said roughly. “Something that might dampen the arachnid side. Slow the takeover. Give me enough control that I wouldn’t… that I wouldn’t become this every time you got close.” He swallowed hard. “I thought if I could just build the right formula, the right delivery system, I could keep you safe without having to stay away forever.”

You nodded once.

“That’s a good idea.”

Then you reached out.

Your bloodied hand settled lightly on his knee. Red smeared across his leg— warm and unmistakable— dripping freely. Peter went rigid under the contact. The black surged hard in his eyes for one sharp, dangerous second—hungry, possessive, furious at the sight of your blood on him—

—and then it cracked.

A broken sound left his throat. The reflective sheen shattered. His whole body seemed to fold in on itself as the last of the darkness lost its grip. He grabbed your wrist like it was the only solid thing left in the world and collapsed forward, forehead pressing hard against your shoulder, arms coming around you with desperate, shaking force.

“I’m sorry—” The words tumbled out of him in a wrecked, continuous stream. “I’m so fucking sorry. I hurt you. I threw you. I said those things and I used you and I watched you bleed and I couldn’t stop it— I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

His shoulders shook. Fresh, uncontrolled webbing leaked from his wrists and stuck harmlessly to your back as he clung to you, face buried against your neck, repeating the apology like it might undo any of it if he said it enough times.

The real Peter was back.

And he was falling apart in your arms.

Until he forced himself to pull it together.

The full-body shaking didn’t stop all at once, but he managed to sit back enough to look at you properly. His eyes—clear brown again, red-rimmed and wrecked—scanned every visible inch of you with frantic care. The blood on your palms and thigh. The glass still clinging to your skin. The way you were still half-naked and marked from everything the other version of him had done.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

He stood on unsteady legs, scooped you up as carefully as if you might shatter, and carried you to the bed. The sheets were a mess of earlier webbing and come, but he lowered you onto the clearest spot he could find, supporting your head and back the entire way down. His hands never stopped moving—checking, adjusting, making sure nothing pressed against the cuts.

“I’m going to take the webbing off,” he said, voice low and tight with leftover guilt. “Just… stay still for me. Please.”

He knelt between your knees and worked with deliberate gentleness. The silk sealing your entrance had already started to dry at the edges. Peter coaxed it free with slow, patient fingers, murmuring soft apologies the entire time like the removal itself might hurt you. When the plug finally gave, a warm rush of everything he’d left inside you spilled out onto the sheets. He didn’t look away. He just kept apologizing under his breath while he reached for a clean cloth.

He cleaned you with the same careful attention—warm water, soft pressure, never lingering longer than necessary on the places that were still oversensitive. Every pass of the cloth came with another quiet “I’m sorry.” When he finished between your legs he moved to the cuts, picking out the tiny shards of glass with tweezers from the first-aid kit he kept under the bed, then disinfecting and bandaging the worst of them on your palm and thigh.

“I did this,” he said while he taped gauze over the deepest slice on your hand. His voice cracked again. “I let it get that far. I’m so fucking sorry.” He smoothed the last piece of medical tape down with trembling fingers, then sat back on his heels, still staring at the bandages like they were proof of every failure. “I never wanted you to see me like that again. I never wanted to make you bleed.”

Peter stayed kneeling there beside the bed, one hand resting lightly over the gauze on your thigh, continuing to apologize in a soft, broken loop even as he finished patching you up. The darkness was gone.

Only the guilt remained.